“So you’ve settled in?”
“You could call it that. When do I get some answers?”
“My boss will be along in a few minutes. It’s up to him.” He poured coffee for her.
She picked up the book he had been reading. It was in English, an edition of T. S. Eliot’s The Four Quartets. “You like poetry?” she asked.
“I like Eliot.” He misquoted: “In our end is our beginning and all that. He says so much so simply.” He walked to the door and paused. “He won’t want you to see his face, so don’t be alarmed.”
He went out and she finished her coffee, poured a second cup, and lit another cigarette. She paced up and down for a while, trying to make sense of it all, but the truth was that there wasn’t any sense to it. Behind her, the key rattled in the lock, and as she turned the door opened.
David Braun came in and stood to one side, and it was the man following him who shocked her. He seemed about six feet tall, with good shoulders, and wore a black jump suit. The shock was the black knitted ski mask he wore, through which his eyes seemed to glitter. All in all, as sinister-looking a creature as she had ever seen in her life.
His voice, when he spoke, was good Boston American. “A pleasure, Countess, and I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
“My God, you’re American, and I thought you were Israelis when I heard Hebrew spoken.”
“My dear Countess, half the men in Israel speak English with an American accent. That’s where most of us received our education. Best in the world.”
“Really?” she said. “A matter of opinion.”
“Yes, I was forgetting. You went to Oxford and the University of Paris.”
“You’re well informed.”
“I know everything about you, Countess – everything. No secrets.”
“And I know nothing about you. Your name, for example.”
She could see his teeth through the slot for his mouth and it was as if he smiled. “Judas,” he said. “Call me Judas.”
“Very biblical,” she said, “but, alas, an unfortunate connotation.”
“Oh, yes, I know what you mean, Judas betraying Christ in the Garden.” He shrugged. “But there were sound political reasons. Judas Iscariot was a Zealot. He wanted his country free of the Romans.”
“And you?”
“I just want my country free of everybody.”
“But how does that concern me, for God’s sake?”
“Later, Countess, later. In the meantime, David will see to your every need. You’ll have to eat in here, naturally, but if there’s anything special you’d like, just ask him. Plenty of books on the shelves, and you’ve got your painting. I’ll speak to you again.”
Braun opened the door for him and followed him out. Judas pulled off the hood and ran his fingers through close-cropped, copper-colored hair. He had a strong face, high cheekbones, blue eyes, and there was a restless vitality to him. He looked around fifty years of age.
“See to her, David,” he said. “Anything she wants for the moment.”
“Consider it done.” Braun hesitated. “She’s a nice woman. Do you really intend to go through with it if you don’t get what you want?”
“Certainly,” Judas said. “Why, are you weakening on me, David?”
“Of course not. Our cause is just.”
“Well, keep that in the front of your mind. I’ll see you later.”
As he turned, Braun said, “Any news from Aaron and the other two?”
“He called in from Salinas on his ship’s radio. It marches, David.” The man who called himself Judas smiled. “It’s going to work. Just keep the faith.”
He walked away along the stone-flagged corridor, and Braun unlocked the door and went in. She turned from the window.
“There you are. So the big bad wolf has gone?”
He ignored the remark. “I know you’re not a vegetarian. On the menu tonight is vichyssoise, followed by fresh sea bass, grilled, potatoes, a mixed salad, and an assortment of fruit to follow. If you don’t care for the fish, there are lamb chops.”
“You sound like a waiter, but no, it will suit very well indeed.”
“Actually, I’m the cook. Would you care for a white wine?”
“No, claret would calm my nerves, and I’ve never subscribed to the idea that you should drink red or white because the food dictates it. I drink to suit me.”
“But, of course, Countess.” He half-bowed in a slightly mocking way and moved to the door.
As he opened it, she said, “And David?”
He turned. “Yes, Countess.”
“ ‘As you like Eliot so much, here’s a quote from The Waste Land for you.”’
“And what would that be, Countess?”
“ ‘I think we are in rats’ alley where the dead men lost their bones.”’
He stopped smiling, turned, opened the door, and went out, closing it. The key clicked in the lock, and suddenly she was afraid.
FOUR
Salinas was a scattering of houses, a harbor enclosed by two jetties and jammed with small fishing boats. Luigi drove along the waterfront and stopped outside the establishment with the sign over the door that said English Café.
“God knows why it has this name,” Luigi said.
“Perhaps they serve a full English breakfast,” Dillon said. “English tourists like that.”
“What tourists?” Luigi said and shrugged. “Anyway, here you are. I’ll just turn round and drive back to Palermo.”
They got out and Hannah shook his hand. “Grateful thanks, Sergeant. One cop to another.” She smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he drove away.
Dillon led the way up the steps. The night was warm, and as darkness fell, there were lights on some of the boats out there in the harbor. He opened the door and went in. Half a dozen fishermen were at the bar, and it was a poor sort of place, very hot, and the ceiling fan didn’t seem to be working.
He waved to the barman and turned to the others. “It’s a dump. Let’s sit outside.”
They did just that, taking a table by the veranda rail, and the barman appeared. “What have you got to eat?” Hannah asked him in Italian.
“We only do one main dish each day, signorina. Tonight it’s cannelloni ripieni. The way our chef does it, there’s a special stuffing of savory meat and onions. You could have a salad with it.”
“Good, and bring us a bottle of wine,” Dillon told him. “Something cold.”
He explained the meal prospects to Riley, and the barman appeared with three glasses and an ice-cold bottle. He splashed some into a glass and Dillon sniffed it.
“This is the stuff. Passito. Strong, very strong. Three glasses and you’re on your back.” He grinned at Hannah. “I’d make it lemonade if I were you, girl dear.”
“Go stuff yourself, Dillon.”
At that moment, the barman came out, followed by a stout lady who carried a tray with three plates on it and a basket of bread. He deposited all this on the table and he and the woman departed.
The meal was, in fact, excellent, and Riley cleaned his plate. “God help me, but that bread was the best since I last tasted my cousin Bridget’s baking.”
“It was good, I’ve got to admit that,” Dillon said, “although I’m not too certain that it was strictly kosher.”
“Don’t be stupid, Dillon,” Hannah told him coldly. “The Bible doesn’t tell me to starve myself in difficult circumstances. Now I’ll take another glass of wine.”
As Dillon poured, a quiet voice said in good public-school English, “Chief Inspector Bernstein?” They all turned and looked at the man who stood at the bottom of the steps. “Jack Carter.”
He was of medium height and wore a salt-stained sailor’s cap, reefer coat with tarnished brass buckles, and jeans. His face was tanned and he was younger than Dillon had thought he would be. Perhaps twenty-five and certainly no more.