Havoc (13 page)

Upon returning to his hotel room, Vega reestablished contact with his mentor.

“Any success finding the phone?” asked Gantt.

“No. Wu must have carried it with him. That’s what I’d do if I were him—probably concealed inside his clothes.”

“If he still has it. Maybe he left to sell it to someone else.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Vega. “Otherwise, our trail just went cold again.”

CHAPTER 36

Alton and Mallory entered the city of Florence and drove through its narrow streets. Guided by the GPS app on Alton’s phone, they made their way to the Hotel Davanzati, an ancient structure located in the city’s historic center. They found that despite the building’s advanced age, the hotel’s accommodations blended the historic and modern in a pleasing way.

After checking into the hotel and dropping off their luggage in a spacious suite, the couple took a stroll to the nearby Piazza della Signoria, admiring its exquisite sculptures and surrounding architecture. As dusk fell, they returned to the hotel to enjoy dinner in its intimate dining room.

After ordering, Alton settled into his chair. He stretched his sore leg to the side of the table and sighed with satisfaction.

“Okay, Sweetie,” said Mallory. “I know you’re dying to tell me all about the history of Florence, so you may as well get it over with.”

“Gee, how can I refuse, when I can see how excited you are?”

“No, seriously, I really do want to know.”

“Well, why don’t I tell you about the landmarks as we see them tomorrow?” suggested Alton. “Last month, I brushed up on Florence’s history a little so I’d know what we’re looking at.”

“Of course you did.”

As they settled into bed that night, Mallory snuggled next to Alton. “So, how’s your leg recovery coming along? Up for another round of PT yet?”

The pang that smote Alton originated from his heart rather than his leg. Was waiting on his leg to recover the first of many concessions Mallory would have to make? Was Alton truly her first choice? Mallory seemed happy now, but if she found herself unhappy in having made a commitment to him, would she ever reveal her discontent? Or would her good-hearted nature lead her to settle for Alton? Could he, a damaged ex-soldier, truly make Mallory as happy as another man—as happy as Tom—would have?

“You know,” he said, “It feels okay during the day, but at night, when it starts to cool off, is when it starts hurting again. Maybe we should wait another night or two.”

“Okay, Sweetie. Just let me know when you’re ready,” she said, laying a hand on his chest and closing her eyes.

Mallory fell asleep almost immediately, while restless thoughts confounded Alton’s efforts to join her. He felt uncomfortable exaggerating the extent of his remaining pain, but overshadowing his guilt was the fear of attracting Mallory via an affection born of pity rather than pure, ardent love. He didn’t want to be the stray puppy she took home out of sympathy. He wanted to be the man she admired and loved as she could love no other, the way he loved her. If Mallory had felt this type of compelling attraction to Alton in Afghanistan, could she have ever formed an attachment to Tom during her early days with the FBI? And if she hadn’t felt such a love in Kabul, could he believe her capable of developing it now?

Eventually, Alton drifted off to sleep as unanswered questions continued to trouble his mind.

In the morning, Alton and Mallory rose early. As beams of sunlight brightened the room, Alton felt his hopes brighten with them. Perhaps fatigue had gotten the better of him the previous night.

By nine o’clock, they exited the hotel to begin exploring the wonders of Florence. They headed first to the Piazza del Duomo, located within a few minutes’ walk of their hotel. The famous domed cathedral dominated the skyline for miles. Alton provided a bit of background on the architectural marvel while he and Mallory examined it from all angles. Wanting a photo together, they asked a friendly Swedish tourist to take a few pictures of them in front of the Piazza’s ornate, oversized entrance.

After concluding the photo shoot, the couple paused to study an abundance of souvenir items displayed on a vendor’s cart. Alton admired a ceramic coffee mug that sported an artist’s rendering of the cathedral.

“Thinking about adding that to your collection?” asked Mallory, who periodically joked about Alton’s proclivity to collect coffee mugs from the places he visited.

“Yeah—this is sweet, but I’d have to clear a spot in the cabinet to make room for it.”

“Can I see it?”

Alton handed across the mug. Mallory pivoted to the vendor and handed him the mug along with a euro note.

“You didn’t have to do that,” said Alton.

“You like it, right? You can remember this fun day together every time you use it.”

“Thanks, Honey,” said Alton as the vendor handed Mallory the mug, now sheathed in bubble wrap.

After exploring the buildings in the neighborhood of the cathedral, the couple headed back in the direction of their hotel, intending to visit more landmarks lying beyond it.

“You hungry?” asked Alton.

“Yep.”

“I asked the concierge about good restaurants in this area. He recommended Trattoria Zaza. Want to try it?”

“Sure. It must be good if it’s recommended by a local.”

“That’s what I figured, too. I entered the address in my phone, so I’ll let it lead the way.”

A quarter of an hour later, they ducked through a doorway and found themselves in the restaurant’s quaint atmosphere. A host showed them to a table covered by a spotless white tablecloth. An open carafe of Chianti and fresh flowers already rested on the tabletop.

“Shall we?” asked Alton, pouring two glasses of the local wine.

After ordering, Alton turned to his companion. “I know we just got here, but how do you like Florence so far?”

“Love it,” said Mallory, “including your historical commentating, in case you’re wondering. Florence really is amazing. Before this trip, I didn’t know as much about its history as I did Rome’s, but I’m glad we came.”

“I am, too. You know, I wonder if people from other countries feel that way when they visit Washington—learning more about the city as they visit, I mean.”

“Heck, probably a lot of Americans do that, too,” said Mallory. “Speaking of Washington, I got a text from Henry Gowin this morning, saying he hadn’t been able to provide any more insight on the Duncan Wells murder investigation. You remember Gowin, right? The FBI agent we met in Rossi’s building?”

“Yes, I remember him—and his eighties tie. He seems like a nice guy, though.”

“He is, but he’s a little stuck in the eighties in other ways, too. That man does not like technology, at least not any from the last few decades.”

“Really? You’d think being an FBI agent, he’d have to jump right on the technological bandwagon just to do his job.”

“You’d think so, right? But I guess everybody embraces change at a different rate. Gowin’s pace could be described as glacial. I remember when I first joined the Bureau, he got his first smart phone. He talked to it for twenty minutes before Richards finally examined it and pointed out he didn’t buy the Siri version. Gowin was shocked to discover his phone couldn’t hear his commands. I wonder how long he would have gone on trying to talk it into giving him driving directions.”

Alton chuckled. “We all have our weaknesses, I suppose.”

Mallory remained silent for a moment as she studied Alton’s face. “You look thoughtful, Sweetie. What’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about your early FBI days—back before we were dating.”

“Don’t let it get you down. We both loved each other. We just didn’t know it.”

“You’re right. Now, here comes our lunch. Let’s dig in.”

After the meal, they strolled over to the Piazza Santa Croce, a large square bordered by an imposing cathedral and ornamented with Renaissance sculptures.

As they ambled along a row of vendor tents fronting the permanent shops, Alton leaned over to Mallory and pointed. “That’s the Basilica of Santa Croce, the largest Franciscan church in the world.”

“Really? Interesting,” said Mallory, who stopped in front of a store to examine the fastidiously-stitched leather apparel in its display window. “And here’s Misuri Firenze—with possibly the coolest-looking leather products in the world. Want to go in?”

“Why not?”

The powerful, organic fragrance of rawhide greeted the couple as they entered the shop. They meandered through the aisles, examining a variety of leather products. Mallory stopped to look at purses, while Alton walked into the next room. He halted in front of a display of leather jackets. Pulling a particularly stylish burgundy jacket from a hanger, he slipped it on and viewed himself in the mirror. The jacket exuded quality, but he couldn’t decide if it was right for him.

“You look so hot in that,” said Mallory, coming up from behind. “You have to get it.”

Apparently it
was
right for him. “You know, I have been feeling a bit chilly today,” said Alton, whose forehead still glistened with sweat from the afternoon’s bright sun. “Maybe I
should
get it, just to stay warm.”

“Strictly for comfort reasons, huh? Right…”

Laughing, Alton asked, “Did you see anything you like?”

“Yeah, that taupe purse over there called out to me.”

Alton sauntered over to the accessories section and picked up said bag. “Yep, this is nice.”

“Sweetie, lunch was nice. This purse is awesome.”

“Ha! I’ll take your word for it. So, are you going to get it?”

“I don’t know. It’s kind of expensive. Plus, I might see something else I like better. I’m gonna think about it for a minute.” She headed for a display of wallets along the store’s back wall.

Mallory returned a few minutes later, just as the cashier finished ringing up Alton’s purchases.

“Did you get the jacket?” she asked.

“Yes, and a little something else,” he replied, cracking the bag to reveal the taupe purse nestled between sheaths of shipping paper.

“Alton! You didn’t have to do that.” Mallory smiled as she shook his arm in mock protest.

“Like you said, it called out to you, right? We couldn’t just abandon it here.”

“Thanks, Sweetie.”

The couple exited the store with the purchases and, hand in hand, continued their walking tour of the historic city center.

As Alton and Mallory journeyed along the Piazza Santa Croce, Zane Crowe polished off a sandwich and settled into the small desk jammed into a corner of his hostel room.

For the seventh time that day, Crowe placed a call to a local travel company.

Upon hearing a greeting in Italian, he asked, “Do you speak English?”

“Yes, we do, sir. How can I help you?”

“My name is Alton Blackwell, and I’m calling about a tour I arranged for me and my girlfriend, Mallory Wilson, to go on while I’m here in Florence. Here’s my problem: I lost my phone yesterday, and it had my itinerary on it. I can’t remember what day or time the tour begins or where we’re supposed to meet. I’m lucky I remembered the name of your company. I was hoping you could give me the tour details again.”

“Let me see if I can help you, sir. Do you have your passport number to verify your identify?”

“That was lost, too. Now I don’t know what to do,” said Crowe, injecting a note of false panic into his voice.

“Well, I think I can help you out this time,” said the travel agent. “Give me a minute to look up your itinerary.”

Crowe could hear the clatter of keystrokes as the agent searched through her computerized records. He drummed his fingers on the desk’s scratched surface while waiting for her to speak.

“Ah, here it is,” she said at last.

Bingo!
Crowe smirked in satisfaction. “So you have my tour information, do you?”

“Yes, sir. It looks like you have three tours planned.”

“That’s right. I remember that,” he improvised. “I just can’t remember when and where.”

“Would you like me to e-mail the tour details to you?”

“That’d be the dog’s bollocks.”

“Sir?”

“Sorry. That would be lovely. Let me give you my e-mail address.” Creating the phony e-mail account yesterday had proved to be a wise precaution. It would facilitate Crowe’s acquisition of the tour information in a manner that couldn’t be traced back to him.

The assassin concluded the call. Within ten minutes, he began perusing the itinerary. As the agent had said, Blackwell and Wilson had lined up three tours. The first two, both scheduled for two days hence, carried the couple into the city’s famous museums, not exactly a private place to commit a couple of murders.

However, the third tour, scheduled for tomorrow, took them to the sprawling Boboli Gardens. They would be accompanied by a guide for the first hour but on their own for the last two. The garden’s size and multitude of trails, grottos, and hedges made it the perfect spot to take them out. Luring them into one of the many meandering, isolated paths should be no problem.

“This might be the easiest twenty grand I’ve ever made,” said Crowe as he downloaded a map of the gardens onto his phone.