Paul Christopher - The Templar Cross

A ton of shrimp with its inevitable by-catch of hake and juvenile bluefin tuna during the high season was just about enough to keep the Ponza hotels going for a single day of the lunchtime trade, so the local pescatori switched their favorite fishing grounds and times to share the wealth. It took Al a few hours to negotiate the grounds between Ventotene and the prison island, but by midafternoon, properly attired in jeans, fresh T-shirts and sneakers, they chugged out of Ponza Harbor in Sofia and headed east at a steady eight knots, the old 35-horsepower Perkins diesel coughing and belching happily as they chugged their way onto the open sea.

Three hours later, with the falling sun turning the slightly ruffled ocean to a flashing bronze, they raised Ventotene on the horizon. As they closed on the island Santo Stefano appeared just behind it, the high-walled citadel of the old Bourbon prison rising like a fortress on the craggy summit.

They puttered into the tiny rock-hewn harbor at Ventotene just as the sun was going down. It was a smaller version of the waterfront at Ponza: eighteenth-century buildings in pastel colors clinging to cliff terraces, crisscrossing alley stairways zigzagging back and forth.

There was a place for ferries to dock, disgorging tourists coming for alcoholic getaways and baking sun for a few days, a week, or maybe two. There were more pleasure craft in the harbor here than at Ponza; day cruisers, motor sailers and full-out glistening yachts outnumbered fishing boats like the Sofia by two to one at least.

Al found an old iron mooring ring in the seawall that ran around the harbor, hitched Sofia to it, then went in search of the harbor master to announce his arrival and show his credentials. Rafi sat moodily in the bows staring down at the oily water that slopped between the boats at anchor while Holliday and Tidyman made a show of moving around the pile of seine net in the stern, readying the boat for a day's fishing the following morning.

"Your young friend looks unhappy," said the Egyptian, glancing at Rafi as he worked.

"He's worrying about Peggy," answered Holliday. "So am I."

"I hope he realizes that this cannot be a rescue mission," said Tidyman. "This man Conti is sure to outnumber us. We can only do a reconnaissance, nothing more."

"He's frustrated," said Holliday. "He feels as though he's not doing enough to help. I know what's going through his head, believe me."

"That kind of frustration leads to foolish behavior," cautioned Tidyman. "It could get us all killed."

"What are you suggesting?" Holliday asked.

"Perhaps you should talk to him," suggested Tidyman.

"Why don't you?"

"Because I'm Egyptian and he's Israeli, among other things. There's too much history between our people, I'm afraid. A wall of mistrust."

"Maybe it's time to tear it down," replied Holliday.

Tidyman gave a brief, hollow laugh.

"Another day perhaps," he said quietly. "He doesn't strike me as being in the mood for reconciliation right now."

Massimo Conti's cruise appeared later that evening, all 1,300 horsepower burbling powerfully as she shouldered her way into a preferred berth the harbor master gave her closest to the promenade stairway.

"Cute," said Holliday, seated on deck with Al as the big boat docked.

"What's that?" Al said, smoking another Marlboro in the fading light.

"The name," said Holliday. "Disco Volante."

"Means Flying Saucer," translated Al.

"Largo's boat in Thunderball," said Holliday. "Our boy has a sense of humor."

As the evening spun into night Holliday watched as Conti and his friends from shore partied long and loud, the music swelling across the miniature harbor, intruding on the privacy of anyone within earshot, which likely meant the entire town. It seemed unlikely that anyone aboard would be in any shape for an early breakfast.

They left for the shrimping grounds at dawn, heading out of the narrow harbor along with half a dozen other boats, leaving the sleeping pleasure craft behind them along with the tightly shuttered sleeping town on the terraced heights above.

In the morning, with the sun no more than a hot pink slash on the eastern horizon, Al ran the little trawler back and forth in the narrow strait between Santo Stefano and Ventotene, using his fish-finding gear to troll for likely shoals of shrimp big enough to grace the tables of the hotels and restaurants back in Ponza. Crammed into the tiny little day cabin- galley belowdecks Holliday, Rafi and Tidyman pored over the charts of Santo Stefano Al had found for them the day before in the Ventotene harbor master's office.

The island was a fortress in and of itself, a volcanic plug of dark basalt half a mile in diameter. Jagged cliffs rose five hundred feet to a broad plateau covered in an oddly sinister sea of wild-flowers that broke on the yellow stone walls of the crumbling old prison like bright blue perfumed waves.

The prison was circular, four bleak tiers rising out of the volcanic rock, pierced with windows and doors, everything facing in to a central courtyard with a single guard tower in the middle, an elevated platform overseeing the inmates as they went about their business. There were no toilets, nor was there any running water. The only food was what the prisoners' families sent to them. There was no work or any kind of labor. Time was a wheel that eventually broke a man. Madness was a way of life.

The cells, each holding at least twenty men, were perpetually dark and the courtyard was in perpetual sun. If an inmate was stupid enough to try to escape there was nothing between him and the jagged cliff edge except the giant field of flowers and their sweet cloying scent. He could die in the darkness or die in the sun; the guards didn't care which. A life term on Santo Stefano was just a death sentence that took varying amounts of time to execute depending on how stubborn a man was.

Like the Chateau d'If in The Count of Monte Cristo there was only one way off the island for a prisoner: in a weighted shroud. There were two ways into the prison, however: a narrow switchback road that made its way up the slightly sloping western approaches to the plateau on which the prison loomed, or by following an almost impossibly steep goat track up the northern cliffs from a tiny gravel beach that all but vanished at high tide. The switchback road was visible from the prison if a guard was posted, and the goat track was virtually suicidal.

"There's no other way up," said Holliday, peering at the chart as they bobbed along in the lightly running morning sea. A seagull swooped and called, sensing the possibility of a meal. "It's the cliff path or nothing. Even at dusk they'd see us going up the road."

"What about the tide?" Tidyman asked. "It says on the chart that the beach is covered at least half the time."

"Al says he could drop us in the late afternoon, pick us up in the late evening, ten thirty or eleven. Next pickup wouldn't be until the following morning," Holliday answered.

"In other words, we'd be on our own if there was any trouble," grumbled Rafi.

"There is no fair play in this game, I'm afraid," said Tidyman. "Sometimes the cards are stacked against you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Rafi asked hotly. "You backing out?"

"Not at all, Dr. Wanounou," said the Egyptian, holding up one placating hand. "I'm just pointing out that whatever we do will be dangerous."

"I'm aware of that," said Rafi. "But getting Peggy back is worth it."

"She may not even be there," cautioned Holliday. "She could be farther down the pipeline by now."

Rafi muttered something under his breath, then turned away and went back up on deck.

"You realize that your cousin may very well be dead," said Tidyman. "Especially if they have discovered who she is."