Peter Leonard - All He Saw Was the Girl

Angela had obviously seen what was happening from the window of Palazzo dei Priori, and had taken off. If something went wrong, they had agreed to meet back at the villa. He turned and looked off across the hills, saw Lago di Vico to the south and the Marta and Leia, tributaries of the Tiber, winding through the landscape east of the lake. La Quercia was due west, and beyond it, Viterbo. He knew where he was, and where he had to go. He scanned the terrain and thought he saw Pietro's villa on a hilltop to the east.

Psuz moved through the trees: cork wood, white oak, sycamore and holly oak. He had grown up in Lazio, the village of Gallese on the other side of the Cimini Mountains. His father had taught him how to hunt, and how to track game. He knew the trees and the vegetation and the rocky terrain. He had moved up the hill at least one hundred meters when he heard the sirens. He glanced back through the trees and saw Joey, Mazara and Sisto running to the car, getting in and driving away, leaving him. But now the American would also see them and not be expecting him.

Psuz saw McCabe come out of the trees and walk to the top of the hill and stand there looking down at the police, wondering what he would do, and then he disappeared, went over the hill and was gone. Psuz ran up and looked and saw the American moving down the slope and went after him, thinking if he could move fast enough he could circle around and get ahead of him, be waiting for McCabe at the bottom. Surprise.

Pietro's villa didn't look far, a few miles, but it took McCabe over an hour to get there, late October sun beating down on him. He hiked through the hills and crossed the main road, Viale Fiume, and walked through the trees along Strada Pian di Nero. When he got to the base of the hill, looking up at the villa, he decided to circle around and come up behind it.

There was a stone outbuilding that was built about fifty yards from the main house. It was the size of a three-car garage and had a couple bedrooms, a bathroom and kitchen for Pietro's cook and housekeeper. The villa was on the other side of the gravel apron where Pietro parked his cars, but there were no cars there now. McCabe scanned the windows across the backside of the villa, didn't see anything suspicious, didn't see anything at all. He moved to the door, opened it and went in the kitchen. Stood and listened but didn't hear anything. He put the soccer bag on the table. Went in the main room, opened the gun case and grabbed the barrel of a Perazzi twelve-gauge. He loaded it and took it into the kitchen and laid it on the table next to the bag.

He opened the refrigerator, took out a cold bottle of Pellegrino water and poured a glass. Drank it leaning against the counter, thinking about Angela again, wondering what happened to her. Picturing her face the last time they were together, seductive brown eyes looking up at him.

"I saw your car."

It was her voice. At first he thought he'd imagined it, but there she was, standing in the doorway that led to the main room.

She came toward him, tears in her eyes. "I thought you were dead."

McCabe said. "It takes more than getting shot at and rolled in a car to stop me."

"Always the tough guy, uh?"

"I'm kidding."

She gave him a dirty look and opened a drawer and took out a towel and went to the sink and wet it and dabbed his face and it stung. "Easy," McCabe said, pulling away from her.

"Oh, you do feel pain, uh?" She showed him the towel that was stained with blood.

"I'm okay," McCabe said.

She touched his cheek again with the cool cloth. "I was worried about you. Do you understand?"

He gave her a slight nod.

"That's the best you can do?"

He brought her to him and put his arms around her and held her close.

"That's better," she said. "I knew Joey was not going to give you the money."

"You called it," McCabe said.

"No, I saw it all happening from the window of the Palazzo, four of them surrounding you. " She looked up at him. "But you still have me. I'm your bargaining chip. You remember saying that?" She paused. "Listen, we can try again."

"We don't have to," McCabe said. He glanced at the soccer bag on the table. She went over and unzipped it, looked inside, turned to him and smiled.

"Were you going to tell me?"

Ray got up and took a shower and went down and had cappuccino and biscotti, sitting outside at the hotel cafe, the Pantheon looking somehow different in the morning light, tourists already gathering in front of it, taking pictures at 8:30 in the morning.

He sipped the coffee and studied a map of Rome and Lazio. He found Mentana and circled it with a yellow marker. When he was finished with breakfast he asked for the check and left a five-euro note on the table. He walked into the square and took the first right, a narrow street that wound around to Via del Corso. He was carrying a black computer bag with a strap over his shoulder. It held binoculars, a flashlight, the SIG Sauer and the two twelve-shot magazines.

He stopped at a tavola calda and bought two ham sandwiches, a liter bottle of carbonated Panna water and a Coke, and put all that in the bag too.

He took a cab to Auto Europa at 38 Via Sardegna. He had reserved a Fiat Croma, a four-door sedan with a stick shift and air-conditioning. The rental agent, a short, balding man about Ray's age, gave him a city map and highlighted the route to Mentana. It was twelve kilometers, about seven and a half miles. It looked easy, just take the GRA that looped around the city, and look for exit A12.

But it wasn't easy. He got lost three times and finally pulled into a BP gas station. An attendant came out of the booth, walked up to the Fiat. Ray said, " Dove e Mentana?" Giving it his best pronunciation.

The attendant pointed to the highway and said, " Dritto, a destra, dritto."

Ray took out his dictionary and looked up the words. Dritto meant straight and a destra meant to the right. So to get to Mentana he had to go straight, take a right and continue straight.

It was a scenic drive into the green rolling hills, vineyards on both sides of the highway, stretching to the dark heights of the Apennine Mountains, clouds hanging on their peaks. Fifteen minutes later he was driving up a steep hill into the walled village of Mentana. He parked in a municipal lot next to the castle and walked into town up Via Monte San Salvatore. There was no one on the street. It was deserted except for a couple of cats that disappeared down a dark alley. He saw laundry hanging from rope strung between buildings. He wondered where all the people were, and then realized it was siesta; they were having their main meal of the day and then taking a nap. No worries. No stress. This was how the Italians had been doing it for thousands of years.

He passed a bakery and a meat market and a cheese shop and three enotecas — all closed — and the Hotel Belvedere that was open. He walked uphill to the end of the street, looked at the Garibaldi Monument commemorating the Battle of Mentana in 1867, a piece of Italian history Ray was not familiar with. He walked around the monument and sat on a brick wall, looking down at the valley that extended below him east and west. To the north he could see the peak of Mount San Lorenzo. He slipped off the backpack and took out the binoculars and scanned the countryside. Don Gennaro's villa was in the hills south of the mountain. Ray didn't have an address but he had directions Teegarden had gotten from his contact at carabinieri headquarters.

Head north out of Mentana. When the road forks follow it left toward Monterotondo, another town a few kilometers away. The don's villa is about 500 meters northwest of the fork on the right side of the road. Look for a driveway flanked by stone pillars and a steel gate. There was a map that showed Mentana and the main highway that went north. He saw the fork in the road, and an arrow indicating the location of the don's villa.