Gregg Loomis - Gates Of Hades

"Oh, yeah? And who is this, the secretary of state?"

"No, but if you've got any sense at all, you'll put me on hold while you contact extension two-oh-one in the Rome embassy and tell them you're talking to one of Narcom's people."

Two-oh-one was the extension number for the agency office in the embassy, those supposed trade, cultural, and military attaches whose actual work had nothing to do with their titles.

Apparently the jerk in Naples at least recognized that anyone who knew the extension number might be important. "Hold on."

Jason heard a loud, angry voice from above. No doubt someone had found their pocket picked and their cell phone gone. Jason moved farther back into the shadows.

The voice that came back on the phone was noticeably chastised. "Yes, sir, what can we do for you?"

"I need a patch through to a Washington number."

"A secure patch might take a little while. Where can I call you back?"

Jason had no way to know the number of the cell phone in his hand.

"You can't."

"But I-"

"I'll hold."

He could hear steps clamoring on the steal deck overhead. More than one person.

"Listen," he hissed into the phone, "things are a little busy at my end right now. Get the patch ready." He gave the number Mama had monitored twenty-four/seven. "I'll call you back in five minutes. Tell the recipient of the call it's from Italy."

He hung up before the voice could protest. Hopefully Mama wasn't running any other operations in Italy at the moment.

Squaring his shoulders, he tried to stand as tall as possible as he strode purposefully toward the ferry's forecastle, the location of his small stateroom. The two men, one in the uniform of the ferry company, pushed by him, the victim of the theft pointing toward the bow. Obviously they were looking for a drunk whose face had been obscured in the darkness.

Jason flipped on the single overhead light as he entered his quarters. He sat on the stingy bunk and redialed the Naples number.

Nothing.

He tried again with the same result.

He glared at the steel bulkheads that imprisoned the cell phone's signal as securely as any jail held an inmate. He wasn't going to be able to connect with the satellite from here.

Cracking the door, he checked the narrow hallway outside and climbed the companionway to the top deck. Other than a few passengers leaning on the rail, staring into the night, it was deserted. He descended to the automobile deck and selected a white van.

It was locked.

His next choice was a small Mercedes truck. The door opened at his touch and he slipped inside, settling into the darkest corner. He flipped the phone open and punched in numbers.

This time the voice from the consulate was polite, almost solicitous. "We have your connection, sir. Understand you're calling from an unsecured source. Anything said in this conversation is subject to interception."

Like any other call made by ph6ne users the world over. Unless the ecoterrorists had somehow found the number he was calling and managed to alert a computer to scan all its calls, this conversation would be hidden among millions of others the same way a pickpocket relied on the numbers of a crowd to conceal him.

"Yes?" The voice was unmistakably Mama's.

Besides the volume of phone traffic, Jason knew brevity would help, though there was no guarantee of anonymity.

"Conference in Washington tomorrow. Hillwood." He paused, wondering if the words would trigger the search program of some monitoring device. There wasn't time for circumlocution. "Breath of the Earth. It's ignited from rocks by plants that spontaneously combust."

The silence that followed was only seconds, but it seemed long enough for Jason to wonder if the connection had been broken.

"Plants? Rocks?"

"Like the trawler. If the conference is held near open windows, like the dining room at Hillwood."

Another pause.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"The gas, ethylene, will make everyone-delegates to the meeting, security, everyone-both drowsy and delusional, but it won't kill them. That's the beauty of it. While everyone's on a high, someone will slip into the room from outside, slit a few throats, and disappear while the Secret Service guys are on the nod. No one to yell, cause a ruckus till it's too late. Or, maybe one or more of the Eco people'll have a breathing device concealed on him. When the gas dissipates, no one knows what happened. People have been murdered literally in front of their security and no one knows anything. The Earth will have claimed some sort of revenge with its natural products, the plant and the gas."

"My God, the president is planning to attend!"

"I suggest he make other plans."

"You can document this?"

"Not by tomorrow morning."

Another pause before Mama's rich Creole voice said, "This conference is important. He thinks he can become the person history will record as dedicating his life to reconciling industrialists and conservationists."

"He will. Just not the way he'd planned."

"We'll look like idiots if you're wrong."

"How will you look if I'm not?"

"I see what you mean. Tell you what: I'm passin' this along to the CIA. They're our client and can do what they want."

In Washington, the buck never really stopped; it was in perpetual motion.

Near Silanus, Sardinia

An hour later

There were three men in the rented Mercedes that had pulled off the ferry two hours ago. The face of one of the men in the rear seat was partially covered by a large eye patch. One cheek displayed scars that were angry red, as though recently inflicted. All four wore the loose blouse and baggy pants of the local farmers for whom they easily could have mistaken.

Sardinian farmers, however, would have been unlikely to drive such a car. It was equally doubtful locals would drive through the night to a simple farmhouse, one where a thorough search demonstrated that the normal occupants were still not in residence and had not been for several days.

The refrigerator had a sour smell about it, containing only an open canister of milk long gone rancid. The source of the house's electricity, wherever it was, had been turned off, and flashlight beams revealed that a light patina of dust had begun to collect on flat surfaces. There was nothing remarkable in the house. A few inexpensive oils hung on the walls and a huge sword over the fireplace-a sword, though effective in its time, that would be no match for the weapons these men carried.

One of the men turned to the one with the eye patch, speaking in Russian. "You are certain the Scotsman and the American will return?"

The man with one eye nodded. "And with the woman. We will wait."

Cagliari, Sardinia

The next morning

Jason was careful he was not observed as he dropped the stolen cell phone overboard before being one of the first to disembark from the ferry. A quick survey of the harbor revealed fishing craft, private sailboats, a few motor launches, and no place to rent a car. Adrian had omitted that factoid, he thought sourly.

Taxis, though, were plentiful. He took one to the airport.

The ride through town began as one of no particular interest. Apartment houses of undistinguished architecture and recent vintage shouldered one another for room, screening the view of the ocean. The churches gave some small clue as to the island's multicultural history. Graceful Moorish facades were only blocks from chunky Romanesque fronts left by conquering Normans and Spanish. The ebullience of Italian Gothic, unlike any other of the period, was equally represented. It looked like every second street corner hosted an outdoor market.

The airport was featureless modern. Jason paid the driver and went inside the terminal, where boutiques, tour guide offices, and duty-free shops outnumbered the two ticket counters. Turning to his left to follow the signs, he crossed a neatly groomed patch of ground to another building housing rental car offices. There were no lines in front of any of them.