"Okay," she said. "I guess that's fair. Do you want directions to the Melone? It's actually just across the Arezzo-Cortona road from where you turned up toward the town to get to the Tanella."
"Yes. Do you want me to pick you up and take you there?"
"No," she said. "I'd like to meet Lake. I'll be there."
“I hope you will, I thought.
"Here," I said, handing her a hundred thousand lira note. "A loan to tide you over. You can take a taxi from town if you want."
She looked at it for a minute. "Is it a loan or a bribe?"
"It's a loan," I said firmly. After a moment's hesitation, she took it.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll pay it back."
At four o'clock, I was at the Melone. It was a huge mound, melon-shaped as could be predicted from its name, surrounded by fencing. It was under excavation, and on the eastern side, below ground level, there was a large staircase, ceremonial in nature, that had been uncovered. Around the back, to the west, were two very long and narrow shafts, which I presumed were tombs of some sort.
I carefully scouted the site, not wanting a repeat of my awful experience at the Tanella. Lake had acceded to my wishes for a more open spot. The main road was clearly visible from the site. To the south of the mound was a slight incline, and beyond that, a narrow road, then a grassy area. I found a spot where I could see, but once again, hopefully not be seen until I was ready to be. It had stopped raining, and the sun was low in the sky, so I was careful to have my back to it. I'd brought a sheet of plastic to sit on this time, so I settled down reasonably comfortably to wait.
At about quarter to five, I heard a motor scooter approaching, and a man clad in jeans, tan jacket, and a helmet, appeared. I was worried it was someone checking the site, and that we might be interrupted, but when he took off the helmet, I saw, with some surprise, that it was not Lake, as might be expected, but Antonio. I was about to stand up and wave to him when he wheeled his motor scooter, a rather dashing purple number, around the corner where it couldn't be seen by anyone approaching from the highway. Then he, too, hid from view. It seemed a little peculiar, so I decided to remain hidden.
About five minutes later, Lola hove into view, walking along the edge of the highway and turning down the dirt and gravel lane that led to the site. She was walking rather slowly, indeed limping a little, and she looked vulnerable and tired. She must have walked a fair distance carrying a large wicker picnic basket, not by the handle, but in her arms as if it was a baby, or, given current circumstances, a priceless treasure. I hardly dared hope. As she came nearer, I could see the corner of a bright pink blanket protruding from the basket. Thank you, Lola, I thought.
I was just about to stand up when, from out of nowhere, three police cars appeared, blue lights flashing, sirens screaming, streaking down the hill from the town across the main road. They crossed it and bounced down the dirt road toward us. Lola stumbled and started to run, but she was immediately surrounded by six carabinieri, guns drawn. One of them grabbed the basket, opened it, and with a triumphant gesture held the hydria aloft so that the others could see it. Lola stood there, completely stunned, her mouth moving, but no sound that I could hear coming from her. In a matter of seconds, she was handcuffed, roughly pushed into the backseat of one of the police cars, and the three backed up the road to the highway, then sped away.
I sat there, absolutely aghast, until the cough of a motor scooter springing to life brought me back to my senses. It was too late. As I stood up, Antonio roared away and soon was a mere speck on the horizon. I sat on the plastic sheet, watching the sun set, until my cell phone rang.
"Something very bad has happened," Antonio said. He was not bothering to practice his English anymore, and was speaking so rapidly in Italian I was having trouble understanding him. "It is fortunate that you were not at the Melone. I believe you're in danger. We both are. Get away from here. Go home. Don't tell anyone about this."
"I know what happened," I said.
"How could you know? Are you, too, part of this?"
"Part of what?" He didn't say anything, but I could practically hear his brain working. "I was hiding out the same way you were."
"I don't believe you," he said.
"Nice scooter," I said. "Lovely plum color."
"If you saw, then you must understand it is necessary for you to go away."
"I can't," I said.
"What's to stop you?"
"Leonora Leonard. Better known as Lola," I said.
"Who is Lola?"
"Lola is the woman we both watched being ambushed by the police and carted away in handcuffs, probably because she hasn't paid her hotel bill, but now probably because she has been found in possession of an Etruscan hydria. A stolen Etruscan hydria to be precise. The same stolen hydria you placed in my hotel room in Arezzo. She had it in safekeeping." That was something of a lie of omission, but in a way, true. "She was bringing it to me so I could give it to your employer, so he could be a hero. I think that pretty much obliges both him and me to try to help her."
"I didn't do that," he said.
"What?" I said. "You didn't do what?"
"Put the pot in your hotel room."
"I saw you near my hotel," I said.
"Yes, but I didn't put it there."
"Who did?"
"I can't tell you."
"Antonio!" I exclaimed in exasperation. "Tell me right now!"
"You don't understand," he said. "I don't know who it was. It wasn't supposed to be like this. There is nothing I can do to help your friend."
"Yes, there is. You can talk to Mr. Lake and tell him he must come here to straighten this all out. Or better still, you can take me to him, and I'll talk to him about it. One word from him, and all would be well."
"No," he said. "That is a very bad idea."
"Then I'll have to find him myself."
"No!" he repeated. "It won't do any good. Hold on, don't go away." There was a pause. "I had to put more coins in the phone."
"Why won't it?"
"Why won't what?"
"Please don't be evasive, Antonio. Why won't it do any good to go to Mr. Lake?"
"I can't tell you."
"Then I'm going to the police."
"Don't you understand? I think that's what you're supposed to do."
"I guess I don't understand, Antonio. Why don't you explain it all to me?"
"You, I, that woman, what's her name, are all pawns."
"Of Lake?"
"Sort of," he said.
"I'm going to the police," I repeated. "Your name is certain to come up in the conversation. Your lovely Teresa isn't going to see you for a long, long time."
"No, please. We must discuss this. Not by telephone. I will try to explain everything. Now I'm running out of coins. There's a little town called Scrofiano south and west of here. Near Sinalunga. There's a house a mile or so outside the town." He gave directions rapidly. "Tonight."
"Not tonight," I said. There was no way I was wandering around in the dark under the circumstances.
"Tomorrow morning then. Early."
"Not until the fog has lifted," I said. "Noon."
"Noon might be too late," he said. "Make it ten."
"Noon. Will the carabinieri be there, too?" I asked. "They do seem to have a way of turning up whenever I'm supposed to meet Mr. Lake. Maybe it will be the same when I'm supposed to meet you."
"No," he said. "This is worse for me even than for you. Make it noon, then. Just be there, please. And be—" The call ended. I guess he ran out of coins in midsentence.
It took me all that evening and much of the next morning to find where they were holding Lola, in a cell in the carabinieri station in Arezzo. She looked old all of a sudden: pale, wan, and with a listlessness about her that made me really concerned for her welfare. She looked both surprised and pleased to see me.