dug the bloody capsule out of his pocket, tossed it into the back of the rickety contraption, and began to walk faster and faster.
Soon he was heading up the steep hill, taking every short cut through the meandering cobblestoned switchbacks. If he could get down to the car without being seen, he had half a chance.
He finally gave in to the nervous urge to lope, despite jolting agony in his shoulder at every step. Everyone was staring at him anyway.
Chapter
24
András was murderously angry, and the long, hard, breathless climb up to the top of La Roccia did not help his temper. That sneaky bastard had disappeared into the sea, and now he was holed up and out of range in the caves. Janos couldn’t stay inside for long, of course. He was soaking wet. He had to come out before he died of cold. But he was a tough son of a bitch and that process could be a slow one.
Meanwhile, András’s reputation for speed had just been put at risk. And old man Novak waited, chewing his yellowed nails.
None of his worthless local team had been willing to follow Janos into the smugglers’ caves, though most of them had been inside them at one time or another. Two had been dispatched to watch other exits from the caves on the north side of La Roccia, one was a lump of gut-shot meat on the beach, and the other was not far behind, bleeding onto the rocks from a thigh wound and attracting unwelcome attention. With luck, he was comatose or at least unconscious.
András had described exactly what would happen to anyone who had the misfortune to be wounded and then talked to the police. He hoped those cretins knew just how sincere he had been.
Which left only himself and that brain-dead ape Angelo to slog their way up and over La Roccia to monitor the other Grotta exit, the tourist one. If he hadn’t been down by two men, he would have killed the fuckhead himself, for shooting at Janos after he had been briefed on the necessity of keeping the man alive. Of course, the idiot was the brother of Massimo, the gut-shot man, but even so. That was no fucking excuse for unprofessional behavior. Orders were orders.
Angelo huffed and puffed over the crest of La Roccia, and flung himself down onto a flat rock to wheeze and gasp, silently protesting the pace that András had set. He clutched the handheld monitor that András had gleaned from Hegel’s room.
“On your feet,” András growled. “He could already be outside the cave. Let’s go.”
Angelo heaved his muscle-bound bulk up and followed him down the stonework switchback path at a heavy, shambling run. András stopped at a scenic overlook with benches not far from the bottom, and booted up the laptop to scan for the signal. His heart thumped when he saw the icon finally appear, blinking. He clicked, enlarging the map until it was a detailed street map of the San Vito port area.
And there he was, the crafty son of a bitch. Lurking down on the edge of the water, no more than three hundred yards from András’s own current position. He should be visible. Saliva rushed into his mouth as he peered down at the busy port swarming with tourists. Then another slight movement on the screen caught his eye.
He glanced down, alarmed, and watched the icon detach itself from the shore, move out over the water. What the fuck…?
András shielded his eyes from the sun and squinted. The ferry whistle shrilled. Oh, shit. No. The prick had climbed onto a boat and was sailing away to some godforsaken rock in the Mediterranean.
“On your feet,” he snarled at the ape, who had once again dropped down onto his lazy ass, wheezing. “We need to find someone with a boat immediately to get us to wherever that ferry is going.”
To András’s surprise, Angelo made himself useful by promptly locating a man with a powerful motorboat, fast enough to get to the island before the ferry did. A smuggler, no doubt. Negotiations were swiftly concluded. András peeled several hundred-euro notes off his money roll, put them onto the man’s grimy palm and was climbing on board, one leg on the side of the boat, when suddenly he stopped.
Motionless, he sniffed the air as a shiver ran down his back, half in and half out of the boat. Angelo and his avaricious smuggler friend waited, their peasant faces blank and stupid.
He, after all, had been the one in the goddamn hurry. But the ferry retreating before him did not make saliva pump into his mouth. He was beset with doubts.
A trick?
But the tracer was inside the man’s body. How was it possible?
He stepped back onto the dock. “You go on,” he said. “Get to the island before that ferry does and watch for him. Follow him with the handheld. Call me immediately if you locate him.”
“Sì, sì, certo,” Angelo muttered sullenly.
“And if you kill him, I will rip out your liver with my hands and feed it to a stray dog while you watch. Is that clear?”
The smuggler blinked. His eyes darted between András and Angelo. Angelo nodded. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“To make sure he hasn’t fucked me by going in the opposite direction,” András snapped. “Now go.”
A taxi was just letting out a clump of Dutch tourists in front of the nearest beachside hotel. András slid inside it gratefully. “Take me to the beach on the north side of La Roccia,” he said. “One hundred more euro if you get there in less than ten minutes.”
The man’s eyes lit up. The taxi dashed out onto the road and jounced up the cobblestoned streets.
It took the man eleven minutes to get to the other side, but András was not inclined to quibble. They jerked to a stop right next to the ice-cream stand near where Janos’s rented Opel Tigra had been parked. The car was gone. So his instinct had been correct—unless, of course, someone had stolen the car, always a possibility in southern Italy. He shoved the hundred euros into the hand of the taxista, and got out.
A slim, dark-eyed girl no more than seventeen presided behind the counter of the ice-cream stand. Pretty breasts, shown off by a low-cut pink leotard under her artfully opened sweater. Taut dark nipples shadowed the pale fabric. She would have seen who took the car. He gave her his nicest smile, but she shrank back.
“Did you see someone get into that Opel that was parked over there a little while ago?” he asked.
She opened and closed her rosy mouth. “Sì. A man.”
“And what did he look like?” he asked.
Her big, limpid eyes went blink, blink. “I don’t remember, really.”
“Ah.” András reached into his pocket, and pulled out a twenty-euro note. He slid it across the counter.
“Tall,” she said helpfully. “Dark.”
He waited for more. She shrugged. He pulled out another twenty.
She fluttered her lashes, made it disappear. “Wet,” she said. “He looked wet and cold. Like he was bleeding, too. His shoulder. And arm.”
So. Confirmed. Janos had gouged out the RF trace and gotten the better of him. But not for long. He had a fix on their nighttime position. Where
