Gates Of Hades

Chapter Fifty-one

Cagliari, Sardinia

The next morning

Jason was careful he was not observed as he dropped the stolen cell phone overboard before being one of the first to disembark from the ferry. A quick survey of the harbor revealed fishing craft, private sailboats, a few motor launches, and no place to rent a car. Adrian had omitted that factoid, he thought sourly.

Taxis, though, were plentiful. He took one to the airport.

The ride through town began as one of no particular interest. Apartment houses of undistinguished architecture and recent vintage shouldered one another for room, screening the view of the ocean. The churches gave some small clue as to the island's multicultural history. Graceful Moorish facades were only blocks from chunky Romanesque fronts left by conquering Normans and Spanish. The ebullience of Italian Gothic, unlike any other of the period, was equally represented. It looked like every second street corner hosted an outdoor market.

The airport was featureless modern. Jason paid the driver and went inside the terminal, where boutiques, tour guide offices, and duty-free shops outnumbered the two ticket counters. Turning to his left to follow the signs, he crossed a neatly groomed patch of ground to another building housing rental car offices. There were no lines in front of any of them.

The Rugger passport had been left at the pensione in hopes of convincing the authorities that Jason had perished at Baia. He pulled a leather pouch from a jacket pocket and examined the other two IDs Mama had sent him before he left the Dominican Republic. The pictures on both driver's licenses and passports were the same. He selected the documents and cards in the name of Andrew Forest Stroud of New York City. He looked at the address. East Seventy-second Street.

Jason hoped he looked like someone from the tony Upper East Side. But then, New York's wealthy made a practice of shabby dress.

Eurocar had a selection varying from the largest Mercedes to the tiniest Smart Car, also by DaimlerChrysler, though the manufacturer was understandably ashamed to adorn it with the three-pointed star. Jason chose a four-door Peugeot, something that would attract as little attention as possible.

The drive back to town was unremarkable, other than the normal frustration of finding a parking space. Jason felt truly blessed when he pulled in behind a departing Opel only six blocks from the harbor.

From his table outside a waterside trattoria, Jason watched the ferry dock. As the cars drove off, the few pedestrian passengers disembarked. The bright colors of Maria's gold-and-blue scarf were visible all the way across the quay. Jason could only marvel how the woman always managed to come up with a different one. He had little doubt she could find a Hermes shop in the middle of the Sahara Desert.

Women possessed some sort of internal navigational system for such things. Laurin could detect the proximity of a shoe store in cities she had never visited. Once in Paris…

He pushed the thought aside, surprised at how easy it was becoming to dismiss his former wife. He watched Maria seat herself at a table identical to his but on the other side of the small harbor. The plan called for her to have a cup of coffee and remain where she was until Jason verified that she was not being followed or observed.

Unlike their American counterparts, Italian, and most European trattorias, bistros, or whatever considered the price of a single beverage to be a ticket to occupy a table as long as the customer wished. In fact, the national pastime in many large cities was to order a sole glass of wine and spend the afternoon watching the passing crowds from the same table.

After forty minutes, the only interest in Maria that Jason noted was the openly admiring glances for which Italian men were notorious. He was amused by the persistence of one who had tried to share her table and finally admitted defeat after ten minutes of being intensely ignored.

He stood, reluctant to leave the pleasant morning sun, and walked casually along the edge of the port, feigning interest in first one sailboat, then another. He barely gave Maria a glance as he passed within ten feet of her and sauntered on. Without looking back, he turned away from the water's edge and strolled up one of the two streets that dead-ended into the harbor. He paused in front of a gelaterie, seeming to marvel at the variety of flavors of ice cream the small shop displayed. In the glass of the adjacent store's display window, he saw Maria turn the corner and enter the same street.

She stopped, distracted by the size of the prawns on ice under a sign proclaiming FRUTTI DI MARE. Although the sidewalks bore some pedestrian traffic, no one showed any lingering interest in her.

Jason took the time for admiration. She had a figure Hollywood would envy, honed, no doubt, by scurrying in and out of volcanic craters. The olive skin framed by crow-wing black hair she had let loose around her shoulders. He shook his head. The object of the exercise was to get her safely to Adrian's for a few days before she returned to her life.

He was in no hurry for that.

Periodic checks of reflections in shop windows confirmed that she was following him to the car at a casual pace. He had to fight the temptation to hurry, to rush to the moment he could take her in his arms.

He turned a final corner, waiting to see her follow.