The AA’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “The onboard military package. Should we be thinking of something like a bomb?”
Screw all Princeton smartasses to hell.
Santa Maria della Vittoria
The telephone was ringing as Walkinshaw opened the door. Webb had picked up the receiver before the civil servant could stop him.
The voice at the other end spoke in Italian. It was a second or two before Webb recognized it.
“Mister Fish?”
“Yes.”
“You have an interest in a manuscript?”
“Yes.”
“I think I can help you.”
Webb’s heart jumped. Instinctively, he tried not to sound too enthusiastic. “I’m very interested. Where is it?”
“The matter is not straightforward. Do you know the amphitheatre in Tuscolo?”
Webb had a fleeting vision. A picnic. A day out of Rome. Giovanni, and a couple of girls, and wine and sunshine, and Italian bread and cheese. “Yes, I do know it. It’s up the hill from Monte Porzio.”
“Time is very short, Mister Fish. Please be there in twenty minutes.” The receiver went down.
Webb looked at Walkinshaw in amazement. “I have a contact.”
Walkinshaw shook his head. “That’s impossible. This is a safe house. Nobody knows you’re here.”
Webb headed back to the door. “We’ll have to shift. The car will only take us so far and the rest is a climb.”
Walkinshaw held up a restraining hand. “Not so fast, Webb. Are you listening to me? Nobody is supposed to know you’re here.”
“Walkinshaw, I absolutely must have that manuscript.”
Walkinshaw followed the astronomer out to the car. “Are you listening to me, Oliver?”
The ignition keys were still in the car. Webb stood at the car door. “I don’t care. Look, we’re talking about the planet. Do you want to be fried? With your family? And your country? If this asteroid hits America what do you think they’ll do about it? I say they’ll launch a nuclear strike in revenge. The Russians will hit back in turn and we’ll be back to the Dark Ages even before Nemesis gets here. The world’s run by madmen, Walkinshaw, not rational people.”
“Webb, will you calm down. You’re exhausted and not thinking clearly. You are my responsibility. I can’t have you rushing bull-headed into this meeting. I need to know who knows you’re here and what you’re getting into.”
“There’s no time for stuff like that, you idiot. I have to take risks. I’m going. Stay here if you want.”
The car was smelling of hot plastic and the heat was deadly. Walkinshaw took the wheel, and they put the windows down. “Who was it?”
“The librarian.”
“Did you give him — or anyone — the villa’s phone number?”
“Of course not. I don’t even know what it is.”
“The address, then?”
“Absolutely not. Turn right.”
“Oliver, something is badly wrong here.”
“So you said. Left up here.”
The road took them up past villas with big wrought-iron windows, swimming pools and Dobermans wandering the grounds, and then they were into woods. There was an empty car park. The guard’auto had gone home. The sun was low in the sky. Memories came flooding back. Franca, that was her name; and Giovanni’s lady had been called Ambra.
“Stay put, Walkinshaw. I’m a solitary scholar, remember?”
Walkinshaw looked into the surrounding trees. His face was dark. “This is getting worse by the minute. Look around you. Why would he want to meet you in a place like this?”
“He doesn’t want to be seen talking to me, that’s all.”
Walkinshaw’s civil service urbanity was gone. “You lunatic. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”
There was a path through grass leading up to the little Roman amphitheatre a quarter of a mile ahead. A burly, white-robed figure was standing motionless on the stone steps. As Webb approached, the man moved away and disappeared into a nearby wood. Webb ran up to the amphitheatre. The undergrowth was dense but the monk’s path was clearly visible in the trail of bent and broken twigs. Puffing, Webb followed the trail and found himself in a broad Roman road, the big flagstones still in place after two thousand years. The trees formed a wide overhead canopy, and the road went steeply back down the hillside. The monk was standing motionless, about three hundred yards ahead. Webb walked smartly towards him.
At about a hundred yards, the monk walked off to the right, disappearing amongst the trees. It was getting dark and Webb ran forward, risking a fall on the ancient cobbles. Turning off along the librarian’s route, he found himself back at the car park.
Walkinshaw was standing at the car. He was peering at the monk alertly, as if sensing that something was wrong.
Something was wrong. From close up, the man had the wrong build for the librarian; he was too thin, the hair was not in the style of a monk’s tonsure. Walkinshaw shouted “Webb! Run!” and then there was a sharp Crack! and the civil servant, open-mouthed in amazement and pain, flopped down in a sitting position with his back to the car, with a red spot welling up from his chest.
Terrified, Webb turned to run but a pale, freckle-faced girl had appeared from the trees, and she too was carrying a pistol. She approached to just outside arm’s length and pointed the gun steadily at Webb’s chest.
They did Leclerc and now they’re going to do me.
Walkinshaw was sliding slowly sideways; his eyes were swimming in his head; he was gurgling; bright red, frothy blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth. The girl waved Webb back towards the car. He ignored her and moved towards Walkinshaw. The monk hit him in the face with the barrel of the gun. “You can’t leave him!” Webb shouted in English. “He needs help!” The monk understood. He fired into Walkinshaw half a dozen times, the civil servant’s body jerking and the pistol shots cracking into the dark woods, while Webb yelled obscenities and the girl gripped his hair tightly and held her gun at his head.
Then Webb was thrust into the back of the car while the man threw off the monk’s habit. He turned out to be an un-shaven youth with the expressionless face of the psychotic. He turned the key and took off down the Tuscolo road. Through his fear and rage, Webb thought that it hadn’t been necessary to run over Walkinshaw’s body and that the civil servant might still have been alive when the wheels went over him.
In Rome, the youth sped through EUR along the Via del Mare, which transformed into the Via Ostiense, and then they were through the Ostiense Gate, passing a white pyramid and rattling along the Viale Piramide. The woman was breathing heavily. Her pupils were dilated, and from time to time she would giggle for no clear reason. She kept the gun hidden under Webb’s buttock and the thought of an accidental sex change, which recurred whenever the car rattled over cobbles, wasn’t funny. He began to shiver uncontrollably, going alternately hot and cold, and a monstrous headache threatened. Strangely, to Webb, the emotion beginning to dominate in him was anger. He was angry at being pushed around, angry at being struck in the face, and angry for Walkinshaw and his family if he had one. It was a seething sense of outrage which he kept firmly in check.
They hurried along the side of the Tiber before cutting away from it, and Webb found himself orbiting the Victor Emanuele before speeding up the Via Nazionale. The man turned into the Street of the Four Fountains and pulled the car to a stop.
He turned and snapped his fingers in Webb’s face. “La chiesa. Vai indietro. Subito!”