Destiny

ONE-HUNDRED-TWELVE

The sun was rising above the Sicilian coastline when the ferryboat churned through the aquamarine blue waters into the Port of Messina. A gold Madonna statue, its arm and hand held up like a crossing guard, stood at the top of a white pedestal that elevated the icon more than eighty feet above the harbor. In the distance, Mt. Etna, a white collar of snow around its crest, belched smoke and steam into the pale blue sky.

Alicia looked out the cabin window and turned to Marcus. He sat at the table, formatting the text, photographs, and audio for the website. “Paul, take a break for a minute. Look at the bay. The water is so blue it almost hurts my eyes. I can see the volcano, Mt. Etna, in the background. There’s smoke coming out of it.”

Marcus stood; his back ached. He stepped to the porthole. “So that’s Mt. Etna. We have to find a helicopter.”

Alicia scanned the port area, the cars and people moving about the bustling harbor, ships loading and unloading people and cargo. “No matter where I look out there, I wonder if someone is looking back at us…looking to kill us.”

“At this point, we need to go ashore with the rest of the passengers, blend in the best we can, use the crowds for safety, and then break away. Maybe we can hail a cab quickly, rent or even steal a car if we have to.” Marcus sat back in front of his laptop and stared at the screen.

“How are you coming, Paul?”

“Getting very close. I’ve detailed the Circle of 13’s connections to the assassinations, bank fraud, non-compete contracts with taxpayer money, political corruption, and how the Kinsley Group and Carlson’s companies are defrauding the government in violation of SEC laws. I’ve provided proof that ties Jonathon Carlson’s family to the investment in Hitler’s buildup of the Third Reich, followed by Andrew Chaloner, Carlson’s grandfather, using his bank and influence to launder Nazi money while they alleged it was profits from Dutch imports. A half billion buys a lot of wooden shoes. I’ve added the audio from Merriam Hanover. I’ve also included some of the prophecies from Daniel. As soon as we can get on the net, I’ll upload it.”

A voice came on the ship’s public address system in English and Italian. “All passengers please prepare for docking and disembarking in Sicily. If you do not have a vehicle on the ferry, please report to the main seating area. If you do have a vehicle on board, please prepare to drive it onto the dock. Thank you for your business.”

Marcus stood and lifted a pillow from one of the births. “Maybe there’s a better way. Can a woman be pregnant two separate times within twenty-four hours?”

Heydar Kazim sat in his rental car in the parking lot of the Port of Messina and watched the passengers leave the ship. He used a pair of high-powered binoculars and looked at the face of each passenger who walked down the gangplank. He was prepared for disguise, keeping in mind that odds were the man would not separate from the woman. Most likely, they would stand out from the rest of the passengers because they would lose the natural gait of travelers on holiday. The clues would be self-imposed, faces and eyes compromised from fear and suspicion. When prey knew they are being hunted, it is something he always can see, like wrinkled clothes or shadows they couldn’t outrun.

This will be his most prized hit. The killings of the man and woman will deliver the largest bounty in history. The significance meant nothing to him. Perhaps it would rank up there with the killing of Osama bin Laden. It was a conquest that his employers placed enormous stock in seeing to the end. He felt the strange tingle in his chest he always got before a clean kill. It was sexual, a sensory response that he felt from his gut deep into his loins and testicles. The greater the challenge, the harder the hunt, the more magnified the feeling became. Toward the end, the moment before a well planned and executed kill, he would have an intense and pulsating erection that, afterwards, would require the services of a prostitute. Death, the ultimate aphrodisiac. The last time was after the hit on the Israeli prime minister. Kazim thought about the French prostitute he’d enjoyed after that kill.

Focus.

He shook the thoughts from his mind and concentrated on finding his prey.

Marcus and Alicia entered the area of the ferry where more than fifty cars were parked, drivers flowing in and opening their cars. Marcus scrutinized the drivers, picking out one young man who seemed to be by himself. He stood next to his parked Fiat Punto. He wore his long-sleeve shirttail out, khaki shorts and sandals. A week’s worth of black stubble grew from his face. Marcus approached with Alicia and said, “Come stai?”

“Sto buono.”

“Parli inglesi?”

“Hell yeah, man. I lived in New York City for six years.”

“New York cabbies are the only guys who can compete with Italian drivers. Look, I’m a little hesitant to rent a car here. You know the area?”

“I was born in Cantina, right down the road. Grew up in an orphanage there.” He paused and studied Marcus’s face. “Dude, you sure look familiar. Maybe we met in New York or someplace.”

“Sure, it’s a small world.”

He looked at Alicia, his eyes lowered to her stomach. “When’s the baby due?”

“Not soon enough.” She smiled.

Marcus said, “If you could drive us to an Internet café, I’ll fill your tank up for three months.”

The man smiled, “No shit, three months?”

Marcus smiled. “Yeah, three months.”

“Get in.”

The ferry came to an abrupt halt, gears whined and the massive door in the bow area began lowering. “You mind if we take the backseat?” Alicia asked.

“You mean like I’d be your taxi driver?”

She smiled. “Chauffer sounds better. Just until we get to the Internet café.”

“Pile in the back.”

They got in his car and he started the ignition. A ferryboat worker, red baton in his right hand, waved the drivers off the ship.

Kazim watched the faces through his binoculars. The stream began to slow to a trickle and there was no obvious sign of the Americans. They didn’t have a car. They have to be looking for a taxi. He set the binoculars down on the seat next to his rifle. He watched the drivers steer their cars from the gaping mouth of the ferryboat. The vehicles looked like a disorganized road rally, drivers jockeying for positions that would allow them to get to the open road faster.

Kazim felt the quiver in his lower chest fade when the last of the cars emptied from the ship’s belly. Maybe they were still on board. Hiding somewhere. He could stay and monitor the ship, knowing it would refuel, reload with passengers and cars and begin the return trip in two hours.

Something caught his eye.

One of the cars, a black Fiat Punto, had an anomaly. Kazim craned his neck to see. The car was in the middle of the pack, the road less than fifty meters away.

There it was — a piece of cloth, maybe the hem of a dress. It was caught in the door, flapping in the wind. Kazim put his car in gear, cursing the tourists, the passengers walking in front of him in search of taxis.

His chest tightened, the sensation returning, a radiance building through his belly and loins.