Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

He patted the money belt, fattened this afternoon by the arrival by diplomatic courier of three passports, each with supporting driver's permits, credit cards, club memberships, and the like. One even had a Dominican Republic entry visa already stamped in it. Mama thought of everything.

Tomorrow he would take a number of flights that would eventually end on the other side of the Atlantic.

Rome, then to Sicily, where Dr. Bergenghetti was currently doing some sort of research, according to Mama. He frowned.

Rome.

It was a city he and Laurin had planned to visit in the spring of '02. She had already begun the planning, looking at hotel brochures, reading guidebooks.

The glass in Jason's hand shattered before he realized how hard he had been squeezing it. He went inside arid wrapped a towel around his bleeding palm, so absorbed in his mental anguish he did not feel the throbbing of sliced flesh.

Taormina, Sicily

Villa Ducale

Two days later

Taormina spilled down the side of a mountain, ending at the Strait of Messina. The slope upon which the town had its tenuous grasp was not what snagged the visitor's eye, however. The center of visual attention was Mount Aetna, a dark mass in the haze to the northeast. At eight in the morning, its white beard of heat-generated clouds was the only blemish in an otherwise blue sky.

Jason sat at one of only four tables on the hotel's piazza, sipping coffee with the consistency of molasses. He would not have been surprised had it sucked the spoon out of his hand. Probably enough caffeine to make Sleepy, one of Snow White's dwarves, into an insomniac.

He was just about to help himself to the breakfast buffet of fruit, cereal, cheese, and meats when the hotel's manager stepped outside. "Mr. Young?"

Jason's passport, the one with the Dominican entry and exit visas, proclaimed him to be Harold Young of Baltimore.

"Mr. Young, the package you asked about has arrived."

The parcel was heavy for its size. Besides his name, it had no other markings. If the manager found the private delivery of a package to a foreign guest unusual, he didn't show it.

Giving the man a few euros as a tip, Jason abandoned breakfast for the moment to return to his room, a white plaster-walled backdrop for paintings of the flowering cacti that covered Sicily. Once alone, he tore the brown paper from a box made of heavy cardboard. Inside was a holster with a belt clip, a SIG Sauer P228, the same type of weapon he had carried on St. Bart's, and two clips loaded with thirteen rounds each. A quick inspection revealed a third clip, also loaded, already in the weapon.

Jason slid the extra magazines into his pocket and fastened the gun onto his belt at the small of his back, where it would be concealed under the loose-fitting guayabera he had purchased for that purpose. For the first time since arriving, he felt completely dressed.

Maria Bergenghetti was waiting for him when he returned to the lobby.

He had anticipated a middle-aged academic, perhaps with the dark skin and short stature of most Sicilians. Instead, he was looking at a young woman of five-nine or -ten whose sun-streaked hair was tucked into a bun under a pith helmet, the sort of headgear one would expect to see on a British archeologist of the last century. She wore khaki shirt and shorts, loose fitting but not enough to conceal a figure that would be perfectly at home on a beach on St. Bart's.

Blue eyes peered at him quizzically. "Mr. Young?"

Jason managed to shake off his surprise. "Er, yes, you must be Dr. Bergenghetti."

"Well, I am hardly Dr. Livingstone. Do you stare like that at everyone you meet?"

He felt himself flush as he extended a hand. "Only the ones who look more like a swimsuit model than a volcanologist."

She shook. Her hand was cool, as though it had somehow managed to evade the growing Sicilian heat. "I am not sure what a volcanologist looks like." There was a sparkle in her eyes. She was obviously enjoying the repartee. "And that remark borders on sexism, something I understood you Americans abhorred."

He couldn't place her accent, if indeed she had one. "Only unattractive women, Doctor. The pretty ones enjoy being admired, as they do in any country. Join me for breakfast?"

He led her out onto the piazza, gratified to see his table was still vacant. They sat, and Jason filled her coffee cup. "You speak excellent English."

She smiled, showing a gap between her front teeth that was somehow rather sexy. "I should. My father was with the Italian diplomatic corps in Washington. I spoke English before I could even pronounce Italian." She took a sip of the coffee, wincing from the bitterness. "In fact, I did my undergrad work in the States."

"In volcanology? Seems an dangerous field, climbing up mountains, dodging hot lava, never knowing when things are going to blow up."

She treated him to another glimpse of gapped teeth. "Dangerous for a woman, you mean. Your sexism is showing again."

Jason held up his hands, palms outward. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean

…"

"Of course you did," she said pleasantly. "And it is refreshing. Did it ever occur to you that women get just as tired of political correctness as men? Anyway, I got interested in geology, went to the Colorado School of Mines, came back to Italy with my parents, got bored, got married, got even more bored, and got divorced. I was looking around for something to do, something that would sufficiently shock my ex into finally accepting the fact that I was no longer his playmate. Studying volcanoes seemed perfect for all the reasons you mentioned, plus the fact that you get really grimy." She reached into her purse, producing a pack of Marlboros. "Don't suppose you speak any Italian?"

"Not much. Just a few situational phrases picked up in bad company."

"Such as?"

Jason watched her light her cigarette. " Muova quel rottame, cretino!"

She laughed, an almost musical sound. "You must have been driving in Rome. 'Move that junk pile, you cretin!"'

Jason grinned. "Then I learned, 'Ma perche e chiuso il museo oggi?'"

"Why is the museum closed today?"

" Ma perche il museo e chiuso domani?"

"Why is the museum closed tomorrow?"

"And 'Quanto tempo starano in sciopero? "

She laughed again. " 'How long will they be on strike?' What do you do for a living, other than Italian phrases?"

Jason was unprepared for the question. "Well, I have a business back in Baltimore…"

"One that involves the geographies of volcanic material?" She arched a skeptical eyebrow. "That is pretty lame, Mr. Young. Or whoever you really are."

He grinned. "Dr. Kamito said you were the best. He didn't say you were perceptive, too."

"Being married to an Italian man makes you perceptive. Suspicious and skeptical as well. Remember Casanova?"

"The greatest of lovers, at least according to him."

"Perfect description of my ex. But so much for my life and hard times. Exactly what is it you want me to do?"

Jason produced the vial of material Kamito had given him. "Tell me where this came from."

She accepted the glass tube, holding it up to the light. "Where did you get it?"

"From Kamito."

She sighed loudly. "I mean, what is its origin?"

"Apparently somewhere around the Mediterranean. Exactly where is what we want to know."

She took the sample and stood, her coffee cup still full. "I hope you are more generous in paying for my time than you are with information. I have a crew checking monitors up on the hill"-she nodded toward Aetna-"and I need to make sure they do it right. One mistake and a lot of people around here would be unhappy."

"Both, most likely." She turned for the door. "But I should have whatever answer there is by the end of the day."