Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

"Fine for you, laddie," Adrian observed, fishing a plastic bag out of his back pocket. "But sooner or later the lass has to go back to her work, an' I'd like to go home m'self."

"Easy enough for me," Maria suggested. "I was duped by the handsome American spy who made me think he, too, was a volcanologist. By the time I found out otherwise, I was his captive."

Adrian had removed his pipe from the bag and blew through it with a wet whistling sound. "An' was madly in love, too blind to see the possible pitfalls."

Jason looked at him skeptically.

"I'm na' 'round th' bend, lad. 'Tis the stuff of Italian fiction. They love it."

"It might work at that," Maria agreed.

"So, you just go back to work like nothing happened?" Jason asked.

The question did not come from idle curiosity. He remembered her vow to return to her job as soon as any volcanic exploration was over. He had managed to avoid thinking about it. Since Laurin's death, women had entered his life for an evening, occasionally a weekend, and exited just as casually. In most cases he had watched their departure with a relief he suspected they shared. They had made his life less empty by supplying a diversion or even an imitation of love, a masquerade that shriveled and died in the morning's light

Not Maria.

He admitted he did not want her to leave. For the first time since his wife's death, he could actually imagine a more permanent relationship. There was something about that gap-toothed smile, the tenderness they shared after sex, even the ludicrously expensive Hermes scarfs. Mostly, there was that unexplainable something, that feeling that defining it would reduce it to the banal.

But had she changed her mind since that night on the Costa Smeralda?

" 'Twould be best if she put a day or so between here an' returnin' to her normal life," Adrian observed. "Wee bit too coincidental, she manages to escape at joos' the time her captor is buried under a hundred tons or so of rock. I propose we leave the Volvo here, go back to Silanus for a day or so. Nothing happens there without people knowing aboot it. I'll have m' neighbors sniff out what they can before you return to whatever volcano you're workin' on, lass. Give me time to see how much muck I've gotten m'self into, too."

Jason tried not to show his anxiety as Maria considered what Adrian had said.

He also tried not to show his relief when she replied, "You make sense. A few days, then. But how do we get back to Sardinia without being seen?"

Jason leaped in. "They won't be looking for us if they think we're under all that rock, particularly if we go separately."

"Separately?" She looked apprehensive. "But what if some of those

… people are still looking for us?"

"Eglov's people?" Jason asked. "I'd guess they're permanently entombed in Hades. Talk about just deserts! If not, another reason to lie low at Adrian's place for a few days. He can use his neighbors there to let us know if someone's looking for us." He reached into a pocket and produced the BlackBerry-like device. "Right now I gotta phone home."

Adrian put out a hand, tugging Jason's sleeve. "Not now, laddie. Give us long enough to get as far from here as possible before someone comes to check on the coppers we left in there."

Jason was staring at his communication. "Something must have hit it. It's not working."

"Anything that canna wait?"

Jason shook his head. "Can't think of anything."

I-95, between Richmond and Washington

At the same time

Rassavitch's eyes felt as though they were full of sand, and his back was telegraphing pain all the way down his leg, but he was thankful for the safe trip.

He forced his eyelids open a little wider to read the address the man had given him at the convenience store a few miles back, the last place on his primary instructions: I-95 to the Beltway, to Rock Creek Parkway to…

He rubbed the back of a hand across his face and bit his lip in hopes the pain would keep him awake.

He would complete this mission.

Naples, Cagliari Ferry

Later the same day

The ferry provided overnight accommodations, but, unlike a hotel, no passport was required; nor was there a metal detector to screech at the weapon Jason was carrying. Jason stood at the boxy stern, watching the sun sink into the Tyrrhenian Sea. Maria would be following tomorrow morning with Adrian on the afternoon ferry. After a day or so Jason would be leaving, even though he was unsure as to where. Washington, certainly, for a debriefing. He supposed he had rid the world of Eglov, entombing him with a number of his radical environmentalists.

But what else? He had discovered a very strange plant and a rock that gave off a nonlethal anesthetic, the hallucinogenic gas ethylene. Hardly a threat like a nuclear or biological weapon.

In fact, some might even enjoy the high.

More questions remained than were answered. Why would Eglov and his fellow eco-nuts commit the time and effort to exploit something of such limited use, Breath of the Earth notwithstanding? As a practical, rather than ideological matter, it made no sense.

He shrugged, a man with no explanation. His job was over. Time to find a place to get on with his life, as the talk-show shrinks said, as though living were some kind of task to be fulfilled.

Returning to the Turks and Caicos was out. Even if he were able to satisfy the colonial government as to his innocence in the house fire, that hiding place had been exposed. Pity. In the short time he had lived on North Caicos, he had grown to love the remoteness, the fact that the feel, the very essence of the island had not been sacrificed to the tourist dollar.

Yet.

He would probably choose another island, the smaller the better. A place with only occasional air service, or, better yet, none at all, small enough that the arrival of a stranger was noticed. One place he could not live was the United States, not with the sizable bank balances he had accumulated since going to work for Narcom, accounts in capital-friendly countries that saw the wisdom of holding foreigners' money, not confiscating it with punitive taxes. The very existence of the income produced by such accounts as could be found would attract the attention of the IRS, which would ask questions best left unanswered.

Besides, Jason had no desire to participate in the evergrowing and thinly disguised intent of American politicians to redistribute the wealth.

His wealth.

He turned and walked to the stairs leading up to the passenger lounge. Even though the sea breeze was blowing its salty air in his face, he imagined he could smell baking crusts from the cramped pizzeria that was the boat's sole dining facility. He climbed the steel steps and went inside.

Jason could not decide between the artichoke-mushroom and the multiple cheese selections. He ordered a square of each and made his way to one of the ten or so small tables, only half of which were occupied. He had taken only a bite out of the cheese pizza when he noticed a copy of the London Times crumpled on the adjacent table. Glancing around the room to be certain the paper was abandoned, he opened it up.

He scanned the day-old headlines. The lead story concerned a conference on the environment, a meeting in Washington whose main purpose, Jason guessed, was politics rather than statesmanship. The only agreement on allocation of the world's resources would come when they either no longer existed or could be produced artificially. Those who profited by exploiting the earth were not likely to voluntarily relinquish them.

He took a bite of artichoke and mushroom.

He was about to turn the front page when he happened to notice a reprint from the Washington Post. The word Hillwood sprang out at him. He had escorted Laurin to some sort of function there, one of the several charity balls to which she had dragged him annually.