The Gray Ghost by Clive Cussler
She looked over at him. “Logical guess is, we’d head to the jet for whatever we need?”
“Exactly.”
“While I think your hypothesis is nearly flawless, how is that going to help us?”
“We need to regroup. Once we lose them, we have to figure out how to stay off the grid.”
“We’re broke, Sam. We’re going to have to figure out how to survive.”
He thought about what he had left in his wallet after paying for lunch that afternoon. “Two hundred euros isn’t exactly broke.”
“Unless, of course, you’re trying to come up with something to wear to an event where you have to look like you can afford to be there. The party and auction are black-tie. With one dress between us, we’re going to have to draw straws to see who wears it.”
“Not sure I can pull off black silk.”
“Definitely not sleeveless black silk.”
He switched lanes again. “The least of our problems right now. We don’t even have the ten grand to get in, never mind the ten grand Luca wants for his invitation.” He looked over at her, then back at the road, his eye on the two cars following them. “Don’t you find it odd that they’re just hanging back? Not even worried about staying on our tail? Or speeding up when we do?”
“I do find that odd. Especially considering the way you managed to elude them on our way out of Manchester. They have to be tracking us somehow.”
“Possibly our cell phones.”
Remi made sure both phones were turned off. The two cars were still following at a safe distance even with Sam doing his best to lose them.
“We can’t go back to Georgia’s,” Remi said. “We’ll lead them right to her.”
She was right, of course. “We seem to be one step behind. Time to turn things around.”
He hit the gas, pulled off the motorway, went back the other direction, took the next exit, headed down a long stretch of road, feeling as though he’d managed to lose the tail, until he noticed a car, so far back it was just a speck, but coming closer, until the blue Mercedes filled his rearview mirror. No sign of Bruno’s black Mercedes. Still, Sam’s evasive maneuvers should have worked to lose both cars, not just the one. “We know it’s not the phones . . . Makes me wonder if they somehow put a tracking device on our car while we were at the airport.”
Remi tapped her fingers on the slide of her weapon. “I could take out one of his tires.”
“I’m not sure that’ll help. Bruno’s car is still out there. If they did put on a tracking device . . .”
“At least we can slow him down. One tail is better than two.”
Sam eyed the narrow road winding through the low foothills, the rolling slopes covered with brown grass. This far out in the country, there wasn’t a house in sight. In fact, they were the only two cars on the road. No innocent bystanders to get hurt, no witnesses—and no police. “If we’re going to do this, now’s the time.”
Remi’s green eyes sparkled with catlike anticipation as she finger-combed her red hair into a ponytail, rolled down her window, shifted in her seat to face the rear, gripping her Sig in her left hand. She braced it on the base of the frame of the open window. “Ready anytime, Fargo,” she said over the wind.
Sam let his foot off the gas, slowing for a curve. The blue Mercedes gained on them. When it tried to pull alongside their car, Sam veered to the center, refusing to give it room, as he accelerated out of the curve. “Get ready,” he said. “A straight stretch ahead.” He sped up.
Remi leaned out the window, her hair whipping at her face as she took aim. He pressed the gas, trying to keep the distance steady, not seeing the pothole until it was too late. Remi fired just as he hit it.
“A little warning!” Remi called out, her shot missing.
“Sorry!” He gripped the wheel, steering into another curve, coming out of the turn, realizing too late the one disadvantage of being this far out in the country: poor road maintenance. Their wheels shuddered across the uneven pavement, jarring Sam and Remi with each bounce. They neared a narrow bridge up ahead, and, just beyond it, a sharp turn. “Maybe wait till we get out of this stretch,” he shouted.
“Where’s the challenge in that?” Remi’s smile grew even more determined when Sam approached the bridge. She took aim as the Mercedes gained on them, its reflection filling her side mirror.
Crack! Crack!
The blue Mercedes veered suddenly from the road, spinning in a cloud of dust and debris, slamming into the bridge’s parapet. It tilted up on two wheels, seemed to hover for a second, then bounced down the side of the hill.
“Nicely done, Mrs. Fargo.”
“Thank you.”
Sam pulled over to the side of the road. He and Remi looked out the window and down the hill at the crumpled car sitting at an odd angle at the bottom of the ravine.
“You think he survived?” Remi asked.
“If he was wearing his seat belt.” Sure enough, they saw movement, as the driver tried opening the door.
She gave a tired sigh. “As many times as they tried to kill us? It’s hardly fair I only got to take out his tire.”
He pulled out, then continued down the road. “Dead bodies with bullets tend to bring the police out in droves. I’d rather not spend hours sitting in an interrogation room, having to explain why we’re carrying guns in a country that doesn’t allow it.”
“Good point.”
He checked the rearview mirror, catching the reflection of the sun on the roof of a sleek black car about a mile back. “Looks like Bruno finally found us. We better get out of here before he catches up.”
45
Remi kept an eye on the rearview mirror, watching, as the black Mercedes followed at a safe distance. Sam had used every trick taught to him during his time at DARPA and still hadn’t lost their tail, frustrating them both. At one point, Remi opened the sunroof to check the sky. “Okay, we know it’s not a helicopter.”
“Are you sure our phones are turned off?”
“Positive.” Even so, she opened her purse to double-check the cells and the satellite phone. “They’re sitting like bricks in my Hermès bag.”
“You never know. Bricks might come in handy.”
“Well, we know it’s not the phones.”
“Like I said, they had to have placed a tracking device on our car when we were at the airport.”
Remi tapped her finger against the trigger guard of the semiauto resting on her thigh. “It worked once . . .”
“Let’s not push our luck.”
“You sure know how to ruin a girl’s fun,” she said, keeping her focus on the side mirror.
Sam checked the navigation screen on the car’s dash. “Right now, our best option is to find a place to park and buy enough time to find the device.”
He drove to the city center, the roads turning more congested as they approached. Horns blared at the taxi drivers veering in and out of lanes, treating the rules of the road more like guidelines, in their hurry to get to their destinations so they could pick up their next fares. The rest of the cars moved at a snail’s pace.
At least that gave Remi time to find a location she liked while keeping track of Bruno’s Mercedes, stuck solidly three cars behind them.
“Find anything?” Sam asked, doing his best to put yet another car length between them.
Remi studied the navigation screen, using the toggle switch to zoom out, trying to find an area that might work. Her eyes landed on the Piazza del Popolo and the three streets that branched out from it like a trident. Just beyond it was the Piazza di Spagna, a location she knew quite well.
She pointed to the map. “You know that little street near the trident where we park when we come here to shop?”
“You mean when you come here to shop?” He glanced at the screen. “Sorry to say, it’s not registering in my memory
“Funny, Fargo. You’ve waited for me enough times. It’s just down the street from the wineshop you like.”
“That, I remember. What’s your plan?”
“Find a place to park. I draw him out, have him chase me, you find the tracking device.”
“I’d feel better if he was chasing me, not you.”
“Except he’s more likely to think I’m the easier prey. Once you find the tracking device, you come pick me up—hopefully, before he catches me.”
He cocked a sandy brow at her. “Hopefully?”
“Just trying to be helpful, Fargo. After all, you didn’t want me to kill him. Assuming you still want to avoid the police . . . ?”
“And where am I picking you up?”
“The top of the Spanish Steps.”
Sam peered at the map on the screen, thought about it a moment, nodded.
When they were a couple of streets away from the Piazza di Spagna, Sam zipped down a narrow street, pulled over, and parked the car, angling it in a space barely big enough. Remi caught a glimpse of the black Mercedes parking at the end of the street, as she and Sam quickly walked the opposite direction, then ducked into the corner wineshop. The advantage—and disadvantage—of their location was that there were no doors, the interior of the shop wide open to both streets, allowing them to see anyone coming from either direction. Sam, his back to the entry, picked up a slim bottle filled with a pale yellow liquid, pretending to read the label. Remi kept watch, seeing Bruno jump out of his car and race down the street in their direction.
“He’s on his way,” she said, catching sight of the bottle of limoncello in Sam’s hand. “Try not to forget, we’re here for a purpose.”
He grinned. “Me?”
Remi stepped out, taking a quick peek, surprised when she saw Bruno racing toward her one moment, then suddenly stop in the middle of the block, searching the crowded street for them. Unsure of which direction they’d gone, he returned to their rental car, intending to wait by it until their return.
She hefted her purse higher on her shoulder, feeling the weight of the three phones in it, wishing she’d had the foresight to leave them in the car. Too late for that, she watched as Bruno settled against the wall in front of their car, clearly in no hurry.
This was not going according to plan.
“Something wrong?” Sam asked, from his position inside the shop.
She gave an exasperated sigh. “Apparently, he’s decided to wait for us.”
Several seconds, then minutes, ticked by.
“He’s just standing there,” she said.
“He knows we need to get back to that car.” Sam returned the bottle of limoncello to the shelf, moved to her side and peered over her shoulder. “You could always go out there and pretend to be lost.”
“That should work. See you at the top of the stairs, Fargo.” She leaned over, kissed him, and went out to the sidewalk, craned her head back, as though searching for a street placard high up on the side of the building. From the corner of her eye, she saw Bruno standing there, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. She stepped out farther, turning around as though lost, but the man remained planted like a Roman statue next to their car, never once turning her way.
Frustrated, she walked past the shop’s entryway, ignoring Sam’s grin, as he watched from inside. “Not helping, Fargo.”
“Maybe less subtle . . . ?”
He was right. She did her best to look like a deer caught in the headlights as she stared at Bruno, shouting, “Sam! There he is! Run!”
Bruno looked up at the sound of her voice. The moment he saw her, he pushed off the wall, sprinting in her direction.
46
Remi waited a second or two longer than she should have, just to be sure Bruno saw her turn the corner. Keeping to the middle of the street, where she wouldn’t be missed, she dashed past shoppers ogling the fashions displayed in the windows of the designer stores. Finally, she reached the piazza, turning left toward the Fontana della Barcaccia, only then realizing the bigger danger: disappearing into the midst of hundreds of tourists milling about the boat-shaped fountain and gravitating toward the very steps she needed to get to. If Bruno lost sight of her, he might end up turning back to the car—and Sam.
Somehow, she was going to have to keep him close enough for him not to lose sight of her. But as soon as she found a corridor between people to run through, the crowd swarmed in, closing the gap. Frustrated, Remi stopped at the railing of the fountain, leaning against it, pretending to be out of breath, waiting for him to catch up. The moment he saw her, she jumped back, trying to appear frightened, and darted into the piazza, running toward the Spanish Steps. The one hundred and thirty-five steep stairs, built in 1723, led up to the Trinità dei Monti Church, and the street that paralleled it, where she hoped Sam would be waiting with the car.
She burst out of the crowd and across the piazza, glancing back to make sure he’d seen her. This time there was no doubt. He followed, shouldering aside a camera-wielding woman who got in his way, ignoring her shouting as he raced past, trying to catch up to Remi, who’d already started up the right side of the stairs. About halfway up, she looked back and saw Bruno gaining on her. The purse, with the phones and her Sig Sauer, felt as heavy as a boat anchor. Hefting the bag onto her left shoulder to give the other shoulder a rest, she pushed on, feeling herself slowing from fatigue.
When she surveyed the stairs above, there was no one clear path up. The crowd shifted, people suddenly sitting in front of her, posing for photos, with the twin towers of the church at the top. They paid little attention to Remi as she tried to run past, suddenly having to change course because they changed positions for a better shot with their cell phones or cameras.
Her quads burned by the time she reached the top. A vendor selling cold water held a bottle dripping with condensation out toward her. Not even having enough breath to tell the man no, she looked back, saw Bruno about twenty steps below her, slowing down, but not nearly enough room for her comfort.
Traffic in front of the church was one-way, which meant Sam would have to come from her right on Via Sistina and either continue straight past the church and the Spanish Steps to the left or make a sharp hairpin turn onto Via Gregoriana, which would bring him back the way he came. Certain he’d stay on Sistina, she immediately headed that direction. But as she searched the street, not seeing him or their car, the flaw in her plan became very apparent. Getting through Rome by vehicle could be a nightmare, especially around the more famous tourist destinations. There was no telling how long she’d have to wait.
What she needed was a place to hide. Out of breath, and with no energy to run farther, she ducked into an alcove of one of the shops, hoping Bruno might pass her by. Planting her back to the wall, she leaned over, her handbag slipping from her shoulder. Too tired to do much more than catch the straps, she let the weight of the purse rest on the ground, trying to fill her lungs with air, while she waited. It seemed forever before she noticed a shadow on the ground in front of her, then the sound of heavy breathing, which was almost lost in the heart-pounding pulse in her ears. Without moving, she looked up, saw Bruno blocking her way.
They stood there in a stalemate, Remi hoping Sam would pull up at any moment. But after what seemed an eternity, she realized she was on her own.
“Got you,” Bruno managed as he sucked in air, his sweat-drenched expression one of triumph. He took a step toward her.
Remi swung her purse upward. The bag struck his jaw, the phones and gun making a solid thwack. He staggered back, staring at her for one shock-filled second, when she brought her foot up into his groin. As he crumpled to the ground, crying out in pain, she stepped over him, saying, “But I got you better.”
47
Sam pulled up as Remi stepped out from between two buildings. He gave a tap of the horn, leaned over and opened the passenge
She tossed her purse onto the floorboards as she slid in, wiping the perspiration from her brow. “There were a lot more steps going up than I remembered.” She took a deep breath, then looked over at him. “Did you find it?”
He tapped the center console, where the small magnetic tracking device and its now-removed battery sat in the drink holder. “Tucked inside the bumper.”
“I would’ve tossed it onto the back of a police car.”
“Thought about it,” he said, as Remi closed her eyes, her breathing fast and shallow. “But it might come in handy. If we need them to track us, we can always put the battery back in.”
Sam saw the man at the top of the steps, selling water. Foot on the brake, he idled toward him, rolling down the window. “I’ll take a bottle.”
“One euro,” the man said, holding up the dripping bottle.
“One euro!” Remi said. “I can wait.”
Sam ignored her, digging the coin from his pocket. “Grazie,” Sam said, taking the ice-cold bottle and giving it to his wife. “I’m not the one who just did the three-hundred-step dash.”
“Half that number—and we’re broke, in case you forgot.” She held the bottle up to her neck. “Even so, I love you for this.”
He checked the mirrors, saw Bruno struggling to his feet. “Time to get out of here. Our friend’s stirring,” he said, watching the man lean over, hands on his knees, looking as though he might be sick.
Remi glanced back again. “Hmm. Guess I didn’t hit him hard enough.” She twisted off the bottle top, taking a long drink. “Any thoughts on how we’re going to swing this auction without the buy-in fee?”
“I figured we’d just show up.”
“And what good is that going to do? Even if we could convince Luca to let us in without the money, it’s black-tie. Or need I remind you that your dress clothes are being held for ransom with our jet?”