Judith Leon - Iron Dove

They followed Giordano outside into a warm bright June morning, marred by the stink of petrol and the noise of heavy traffic and landing airplanes. A car—a black, four-door Alfa Romeo—waited nearby, presumably granted this parking privilege because of the importance of the arrivals being picked up. Or, perhaps, because of Giordano’s pull.

Giordano clicked open the trunk. He had been making more or less one-sided conversation from the moment he had led them toward the baggage claim. As he put Nova’s aluminum case inside, he said, “It is my task to make you both comfortable.” He relieved Joe of his duffel bag, stowed it in the trunk, and then Nova’s. “I shall take you to a hotel at once. You may wish to relax a bit. I suggest you also sleep if you can today so as to readjust to time lag as quickly as possible. Right?”

Nova heard a sound from his car, looked up, and there in the back window she saw a small, white dog. A Lhasa apso.

“That’s my dear Principessa,” Giordano said.

Maybe it was the dear, but Giordano suddenly reminded her strongly of Penny. Giordano’s gay too. He has to be gay. Either that or he’d created a brilliant cover.

He held the door for Nova to sit in the front seat. Joe settled himself in the back. Principessa settled herself into Nova’s lap, at first wiggling and licking, but quickly curling up to be petted.

“Are we to stay in Rome, Mr. Giordano?” Nova asked.

“Oh please, please. Not Mr. Giordano. I am Cesare.”

The car, with Cesare in enthusiastic control, pulled into the traffic. They were out of the airport area in good time.

“Yes,” he finally said as they moved onto the freeway leading into Rome. “Tomorrow you will meet at a SISMI office here, in Rome, with Aldo Provenza, the case officer in charge of operation Global Dread.”

Cesare suddenly stuck his long arm across Nova’s chest to point out her window. “Now you see that splendid mansion! I am the creator of its absolutely glorious interior. I certainly wish we were not so pressed for time. I would love to show you some of my work. But we will save that for another day.”

Joe said, “Don’t you work for SISMI?”

“Would I be guessing correctly if both of you are thinking, ‘It’s just not possible this charming man is a SISMI agent.’ But I am. I’m accustomed to that reaction. But I assure you, I am their most important asset in all of Italy. Yes, I am. I am—with all due humility—Italy’s premier artiste of interior design. I have access to the homes of not only the rich and famous, but also the would-be rich and famous. And if I show up at someone’s door, anyone’s door, I am welcomed with open arms. And now, seeing you both, I am certain we shall make a perfect team. You are foreigners and, like me, you look nothing like agents. Amalfi, for her natives, is a small world, and outsiders are always noticed if they are not obvious tourists. You two are perfect.”

Again, Nova flashed on a comparison of Cesare with Penny. Her neighbor owned La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon and was every bit as proud of his work as Cesare. But while Cesare was showing every indication of being garrulous, Penny was a man of few, but carefully chosen, words. He shared with Cesare, though, a belief in his importance and artistry. Before long, it should become obvious whether Cesare was a blowhard or the real thing.

He continued to describe every notable point of interest along the freeway leading into the capital. Nova continued to stroke Principessa, who seemed to be a perfect lady.

All at once, Joe chimed in with, “You know, Cesare, Nova and I have both been here before. Several times.”

Nova turned to look back at Joe. He let his eyes roll skyward, clearly not thrilled by Cesare’s steady verbal stream.

“Oh, of course. I would imagine that both of you are experienced travelers.”

The car lurched left, Cesare changing lanes abruptly, ostensibly to avoid crashing into the bakery truck in front of them. She saw Joe grip his briefcase tightly just as she swiveled forward again to watch the road—and Cesare’s driving.

“I myself travel relatively little out of the country as my work consumes any spare time I might have. But it is such a pleasure to point out those features of Rome that only a native is likely to know.”

Nova glanced back at Joe. His arms were crossed, his eyes staring out the window. He was too good an agent to let his feelings show on his face unless he chose to, but she knew him thoroughly and imagined that in his mind he was gritting his teeth.

Poor Joe, she thought, but with a secret smile. She was actually enjoying Cesare—although he did seem a bit too excited by his own conversation to be driving.

“Have you heard about the bombing in Madrid yesterday?” Cesare asked.

“I haven’t heard or read any news since day before yesterday,” Joe answered.

“I predict it will be the handiwork of Al Qaeda,” Cesare continued.

“Determined bastards,” Joe replied.

Soon they were within the city’s embrace. Narrow streets ran beside the arches of a thousand-year-old aqueduct. She simply could not imagine how anything made of bricks and concrete could last that long. What fabulous stories those bricks could tell! Flowers gaily graced second floor windows and balconies of buildings that seemed to sag with age. A constant flow of people in cars and on bikes passed going in all directions.

Their car swept through the Piazza Venezia past the Vittorio Emanuele monument, and then down the crowded Via dei Fori Imperiali. On her right she recognized the grounds of ancient Rome’s heart, the Forum, and farther ahead she could see the northwest side of the Coliseum. She felt an elated buzz. No one could be blasé in this place. From this spot on the globe, the Romans had conquered and ruled the world for a thousand years.

Before they reached the Coliseum, Cesare lurched the car left into the rushing traffic of Via Cavour. From previous trips, Nova knew that not far ahead lay Rome’s central train station. Cesare, however, braked to a teeth-clicking stop in front of the Hotel Imperial Cavour. She gave it a quick assessing appraisal and ranked the seven-story hotel tentatively as three-star.

Again with sprinter-like speed, Cesare leapt out of the car and rushed around to open Nova’s door. Setting Principessa on the passenger seat, she let Cesare play gentleman, which, judging from his happy smile as she stepped from the car, pleased him. Joe, she noted, was glowering.

“Registration is in your own names. Tomorrow morning I will pick you up promptly at nine. You will spend the day in briefings. We are somewhat short on time, so I myself will be making final arrangements for our lodgings in Positano and for our transportation the day after tomorrow to Sorrento by helicopter and from Sorrento to Positano by auto.”

He opened the trunk and took out Nova’s gear. Joe, with quick-time speed to match Cesare’s, grabbed up his own gear. As the doorman piled everything onto a luggage cart, Cesare said, “Tomorrow I will pick you up after your briefings. By the way, don’t let Provenza frighten you.”

Joe blew his breath out.

Cesare looked first at Joe and then at her and shook his head. “But, of course, neither of you will be. What am I thinking? I myself am from Milan and the man is Sicilian, and I never really trust Sicilians.”

He turned, sank into his Alfa and, with a wave and a ciao, took off.

“At last,” Joe said as they strode toward the hotel entrance.

“I think he’s funny. And informative.”

“He’s going to drive me nuts.”

She patted Joe’s arm.

The stones of the street and the pavement already throbbed with heat. By noon, Rome would be as hot as Costa Rica had been.