Rules of Vengeance

60

“Frontière Française-2 km.”

Jonathan slowed the motorcycle as he approached the French border. The highway split in two, the westbound lanes climbing a slight grade cut into the hillside, the opposing lanes hugging the strip of flat terrain adjacent to the coast. The early evening traffic was heavy and after another kilometer he ground to a complete halt. Bracing the bike on his left leg, he gazed out at the sea. It had been his companion these seven hours, a beckoning blue expanse that led to his destination. Above his shoulder, the slope rose steeply. There were terraced houses and gardens, and clotheslines strung between olive trees. A breeze lifted off the sea, and he tasted salt and exhaust and the rich scent of warm pine.

The line of traffic shunted forward. He rounded a bend and spotted the broad shell-shaped building that housed the customs and immigration offices. Officers in pale blue tunics and legionnaire’s caps sauntered up and down the line of vehicles, conducting a cursory check of passports and identity cards, waving the cars past. Jonathan had crossed borders inside the EU hundreds of times. To his worried eye, everything appeared calm, unrushed. Business as usual. He watched as a plain white van was guided into an auxiliary lane for inspection. The border officer signaled for the van to halt. The next moment a team of plainclothes men and women materialized as if from nowhere and swarmed all over it.

So much for business as usual.

Hurriedly he checked for an exit from the highway. There were none. The last was a kilometer back. He glanced over his shoulder, and only then did he notice a police car hidden behind the exit sign. He gave the bike a little gas and advanced another 20 meters. There was no way out.

Less than a minute later, he slid beneath the shade of the portico. He had his identity card ready. The card belonged to Dr. Luca Lazio. The photograph had been taken seven years earlier and was scratched and faded. An officer approached, checking Jonathan up and down. He raised a finger and motioned for him to drive nearer. “You,” he said. “Stop.”

Jonathan extended the card and the officer grabbed it from his fingers.

“Where are you coming from?”

“Milano,” said Jonathan, because the motorcycle’s plates were from the industrial northern city.

“Purpose of your visit?”

Jonathan had no bags with him, no clothing other than what he wore. “Visiting a friend in Monaco,” he said.

The border guard studied Jonathan’s face, then took another look at the card. “Lazio, eh?”

“Yes.”

“A doctor?”

Again Jonathan said “Yes.”

The guard shook his head and gave him back the identity card. “Figures. Only a doctor would be crazy enough to drive on the highway without a helmet. Not even boots.” He waved him on. “Next time be more careful.”

Jonathan gave him a thumbs-up and accelerated into France.

“Next!” shouted the border guard.