Sidney Sheldon - The Doomsday Conspiracy

“Certainly, Commander. Do you prefer any particular airline?”

“It doesn’t matter. The first flight out.”

“I will be happy to arrange it.”

“Thank you.” Robert walked over to the hotel clerk. “My key, please. Room 314. And I’ll be checking out in a few minutes.”

“Very good, Commander Bellamy.” The clerk reached in a pigeonhole and pulled out a key and an envelope. “There’s a letter here for you.”

Robert stiffened. The envelope was sealed, and addressed simply: Commander Robert Bellamy. He fingered it, feeling for plastique or any metal inside. Carefully, he opened it. Inside was a printed card advertising an Italian restaurant. It was innocent enough. Except, of course, for his name on the envelope.

“Do you happen to remember who gave you this?”

“I’m sorry,” the clerk said apologetically, “but we have been so busy this evening …”

It was not important. The man would have been faceless. He would have picked up the card somewhere, slipped it into the envelope and stood by the desk, watching to see the room number of the slot that the envelope was placed in. He would be upstairs now, in Robert’s room, waiting. It was time to see the face of the enemy.

Robert became aware of raised voices and turned to watch the Shriners he had seen earlier, entering the lobby, laughing and singing. They had obviously had a few more drinks. The portly man said, “Hi there, pal. You missed a great party.”

Robert’s mind was racing. “You like parties?”

“Hoo hoo!”

“There’s a real live one going on upstairs,” Robert said. “Booze, girls – anything you want. Just follow me, fellows.”

“That’s the American spirit, pal.” The man clapped Robert on the back. “You hear that, boys? Our friend here is throwing a party!”

They crowded into the elevator together and rode up to the third floor.

The Shriner said, “These Italians sure know how to live it up. I guess they invented orgies, huh?”

“I’m going to show you a real orgy,” Robert promised.

They followed him down the hall to his room. Robert put the key in the lock and turned to the group. “Are you all ready to have some fun?”

There was a chorus of “yeses” …

Robert turned the key, pushed the door open, and stepped to one side. The room was dark. He snapped on the light. A tall, thin stranger was standing in the middle of the room with a Mauser, equipped with a silencer, half drawn. The man looked at the group with a startled expression, and quickly shoved the gun back in his jacket.

“Hey! Where’s the booze?” one of the Shriners demanded.

Robert pointed to the stranger. “He has it. Go get it.”

The group surged toward the man. “Where’s the liquor, buddy? … Where are the girls? … Let’s get this party on the road …”

The thin man was trying to get through to Robert, but the crowd was blocking his way. He watched helplessly as Robert bolted out of the door. He took the stairs two at a time.

Downstairs in the lobby, Robert was moving toward the exit when the concierge called out, “Oh, Commander Bellamy, I made your reservation for you. You are on Air France flight 312 to Paris. It leaves at one a.m.”

“Thanks,” Robert said hurriedly.

He was out of the door, into the small square overlooking the Spanish Steps. A taxi was discharging a passenger. Robert stepped into it. “Via Monte Grappa.”

He had his answer now. They intended to kill him. They’re not going to find it easy. He was the hunted now instead of the hunter, but he had one big advantage. They had trained him well. He knew all their techniques, their strengths, and their weaknesses, and he intended to use that knowledge to stop them. First, he had to find a way to throw them off his trail. The men after him would have been given a story of some kind. They would have been told he was wanted for smuggling drugs, or for murder, or espionage. They would have been warned: He’s dangerous. Take no chances. Shoot to kill.

Robert said to the taxi driver, “Roma Termini.” They were hunting for him, but they would not have had enough time to disseminate his photograph. So far, he was faceless.

The taxi pulled up at Via Giovanni Giolitti 36, and the driver announced, “Stazione Termini, signore.”

“Let’s just wait here a minute.” Robert sat in the taxi, studying the front of the railway station. There seemed to be only the usual activity. Everything appeared to be normal. Taxis and limousines were arriving and departing, discharging and picking up passengers. Porters were loading and unloading luggage. A policeman was busily ordering cars to move out of the restricted parking zone. But something was disturbing Robert. He suddenly realized what was wrong with the picture. Parked directly in front of the station, in a no-parking zone, were three unmarked sedans, with no one inside. The policeman ignored them.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Robert said to the driver. “Via Veneto 110/A.” It was the last place anyone would look for him.

The American Embassy and consulate are located in a pink stucco building facing the Via Veneto, with a black wrought-iron fence in front of it. The embassy was closed at this hour, but the passport division of the consulate was open on a twenty-four-hour basis, to handle emergencies. In the foyer on the first floor, a marine sat behind a desk.

The marine looked up as Robert approached. “May I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Robert said. “I want to inquire about getting a new passport. I lost mine.”

“Are you an American citizen?”

“Yes.”

The marine indicated an office at the far end. “They’ll take care of you in there, sir. Last door.”

“Thank you.”

There were half a dozen people in the room applying for passports, reporting lost passports, and getting renewals and visas.

“Do I need a visa to visit Albania? I have relatives there …”

“I need this passport renewed by tonight. I have a plane to catch …”

“I don’t know what happened to it. I must have left it in Milan …”

“They grabbed my passport right out of my purse …”

Robert stood there, listening. Stealing passports was a thriving cottage industry in Italy. Someone here would be getting a new passport. At the head of the line was a well-dressed, middle-aged man being handed an American passport.

“Here is your new passport, Mr Cowan. I’m sorry you had such a bad experience. I’m afraid there are a lot of pickpockets in Rome.”

“I’ll sure see to it that they don’t get hold of this one,” Cowan said.

“You do that, sir.”

Robert watched Cowan put the passport in his jacket pocket and turn to leave. Robert stepped ahead of him. As a woman brushed by, Robert lunged into Cowan, as though he had been pushed, almost knocking him down.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Robert apologized. He leaned over and straightened the man’s jacket for him.

“No problem,” Cowan said.

Robert turned and walked into the public men’s room down the hall, the stranger’s passport in his pocket. He looked around to make sure he was alone, then went into one of the booths. He took out the razor blade and bottle of glue he had stolen from Ricco. Very carefully, he slit the top of the plastic and removed Cowan’s photograph. Next, he inserted the picture of himself that Ricco had taken. He glued the top of the plastic slot closed, and examined his handiwork. Perfect. He was now Henry Cowan. Five minutes later, he was out in the Via Veneto, getting into a taxi. “Leonardo da Vinci.”

It was twelve thirty when Robert arrived at the airport. He stood outside, looking for anything unusual. On the surface, everything appeared to be normal. No police cars, no suspicious-looking men. Robert entered the terminal, and stopped just inside the door. There were various airline counters scattered around the large terminal. There seemed to be no one loitering or hiding behind posts. He stayed where he was, wary. He could not explain it, even to himself, but somehow, everything seemed too normal.