Harry watched her from the chair by the window, wondering how long he should let her sleep. Lucia lay curled up on the bed, covered by the blanket he’d laid over her. The last few hours had been traumatic and he guessed her fatigue was as much a reaction to the day’s events as a genuine desire for sleep. But they’d had nothing to eat and it was now six thirty. He was hungry and even if she wasn’t, he couldn’t just go off and leave her alone, so he’d have to wake her at some point.
They’d arrived at the Hotel Abruzzi just before five and been warmly welcomed by Fabrizio and Carla, who were effusive in their greetings towards their repeat guest and his delightful young companion.
“You come back to visit the abbey, sì?” he’d said.
“Something like that.”
Lucia hadn’t protested when he’d asked for a double room and, in contrast to the reaction he might have expected in a provincial hotel in England, no eyebrows had been raised either. Carla had put an arm around Lucia and kissed her when she saw how drained she was.
“Ah, ha un aspetto stanco. Prego.” She’d insisted Fabrizio give them the best room and, of course, he’d obeyed without question. They both looked dishevelled with dried mud and mulch stains on shoes and trousers; they needed to shower and change. Harry had clean clothes in his suitcase, but not so Lucia, who had nothing but the clothes she was wearing.
“Signora Carla, are any stores still open?” he’d asked her. No, they would be closed now, she’d said but she knew the signora who owned and lived above a ladies’ clothes shop and because it was an emergencia she’d go and get her to open up and bring back a selection of garments. But as soon as they got into the room, Lucia had crashed out, shutting out the world and, presumably, any residual thoughts she’d had about the day’s events.
Harry had contemplated their situation on the journey to Montellano. He expected Luigi and his goons to come after them but hoped they’d head to Rome and waste time looking there. Perhaps he would send his people to search both simultaneously; the inglese had confessed to visiting Montellano and his wife might still have connections there. He cursed himself for hiring such a distinctive car, but then he’d never imagined his self-indulgent adventure, his harmless trip down memory lane, would turn into such a nightmare. While Lucia was sleeping, he’d had a word with Fabrizio.
“I wonder if your cousin Silvio can look after my car for me?” He’d dangled the keys. “Maybe swap it for the little Cinquecento? Just for a day or two.”
Fabrizio had looked perplexed. “Signore… you have not… stolen this car?”
“No, no, of course not. The hire papers are in the glovebox. I just want him to keep it safe in a garage.”
“Ah, I understand.”
“There’s one other thing, Fabrizio.”
“Sì, signore.”
“It would be better if you and Carla call me Signore Harper.” He’d slid a green, Republic of Ireland passport across the desk and Fabrizio had examined it briefly, preparing to ask a question before grinning with intrigue. “Sì, Signore Harper! I change the register.”
Lucia snuffled and he turned to look at her. She was beautiful, even in her bedraggled and unkempt state. He remembered how struck he was with her sister Isabella, whose classic Italian beauty had shone through even in her own pitiful condition. Mr and Mrs Girardi had done well and would have been very proud.
He was responsible for Lucia now, just as he had taken responsibility for Isabella and her baby; yeah, and look how that turned out, Harry. He saw no way he could reason with Barone nor any way he could let her return to him, now he knew his true character. Ultimately though, it would be her own decision; he hoped she’d be able to make the right one. He looked at his watch: almost seven. He got up and walked over to the bed.
He knelt down, reminded of the moment he’d knelt down in front of Isabella, and hesitantly touched her arm. She was sleeping, breathing steadily, and half of him wanted to leave her alone, but the other half made him squeeze her arm and she awoke suddenly and let out a gasp, eyes wide and anxious. To his surprise, she threw both arms around his neck, gripping him fiercely and he felt the warmth of her body and the beating of her heart against his chest.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he said, gently touching her back and shoulders with fingertips as if she were made of glass. “I’m sorry.” Her breathing steadied but she maintained her grip for a few seconds, then released him and rubbed her eyes with one hand.
“I was dreaming.”
He had an idea what she might have been dreaming about, but thought twice about asking. “You can tell me about it later. Carla brought you some clean clothes. Maybe we should get cleaned up and then I’ll take you out to dinner?”
She looked up at him, embarrassed, but smiling. “I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”
“Not at all. I’m a mess.” If only she knew. “Take a shower, the stuff’s over there on the sofa. I’ll be outside.”
“No!” she said, instantly alarmed. “You can stay here.”
He helped her up and she went into the bathroom, locking the door. Within seconds he heard the sound of the shower and he felt a rare comfort.
***
Angelo greeted him fondly with a crunching handshake, a slap on the back and a bear hug that so surprised and bemused him, he was unsure how to respond. The Italian bowed solemnly when introduced to the bellissima signorina and kissed her hand.
“Lucia Girardi? Ah, this is the young lady you were seeking? Please, I have a lovely romantic table for you. Prego!” Harry and Lucia studiously avoided each other’s eyes and followed him to the back of the restaurant, where he seated them at a table for two in a corner alcove.
She’d chosen a white long-sleeved blouse with patches of lace on the front and close-fitting black trousers. Carla had even got her some new shoes. Her short auburn hair shone in the candlelight and although her face was free of make-up, she didn’t need it. He kept stealing a look whenever he could.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as they examined the menus. “I’m starving.”
“Yes, I can eat something,” she said, sitting on her hands, understandably still nervous and unsettled. The wine helped. She was halfway down the first glass when she began to mellow.
“I’m sorry I got you into this,” he said, picking his moment. “I didn’t appreciate how serious you were when you warned me about Luigi.”
“You made me realise how much I am a prisoner. I have been a prisoner for many years and I did not have the courage to break free.”
“Do you have the courage now?”
Her eyes went glassy and he wanted to hold her again.
“I am not sure. I don’t have anyone else. I have no family or friends, not even here in Montellano. I am not sure what I am going to do now.”
“You won’t consider going back?” It was half question, half statement.
“To Casavento? No. Never. I have to go far away, where he will never find me.”
Harry was relieved. He’d feared she might have second thoughts and that he’d be forced to talk her out of it. It was inconceivable to him that she’d ever contemplate going back, but at the same time, he was concerned she had no natural place of refuge. He was also relieved because he wanted to stay close to her and it wasn’t just out of some sense of duty or responsibility. She was an intrinsic part of his past and he wanted her to be part of his future. She’d been there with him in his darkest hour, seen the things he’d seen and suffered just the same if not more. They had both suffered again in the aftermath, directly or indirectly – she by falling in with a villain like Barone and he because his fractured, uncontrollable mind would not leave him in peace.
He would happily whisk her away to England or Berlin, but he had to rein in his desires. The angel of Solano had been in his mind for as long as he could remember, but he had only known Lucia Girardi for two days. It was too soon to be formulating life-changing plans for either of them, despite the drama of their situation and while she’d been sleeping, he’d had time to analyse their predicament and it wasn’t good.
But he also had unfinished business and he wanted to try to conclude it before they made their next move. He wanted to know what happened to her and the baby after he’d passed out, and was about to ask when she got in first.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said, taking another sip of her wine. The bottle would not last the evening. “Where did you go, afterwards? You said you were in Berlin. What do you do there?”
“Nothing now. I left my job and my apartment.”
“You are homeless too, then?”
“Yes, something like that.” He laughed. He didn’t feel homeless but then there was nowhere to go back to. Home could be wherever he wanted it to be. At this precise moment, right here and now, being with her, felt like home.
“I woke up in a military hospital. They said I’d been there for a few days. Then once they’d fixed me up, I was sent home to a desk job. Not fit for active service, they said. That was the summer of forty-four.”
“You were bleeding a lot. I thought you would die.”
“Yes, well, one leg got a bit mangled and I suffered a blow to the head, but I was also shot by a crazy German – up here.” He indicated his right shoulder and he felt it twinge in agreement. “Lost a lot of blood.”
“A German?”
“Just before the place got bombed, this SS guy kicked the door down. He was badly injured himself and delirious, waving a gun around, screaming and shouting. He shot me but then the chimney fell in and buried him under the rubble. You probably didn’t see him.”
“No, I didn’t see anyone but you and…” She tailed off and looked down at her hands. She looked lost and he felt desperately sorry for her. Talking about it was helping him but he wasn’t sure it was helping her and whatever level of trauma he had suffered, hers had to be greater.
“When the war ended, I left the army but I couldn’t settle. After a few years I got a job at the Ministry of Defence and ended up in the Secret Intelligence Service in Berlin. MI6.”
She took a sharp intake of breath. “You are a spy?”
“No, not really.” He laughed, but he was pleased to see her perk up and her sudden fascination in him made him tingle with pride. Or is it something else? “No, I analysed coded messages and also debriefed people who escaped over the Berlin Wall. To check they weren’t spies.”
“But you don’t do that now?”
“No. The last guy to escape got killed. They sent an assassin and he almost got me too.”
“Oh my God, Harrimale, does bad luck follow you everywhere you go?” She said it with a smile but there was a serious point. Either bad luck followed him around or he brought it with him. He wasn’t sure which. It made him think again about Kessler. He couldn’t begin to explain to her how the “crazy German” and Bergmann’s assassin were one and the same; he couldn’t even explain it to himself so it would be far too much for her to take in. The fact he’d had the misfortune twice to cross paths with a pyscho like Kessler was either supremely bad luck or some form of punishment meted out by a holy or unholy spirit.
“I’m not religious, but I did think someone was sending me a message and it made me to think of your family in a new way. It all seemed connected somehow, all part of my problem. I had to come back and see for myself. See what was real and what was imaginary.”
“And do you now know?”
Angelo brought some bruschetta and she tucked in immediately, wiping her lips with a napkin. After the traumatic events of the day, Lucia now seemed more relaxed and he didn’t want to upset her. The urge to understand Catalina’s demise and see her final resting place still burned inside him, but he decided to leave any further questioning until tomorrow.
“I know a lot more now about myself.”
“Do you have a wife and a family?” She sounded casual, but it caught him off guard. He would normally sidestep personal questions but somehow, in the presence of an angel, it seemed natural.
“No. My parents are both dead and… I had a girlfriend in Berlin, but she decided she didn’t like my job or who I had become, so she left.”
“I’m sorry, Harrimale,” she said between swallows.
“You can call me Harry, you know?”
“This is the short name?”
“No. My first name is Harry and my family name is Male.”
She stopped chewing and clasped a hand over her mouth in shock.
“Oh no! I thought…” And then she burst out laughing and he laughed with her.
***
One bottle of wine had been enough after all, the meal rounded off by the mandatory shot of complimentary grappa. They strolled back to the hotel in the cool of the evening and he put his jacket around her shoulders.
“Where is your car?” she asked with sudden concern when they arrived outside the Abruzzi. The red sports car was gone and in its place sat a white Cinquecento.
“It’s somewhere safe and out of sight.” He saw her shoulders sag. They’d enjoyed a wonderful evening together but now, reality hit home again. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. It seemed like the natural thing to do.
“I’m going to take you for a short ride tomorrow and then we’ll decide where we go next. Okay?”
“Okay.”
It was after ten and he was surprised to see Fabrizio still behind the desk.
“Ah, signore. Here is the key to your car. Silvio has taken care of the Spyder and no one will see it.” He winked, then seeing Lucia looking at a rack of leaflets by the front door, dropped his voice. “Signore, the polizia have been here. They are looking for a young woman. Signora Barone. And a man with your name. Your other name. They are asking all the hotels. I say there is no one here with those names.”
“Did they have a photograph?”
“No. Just a description.” He glanced at Lucia and then back at Harry.
“I’m very grateful.”
“Signore. They say the lady is in great danger.”
“She was, Fabrizio, but not now. Not with me.”
The Italian looked relieved and then smiled at Lucia when she came up alongside Harry and slid an arm through his.
“We’ll stay another night and leave the day after. Good night.”
“Prego, signore, signora. Buonanotte.”
They climbed the stairs and he opened the door for her. They stood for a moment, quiet and awkward.
“The lady has the bed, the gentleman is on the sofa,” he said. “Are you tired?”
“I am tired, yes. Are you sure you will be comfortable?”
“Yes, I’ll be comfortable.”
***
He lay on his back on the sofa, covered by a single sheet, staring at the ceiling, examining the intricate cornicing. He’d been right to use the other passport. Whatever resources Barone had at his disposal, it was far easier for him to get the police involved than try to track them down himself.
His wife had been kidnapped by an inglese and when her protectors, including his brother, had tried to intervene the kidnapper had killed them and sped off with her in a red sports car. The Casavento police chief was a crony so all it would take was a call from him to his colleagues in Rome, Montellano or elsewhere asking them to make enquiries. It was possible the local polizia were in the pocket of the other villain who’d chased Barone out of Montellano in the first place and if they made any connection, would be disinclined to help. But it was a case of murder and the fugitive was at large, so they couldn’t realistically refuse. And when the suspect was caught they’d ship him back to Casavento where he’d face justice in some form or other.
Forensic checks would prove Lucia’s gun was not the murder weapon, but that was a minor and inconvenient detail. He’d insulted Luigi Barone’s honour and there was no greater crime, not even killing his brother. Barone would have satisfaction and it would be in the interests of his police cronies to assist in every way they could. Harry considered whether to turn himself in or even try to enlist the help of Barone’s rival, but quickly dismissed both ideas. He could not rely on the impartiality of the local police and he had no idea of the relationship between Barone and Coppola; they could even be allies for all he knew and even if they weren’t, these guys didn’t do anything for nothing and he had nothing to offer.
He’d checked the Beretta. It was a compact Model 70 with an eight-round cartridge. Lucia had fired twice and he three times so he only had three rounds left. There was no way he could risk procuring more but he had no illusions about getting into a shoot-out with the police or anyone else. Despite that, it offered a modicum of comfort and protection, if only psychological, and he was not inclined to dispose of it until he’d worked out where they were going.
It they could stay out of sight for a few days then it was even possible it might all die down. Barone wouldn’t relish the publicity of a nationwide manhunt just for the murder of two of his goons. It would put him in the public eye and all sorts of questions would be asked about him and his interests. He might just decide that the loss of his wife was not worth the effort. By all accounts, she’d been nothing more than a slave to him and there’d be plenty of others to choose from.
He swung his legs off the sofa and sat up. He couldn’t sleep, but it wasn’t because he was still tormented by the dark memories of the past; they’d been superseded by the sinister thoughts of the present. He glanced over at the shape curled up in the bed and saw the rise and fall of her breathing. He padded over to the door in his boxer shorts and placed a chair under the handle, cursing himself for his own carelessness. Should have done that sooner, Harry. Sharpen up!