with each other. We bombed the hell out of it in World War Two. A nice place, not too many tourists.”
A good place to hide, Joel thought. “Is this my stop?”
“Could be.”
A tall clock tower beckoned all the traffic into the center of the city where it inched along around the Piazza dei Signori. Scooters and mopeds zipped between cars, their drivers seemingly fearless. Joel soaked in the quaint little shops—the tabaccheria with racks of newspapers blocking the door, the farmacia with its neon green cross, the butcher with all manner of hams hanging in the window, and of course the tiny sidewalk cafés where all tables were taken with people who appeared content to sit and read and gossip and sip espresso for hours. It was almost 11:00 a.m. What could those people possibly do for a living if they broke for coffee an hour before lunch?
It would be his challenge to find out, he decided.
The nameless driver wheeled into a temporary parking place. Stennett pecked numbers on a cell phone, waited, then spoke quickly in Italian. When he was finished, he pointed through the windshield and said, “Yousee that café over there, under the red-and-white awning? Caffè Donati?”
Joel strained from the backseat and said, “Yeah, I got it.”
“Walk in the front door, past the bar on your right, on to the back where there are eight tables. Have a seat, order a coffee, and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A man will approach you after about ten minutes. You will do what he says.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t play games, Mr. Backman. We’ll be watching.”
“Who is this man?”
“Your new best friend. Follow him, and you’ll probably survive. Try something stupid, and you won’t last a month.” Stennett said this with a certain smugness, as if he might enjoy being the one who rubbed out poor Marco.
“So it’s adios for us, huh?” Joel said, gathering his bag.
“Arrivederci, Marco, not adios. You have your paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Then arrivederci.”
Joel slowly got out of the car and began walking away. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder to make sure Stennett, his protector, was paying attention and still back there, shielding him from the unknown. But he did not turn around. Instead, he tried to look as normal as possible as he strolled down the street carrying a canvasbag, the only canvas bag he saw at that moment in the center of Treviso.
Stennett was watching, of course. And who else? Certainly his new best friend was over there somewhere, partially hiding behind a newspaper, giving signals to Stennett and the rest of the static. Joel stopped for a second in front of the tabaccheria and scanned the headlines of the Italian newspapers, though he understood not a single word. He stopped because he could stop, because he was a free man with the power and the right to stop wherever he wanted, and to start moving whenever he chose to.
He entered Caffè Donati and was greeted with a soft “Buon giorno” from the young man wiping off the bar.
“Buon giorno,” Joel managed in reply, his first real words to a real Italian. To prevent further conversation, he kept walking, past the bar, past a circular stairway where a sign pointed to a café upstairs, past a large counter filled with beautiful pastries. The back room was dark and cramped and choking under a fog of cigarette smoke. He sat down at one of two empty tables and ignored the glances of the other patrons. He was terrified of the waiter, terrified of trying to order, terrified of being unmasked so early in his flight, and so he just sat with his head down and read his new identity papers.
“Buon giorno,” the young lady said at his left shoulder.
“Buon giorno,” Joel managed to reply. And before she could rattle off anything on the menu, he said, “Espresso.” She smiled, said something thoroughly incomprehensible, to which he replied, “No.”
It worked, she left, and for Joel it was a major victory. No one
A good place to hide, Joel thought. “Is this my stop?”
“Could be.”
A tall clock tower beckoned all the traffic into the center of the city where it inched along around the Piazza dei Signori. Scooters and mopeds zipped between cars, their drivers seemingly fearless. Joel soaked in the quaint little shops—the tabaccheria with racks of newspapers blocking the door, the farmacia with its neon green cross, the butcher with all manner of hams hanging in the window, and of course the tiny sidewalk cafés where all tables were taken with people who appeared content to sit and read and gossip and sip espresso for hours. It was almost 11:00 a.m. What could those people possibly do for a living if they broke for coffee an hour before lunch?
It would be his challenge to find out, he decided.
The nameless driver wheeled into a temporary parking place. Stennett pecked numbers on a cell phone, waited, then spoke quickly in Italian. When he was finished, he pointed through the windshield and said, “Yousee that café over there, under the red-and-white awning? Caffè Donati?”
Joel strained from the backseat and said, “Yeah, I got it.”
“Walk in the front door, past the bar on your right, on to the back where there are eight tables. Have a seat, order a coffee, and wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“A man will approach you after about ten minutes. You will do what he says.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Don’t play games, Mr. Backman. We’ll be watching.”
“Who is this man?”
“Your new best friend. Follow him, and you’ll probably survive. Try something stupid, and you won’t last a month.” Stennett said this with a certain smugness, as if he might enjoy being the one who rubbed out poor Marco.
“So it’s adios for us, huh?” Joel said, gathering his bag.
“Arrivederci, Marco, not adios. You have your paperwork?”
“Yes.”
“Then arrivederci.”
Joel slowly got out of the car and began walking away. He fought the urge to glance over his shoulder to make sure Stennett, his protector, was paying attention and still back there, shielding him from the unknown. But he did not turn around. Instead, he tried to look as normal as possible as he strolled down the street carrying a canvasbag, the only canvas bag he saw at that moment in the center of Treviso.
Stennett was watching, of course. And who else? Certainly his new best friend was over there somewhere, partially hiding behind a newspaper, giving signals to Stennett and the rest of the static. Joel stopped for a second in front of the tabaccheria and scanned the headlines of the Italian newspapers, though he understood not a single word. He stopped because he could stop, because he was a free man with the power and the right to stop wherever he wanted, and to start moving whenever he chose to.
He entered Caffè Donati and was greeted with a soft “Buon giorno” from the young man wiping off the bar.
“Buon giorno,” Joel managed in reply, his first real words to a real Italian. To prevent further conversation, he kept walking, past the bar, past a circular stairway where a sign pointed to a café upstairs, past a large counter filled with beautiful pastries. The back room was dark and cramped and choking under a fog of cigarette smoke. He sat down at one of two empty tables and ignored the glances of the other patrons. He was terrified of the waiter, terrified of trying to order, terrified of being unmasked so early in his flight, and so he just sat with his head down and read his new identity papers.
“Buon giorno,” the young lady said at his left shoulder.
“Buon giorno,” Joel managed to reply. And before she could rattle off anything on the menu, he said, “Espresso.” She smiled, said something thoroughly incomprehensible, to which he replied, “No.”
It worked, she left, and for Joel it was a major victory. No one
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