Gregg Loomis - The Pegasus Secret

Gurt laughed. "Why would I borrow it? It's mine."

Lang felt a twinge of jealousy that he was pulling on pants an unknown number of other guys had worn. "I suppose you'll insist on driving, then."

"And make you sit behind a woman?" She found this immensely funny. "You would be, what's the word, castigated?"

"Castrated."

"That, too."

Lang was surprised at how well the trousers fit. The jacket was snug but it would zip shut. His reflection in a shop window showed a typical European, ready for a cross-country ride. Except for the Birkenstocks.

"Damn! Forgot my shoes."

Gurt smiled. "I have no extra boots."

"I've got a pair of shoes back at the pensione. They aren't motorcycle boots but they're better'n sandals."

The slow run through the narrow streets and alleys served as a refresher course in motorcycle driving. By the time they reached the pensione, Lang was eager to get on the road where speed would make the BMW far more stable than the wobbling pace the crowded city streets required.

He was in and out of-the room in seconds while Gurt straddled the bike, studying a road map. Lang's Cole Haans hadn't been intended for shifting a motorcycle's gears but they would do. He turned to the east towards the Tiber and let out the hand clutch as he turned the throttle.

The old pensione-keeper had been watching from behind a curtained window. How strange these Germans were! The man would only pay for a room at this modest establishment to fuck his whore, yet he was riding a BMW worth two or three months' salary for the average Italian. Where had he been keeping that expensive machine? He certainly had not arrived on it. Clearly the man and woman were used to riding together. They had matching leathers, something the German's wife might like to know and be willing to pay to learn.

He would have to discover the man's identity. Perhaps there were papers in the room… But he would have to be careful. There was something about the occupant of the room next to the bath upstairs, a mannerism, the hardness of his eyes, that said he was a man not to be angered. A knock at the door, the flurry of banging of someone in a hurry. Let them wait. With all three rooms full, there was no reason to risk falling in a rush to turn someone away. The noise became more persistent as the old man shuffled to the door.

The man standing outside wore coveralls, the uniform of the European working class. He could have been a plumber or truck driver. It was unlikely he wanted a room.

"Si?"

The workman shoved his way inside and shut the door before he held up a photograph. The old man recognized the German.

"You have seen this man, an American?" the stranger asked. The accent was not Roman, perhaps not even Italian.

"I am the information bureau?" the old man sneered. Like any other commodity, information had a value, was not something to be given away. Perhaps this man was working for the German's wife. "Out, go ask your questions elsewhere or show me your police credentials."

The stranger reached into the top of his coveralls. When his hand came out, it held a pistol. The gun was pointed at the old man's head.

"Here are all the credentials I need, you old fart. Now, once again before your meager brains are splattered all over this entryway, have you seen this American?"

The old man was frightened. He had seen such things happen on the American programs on television. And this man might be American. Worse, by the way he butchered the language, he could be Sicilian. Either way, dying on behalf of a guest's privacy was not included in the rent. If only this man would go away and leave him unharmed, he would say a hundred Hail Mary's at Saint Peter's.

He nodded and pointed to the picture of his guest. "I thought he was German."

The truck driver, or plumber, or whoever he was, with the gun said angrily, "I don't give a shit what you thought. Is he here?"

The old man felt his bladder release. Warm urine was running down his leg, becoming cold as it soaked his pants. He hoped the man with the gun didn't notice. He would go to Saint Peter's on his arthritic knees if this evil man would just go away.

"He left seconds ago, right before you came. He and a woman." The old man felt weak with relief as he saw the gun returned to inside the coveralls.

"The couple on the motorcycle?"

The pensione owner nodded vigorously. "Yes, yes. That was them. They were headed towards Florence." The stranger was suspicious."And how do you know that?" Had he not been frozen with fear, the old man would have kicked himself for saying anything that kept this intruder here one second longer. If he would go away, he would crawl on his belly like a snake to Saint Peter's.

"I saw the color of the border of the road map the woman was looking at. It only shows Rome north to Florence." The gunman/workman's eyes narrowed. "You have good eyesight for an old man."

He had said too much, the old man was sure of it. He was going to be found dead in the pensione that represented his entire life's savings. He would not only crawl to Saint Peter's, he would take every bit of money paid by the accursed German/American and put it in the poor box as thanks for his deliverance.

The man with the gun spun on the heels of his work boots and left the old man gaping after him. He had been spared. A good thing, too. Had the bastard with the gun remained one second longer, the old innkeeper would have had to attack, snatch away the gun and shoot him with it like the American policeman he had seen in the film on television. What was it the American policeman had said? Oh yes: "Go ahead, make my day."

Umbria

Two hours later

Off the Auto Strada, they passed a cluster of motels that would have been at home anywhere along an American interstate. They followed a procession of trucks through modern Orvieto before turning off the main road and beginning the climb uphill.

Orvieto was the only hill town Lang had ever visited that was not hilly. Instead, the old walled city perched on top of a rock formation that was flat on top, a geological phenomenon any resident of the American Southwest would recognize as a mesa. There was little traffic. Tourists had not yet discovered the place, although the huge empty parking lot below the main piazza gave an indication of the citizens' aspirations.

Winding through the narrow streets, Lang guided the BMW into the Via Maurizo and the Piazza Dumo, a square dominated by the cathedral. The late morning sun danced along the gilt mosaics covering the facade of the exuberantly Italian Gothic building. Unlike the more famous towns of Tuscany to the north, there were few cars on the square. Lang parked and held the bike steady as Gurt swung a long leg over the seat to dismount.

They entered the narthex of the church, standing still while their eyes acclimated to the dim light. Inside the nave, candles flickered in side chapels, shadows giving movement to frescoes. A brightness came from somewhere beyond the choir, the raised platform where the transept crossed the main body of the church.

An elaborate altar held more candles, their wavering light making Christ seem to writhe on His cross. To the right of the sanctuary, another side chapel blazed with -electric floodlights anachronistic in a setting centuries old. The floor was covered with dropcloths. Brushes, putty knives and bottles of pigment were scattered everywhere. Even the clutter did little to detract from richly colored figures tumbling into the abyss, that favorite of Italian frescoes, the Final Judgement.

No matter whether painted by Michelangelo, Bernini or some other artist, the subject always reminded Lang of late Friday night at a singles bar.

On scaffolding halfway up the wall of anguished souls consigned to damnation (or those who would sleep alone), three men were examining one of the figures. Two wore overalls. The third was in a paint-splattered cassock.