Rules of Vengeance (35 page)

“Adam never stood a chance,” he said. “Where does the line for original sin begin?”

Emma snapped her fingers. “Close your eyes again.”

Jonathan obeyed. This time when he opened them, she had seated herself on a chair and sat gazing mournfully at Jonathan’s wet patrolman’s jacket arrayed across her legs. The emotion in her eyes caught him by surprise and struck a chord deep inside him. “You’re Mary. I mean, the
Pietà
,” he said
.

“Very good.” Emma sprang from the chair. “One more.”

Jonathan closed his eyes a third time. When she asked him to look, she was standing on the same chair, one leg perched saucily on an armrest, her hands bundling her hair above her head.
“Birth of Venus,”
he said
.

“Wrong. It’s in the Louvre.”

“Caravaggio. Didn’t he paint something in this town?”

“Strike two.”

“I don’t know. I’m a doctor. I spent all my time studying anatomy books, not art history. I give up.”

Emma leaped onto the bed and snuggled next to him. “Emma Rose Ransom. Miss February. Your own private masterpiece.”

   
Afterward, they lay in each other’s arms. The rain had started up again and rattled their windows with a troubling intensity
.

“Why Belgrade?” asked Emma. “Of all places. It’s not fair.”

“We’re just flying into Belgrade. We’re going to Kosovo. That’s a province in Serbia. It’ll just be for a few months.”

“But it’s dangerous there. I’ve had enough of bullets and hand grenades for a while.”

“The war’s over,” said Jonathan, propping himself on an elbow. “We’re helping them get back on their feet. Half the doctors left the country. Besides, we’re only there for three months, then we go to Indonesia as planned.”

“They could have at least allowed us to finish our honeymoon. Everything’s always a crisis. You’d think they could get along without us.” Emma rolled off the bed and went into the bathroom. She emerged a few minutes later fully dressed. “I’m going out,” she said. “You want anything?”

“In this rain?”

Emma peeked out the window. “It’s not so bad.”

“Compared to what—the Flood?”

“Aren’t we biblical.”

“Coming from Eve herself, I guess that means something.” Jonathan chuckled, then threw off the blankets and stood. “Hold up, Mrs. Ransom, I’ll come with you.”

Emma came closer, kissing him. “Stay here. You look tired. Why don’t you take a nap?”

“Nah, I’ll get some air, too.”

“Really,” she insisted. “It’ll be a bore. Do something useful. Reconfirm our flights. Better yet, find us a decent place for dinner.”

Jonathan looked at Emma. He saw something in her eyes that he’d never seen before. She did not want him to join her. “Probably a good idea. I’ll reconfirm the flights and book us a table at the best place in town.”

“I want something decadent. Spaghetti carbonara with warm bread and
butter, and zabaglione for dessert.” She twisted up her face. “What do they eat in Kosovo, anyway?”

Emma went out. Jonathan took a shower and dressed. As requested, he reconfirmed their flights. According to the concierge, the best place in town was Trattoria Rodolfo. Jonathan was sure that the prices were sky-high, but what the heck? He didn’t think he and Emma would be hitting any three-star eateries in the Serbian countryside
.

Satisfied that he’d met Emma’s expectations, he dug out his paperback and began to read. He checked his watch every fifteen minutes. When an hour had gone by, he put the book down and went to the window. If anything, it was raining harder than before, a veritable deluge. He smiled to himself. There he was, going all biblical again. Slipping on his jacket, he went downstairs
.

“Scusi,” he said to the concierge, “did you see my wife, Signora Ransom?”

The concierge said that he had. He came around from behind his counter and showed Jonathan the direction she had gone in upon leaving the hotel. Jonathan put on his baseball cap, then pulled his hood over it. Venturing onto the street, he made his way down the hill toward the port, hugging buildings and ducking under any available awnings. The rain was awful and the cobblestone streets were slick. He kept his eyes open for Emma, but after five minutes he’d had enough. He entered a kiosk to get some relief. He studied a carousel of postcards and picked out one of an amphitheater and another of the catacombs he’d toured that morning
.

“Three euros,” said the sales clerk
.

Jonathan fished in his pocket for some coins. Waiting for change, he glanced out the window. Across the street, the doors to a hotel opened, granting him an unobstructed view of the lobby. It was a deep, dimly lit space with a polished wood reception counter and, oddly, a replica of an English phone booth stuck in the far corner. Walking across the lobby, deep in conversation with a man, was Emma. It was immediately apparent that they knew each other well. Emma rested a hand on his arm, and her attention was riveted on him. The man’s back faced him, and all Jonathan noticed was the twill green raincoat and the matching trilby hat
.

The next moment the hotel doors closed
.

Jonathan stood for a moment, confused at what he had seen. At the same time, he recalled Emma’s insistence that he remain in the hotel room. Gathering up the postcards, he crossed the street, careful not to rush or to appear in any way upset. He was certain that there was a satisfactory explanation for why she had left the hotel to surreptitiously meet another man. But by the time he entered the lobby, Emma and the man with whom she had been so earnestly engaged were gone
.

Jonathan checked the adjoining pub (that explained the phone booth), as well as the lounge and reading room, but to no avail
.

Emma was nowhere to be seen
.

   Jonathan dropped the bag of roasted chestnuts into the trash and made his way up the narrow road toward the Hotel Rondo. He was walking quickly, a man in search of something. After so long, it was hard to remember exactly what he had seen that day.

Emma was in the room when he returned. As calmly as possible, he asked if it had been her inside the lobby of the hotel. She had replied that it hadn’t. She had gone for a walk by the harbor. When he pressed her about it, she grew neither upset nor self-righteous. She simply replied that he must have been mistaken. And then she had given him a paperweight in the shape of an ancient Roman trireme that she’d purchased at a store they’d visited in the opposite direction from the Hotel Rondo.

That’s where the matter ended. Jonathan believed her. The light in the lobby had been dim. The rain hadn’t helped matters. He put it off to a case of mistaken identity. Never once in all the intervening years had he thought to question her story.

Until now. Until Emma had been picked up by an ambulance eight years later at this very address. Via Porto 89. Civitavecchia.

The address of the Hotel Rondo.

   The Hawker business jet touched down at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci Airport at 8:33 local time. Under a pale blue sky, the plane taxied to an isolated terminal at the southern border of the 200-acre airport complex. A squadron of police vehicles formed a semicircle near the jetway. Descending the stairs, Kate Ford shook hands with the chief of the Rome police and a lieutenant colonel who headed up the Rome detachment of the carabinieri, or federal police. After an exchange of formalities, she was updated on the manhunt for Jonathan Ransom.

Photographs of Ransom taken upon his arrest had been forwarded to all local precincts. Prints of the picture had been distributed to foot patrols walking Rome’s tourist areas—the Coliseum, the Forum, St. Peter’s and the Vatican. Word that he had been spotted inside city limits was likewise transmitted to rail and transport authorities at Rome’s four main train terminals. Police patrols were doubled at Leonardo da Vinci Airport, and at Ciampino, Rome’s smaller commuter airport, located along the Greater Ring Road 15 kilometers east of the city.

“Have you instituted any roadblocks or traffic checks?” asked Kate.

“It is summer,” explained the chief of police without apology. “Tourist season. Traffic is bad enough as it is. Without a confirmed sighting in a specific locale, there is nothing we can do.”

“I understand,” she responded, with a smile to smooth the waters. She motioned to the terminal. “Is the witness here?”

“Waiting inside. This way.”

Kate followed the lanky police captain up some stairs into the building. The airport lay on the coast, and the tang of sea salt and brine and the freshening breeze invigorated her. Reaching the door, she paused to gaze out at the blue expanse. Ransom was close. It was odd, but she could feel his presence, even sense his desperation. They were both running.

After leaving Thames House, Kate had stopped by her home long enough to shower, pick up a change of clothes, and brush her teeth before dashing to Heathrow. In between briefings from Graves and updates from the Italian police, she’d managed two hours of sleep on a couch at the rear of the cabin. Now a gust of wind threatened her hair, and she rushed to clamp a hand to it. The motion made her think of Pretty Kenny Laxton, and she dropped her hand to her side. Barely three days had passed since she’d taken the call about the presumptive suicide at 1 Park Lane that had launched the investigation. In the interim the suicide had proven to be a murder, a car bomb had taken the life of her dear friend Reg Cleak and many others, and something infinitely more frightening was nearing fruition.

Inside the terminal, the group filed into an air-conditioned conference room. Dr. Luca Lazio sat alone at the head of the table, smoking furiously. Kate introduced herself. After establishing that Lazio spoke English fluently, she asked all officers except the chief of police to leave the room.

“That was a brave action you took, trying to stop Jonathan Ransom,” said Kate, choosing a seat next to him, sensing he was comfortable in the presence of women.

“Not brave. Necessary.”

“Weren’t you afraid he might harm you?”

Pleased by her proximity, Lazio shook his head much too confidently. “I know Ransom. He waved his gun around a little, but I didn’t think he would use it.”

Kate hadn’t expected Ransom to be armed. Strangely, she felt disappointed. “Even so,” she went on, continuing to play up to Lazio, “what prompted you to take such bold measures? Why not just help him and let him go?”

“I saw what happened in London. Isn’t that enough?”

Kate agreed that it was, though privately she thought there was more to it than that. “Did he admit his role in the bombing?”

“He said he had nothing to do with it. Of course he was lying.”

“And did he give you any idea where he was going?”

“None. Unfortunately, I didn’t see him depart from my office. When he discovered that I was trying to hurt him, he attacked me and I fell to the ground. He left me, I presume to find medicine to alleviate his allergic reaction. That was when I ran. You see, I’m not so brave after all.”

An aide appeared, carrying a tray of espressos, and handed them around. The captain and Lazio took considerable time adding sugar and cream, each taking the moment to light a fresh cigarette. Kate looked on, struggling to conceal her impatience.

“You said that Ransom sought you out in order to find out some information about his wife,” she asked. “Were you friends?”

“Not friends, but colleagues,” replied Lazio. “We worked together years ago in Africa. I suppose I was the only doctor he knew in Rome. He told me that his wife had been attacked and injured in the city sometime in April. I tracked her down to the Hospital San Carlo, where she was treated for a knife wound.”

This was the attack in April that Allam had mentioned. “Was it life-threatening?”

“Without question.” Lazio talked for a while about the nature of the injury, the surgery performed, and the time needed to recover. “It was not easy to find her,” he added. “She did not give her real name. Ransom said she was some type of secret agent or some nonsense. He had me check other names.”

“Do you remember them?”

“Kathleen O’Hara and Eva Kruger, but they were of no use. That’s the funny part. When she checked in, she gave a different name altogether.”

“What was it?”

“Lara. Just Lara. She refused to provide a last name. For some reason this upset Jonathan.”

The police chief explained that they had no record of any stabbing or similar assault during that time period, and that he’d sent three men to the hospital to keep watch for Ransom in case he went there seeking more information. With a smile, Kate told him that she appreciated his actions, and then she returned her attention to Luca Lazio. “Did Ransom have any idea who had attacked his wife?”

“None at all,” said the Italian doctor. “He was very focused on finding her, and he was upset that I could not help more. If you ask me, he should be happy that she is alive at all. A woman who loses so much blood has no business surviving an hour’s ambulance ride to the hospital.”

“Is it normal to need one hour to reach a hospital in Rome?”

“Of course not,” said Lazio, offended. “But she wasn’t attacked in Rome.”

“Then where?”

“Up the coast. I can’t remember. It is written on the admittance sheet.”

“Do you have that with you?”

“Ransom took it.”

Kate ran a hand along the crease of her trousers. She’d done her homework on Lazio. Before landing, she’d reached Doctors Without Borders in Geneva and spoken with the woman who’d supervised the Eritrean mission where Lazio and Ransom had worked together. It took some prodding, but finally the woman had supplied some startling information about Lazio. The information went a long way to explaining why Lazio had probably been trying to kill Ransom with the overdose of penicillin, rather than merely render him unconscious. And why he was none too keen to see Ransom captured.