Joey took the stairs, went down to the basement and ran along a hallway, passing workers in their hotel uniforms. He slowed down and walked through a stock room, past banks of shelves to a loading dock with stairs that took him down to street level. He was on the east side of the hotel. Raised his arm, signaled a taxi that was heading toward him. It stopped and he got in.
Chapter Thirty-seven
McCabe checked the time on Angelas cell phone. It was 3:28 p.m. He moved along Via Sistina, up the hill past the Hassler Hotel where Senator Tallenger had stayed, Rome's best, past the taxi queue, half a dozen Fiats parked, the drivers standing around talking, past the Beverage/Gelati truck parked in the square.
The street was one-way, and he was conscious of traffic, cars, trucks and motorbikes coming up behind him, passing by, and the sounds of the city coming alive again after siesta. The strap of the soccer bag was on his left shoulder, angling to the right across his chest, resting against his side.
He and Angela had taken a taxi from Soriano a couple hours earlier and gone to her apartment. He'd gotten Joey's call at 3:15, giving him forty-five minutes to get to the location. McCabe stood at the base of the obelisk, turned and looked up at the twin bell towers of Trinita dei Monti, the French Gothic church with a Renaissance facade, the famous church at the top of the Spanish Steps. He thought he saw something move in the tower on the left, and now a pigeon flew out and glided over the obelisk and disappeared down Via Sistina.
He scanned the top of the steps. There were a couple of black merchants with knock-off purses and umbrellas displayed on a wicker mat, and a painter setting up an easel. He glanced over and saw Angela at a table, drinking coffee at the terrace restaurant. He kept going, walked past Trinita dei Monti, the city of Rome spread out in perfect blue-sky panorama to his left. On his right was a twenty-foot-high salmon-colored wall that bordered Villa Borghese.
He went down almost to the park entrance and came back, studying the scene from a different angle. He walked down the Spanish Steps to the second level and leaned against the balustrade. It was all going to be over one way or the other in thirty minutes. He looked down at the bottom of the steps, always more crowded than the top, people sitting in rows, side by side like they were at a concert, people standing around Fontana della Barcaccia, the boat-shaped fountain, and more people crisscrossing Piazza di Spagna, heading for the shops. There were carriages lined up and he caught the faint odor of horse manure. There were flower vendors and photographers and black merchants selling jewelry, bags and sunglasses.
The Spanish Steps had to be at least one hundred yards from top to bottom, and maybe fifty yards from side to side. He thought they would come from the top. It was a better vantage point, and it was easier to go down than up.
3:48, Joey stood at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, the lower level packed with people, eyes going left to right. He looked up at the balcony on the second level, half a dozen tourists standing there, too far away to recognize. He was more relaxed now after getting out of the hotel, sure he'd lost the agent, and there was no way he was going back. It was time to get out of Rome, too. That's why the ransom money was more important than ever. He had a couple hundred grand in a Swiss account, but it wasn't enough. This was his stake in the future. He'd called Sharon and told her to pack her bag and meet him at the train station, the main terminal, at five.
"First tell me what's going on?" Sharon had said. "You were supposed to come back and get me. We were going to have lunch. Where are you?"
"I can't talk right now," Joey said. "I'll tell you later. Just meet me at the train station. Bring your things and bring mine. There's a bag in the closet."
"Where we going?" Sharon said.
"It's a surprise," Joey said. "For once just do what I ask and don't say anything, okay?" Didn't mention Ray. What was the point? If he was still at the hotel, and that was a good possibility, he might run into Sharon and she'd have to deal with him. Jesus, why was Joey taking all the heat?
He walked up the Spanish Steps, moving along the eastern wall that curved all the way to the top. On his right was an apartment building with an entrance on the square below. Joey had checked it out, walked from top to bottom a couple times earlier that afternoon and noticed the balcony of a second-floor apartment that was only a couple feet from the wall. Christ he could jump to it. He felt his phone vibrate in his pants pocket and took it out, heard Mazara say they were ready, everybody in position. Joey looked up and saw McCabe standing at the second balcony.
3:52, Psuz rested the barrel of an old bolt-action Beretta 501 on top of the metal railing that went around the penthouse patio, seven floors up, looking down at the Spanish Steps. Put the scope on Joey walking up, angled it to the right, saw McCabe at the balcony. Adjusted the scope, put the crosshairs on McCabe's back about seventy-five meters below him, adjusted again, closing on his head. Psuz could take the shot, drop him, he would never know what happened. But Joey said to wait, make sure he had the money, and also Angela.
It was Joey's idea to have him on the roof of the building. "Psuz, you really a sniper?" Joey said to him. "Let's see how good you are."
But he also had an idea. After his time in the army he had worked for Italgas. He went there, the main office in Rome, and took a uniform from the locker room. First, he was thinking of going in the bell towers at Trinita dei Monti, but to get up there he'd have to go through the convent next door and that would be difficult. There were procedures to follow when dealing with the Catholic Church. So instead he chose the apartment building across Via Sistina from the Hassler Hotel.
In the uniform it was easy to enter with his tool bag, and ride the elevator to the penthouse apartment, ring the buzzer, and when the man opened the door, tell him there was gas leaking in the apartment and the occupants, for their safety, must vacate immediately.
3:57, McCabe saw Joey coming up the steps toward him, breathing hard, gut bouncing under a loose-fitting island shirt with hula dancers on it. "I'd say you're the one in the wrong business."
"We'll see," Joey said. "We all get lucky once in a while. Don't we? I wouldn't count on it happening again."
"You never know," McCabe said.
"Where's my cuz at?"
McCabe pointed to the balcony of the terrace restaurant just above them on the west side of the steps. Angela was standing at the railing. Joey looked at her and waved.
"Where's Chip?"
"Right up there," Joey nodded, indicating the top of the steps, the street level. "Let's do it."
They started up, McCabe leading the way. When they got to the top, Joey glanced at him and said, "I've got a surprise for you."
McCabe could see Mazara standing in front of the silver Opel, and Sisto standing at the rear. Was he talking about them?
Joey said, "Look over there, " nodding at the roof of a yellow apartment building rising above them on the right.
He saw someone on the rooftop.
"Know who that is? My little buddy Psuz, turns out he was a sniper in the Italian army. You believe that?" Joey grinned, thinking he was back in control. "Do anything even remotely stupid he's going to punch your ticket, put you out of business. We're going to let you see Chipper, then I want you to hand me the money and walk away, don't say another word."
McCabe moved closer to the car, saw Noto behind the wheel, watching him. Sisto popped the trunk and he saw Chip, bound, gagged and curled up in the fetal position. Chip looked up at him, tried to say something, but Sisto slammed the lid closed. He noticed the little square in front of the Hassler was empty, the taxis and Beverage/Gelati truck were gone.
"I've got a surprise for you too," McCabe said, eyeing Joey. He could see Captain Ferarra and three of his men coming toward them from the left, moving up the street.
4:02, Arturo was walking along Via Sistina flanked by Luciano and Gattuso. Next to Gattuso was Borri, a giant at six feet four inches tall. They were coming up next to the convent, the building that joined Trinita dei Monti. Traffic h
ad been stopped on Via Sistina and diverted down Via Gregoriana. The street was deserted.
McCabe had phoned headquarters earlier that afternoon, and Luciano had reached him at his apartment, calling as he was leaving to spend the afternoon with his wife, Arturo trying to make up for the last time he had to cancel his plans, the day they found McCabe's rental car. His wife Teresa was an understanding woman but this was testing her patience.
Luciano explained what he knew. The same gang that kidnapped McCabe now had Chip Tallenger. The ransom exchange was to take place today, 4:00 at the Spanish Steps. The question Arturo had asked himself: where was McCabe, and if he was in trouble, why did he wait so long to contact the police?
He could see the silver Opel sedan parked next to the balustrade at the top of the Spanish Steps, and the men standing next to it. He could see four GIS moving along Via Sistina, approaching from the opposite direction. And then McCabe appeared coming up the steps, carrying a soccer bag, standing next to a bigger heavier man. He saw the sniper on the rooftop, and was bringing the cell phone to his mouth when he heard a rifle shot.
"He hands me the soccer bag shoot him," Joey had said to him. But McCabe did not give the soccer bag to Joey, and Joey was standing close to him, so close he did not have a clear shot. Psuz noticed something else. It was quiet now. No traffic. No car had driven by on the street for some time. He aimed the scope along Via Sistina and understood why. There were police coming, four from the left and four from the right. He put the cross hairs of the scope on one of the men in a suit jacket, running past the church, squeezed the trigger, heard the crack of the rifle echo off the rooftop and saw him fall. He worked the bolt and aimed for a second man, but he was moving, they all were, taking cover behind the stairway that led to the church and he did not have another target.
When the firing started everyone scattered. McCabe popped the trunk and tried to free Chip, but Noto put the Opel in gear, took a hard left, accelerating, driving down the west side of the steps, picking up speed, front end bouncing, trunk lid swinging up and down before slamming closed.
Bullets pinged off the obelisk in front of him. Another bullet ricocheted off the sidewalk next to him. And then someone grabbed McCabe from behind and pulled him back off his feet and brought him down behind the balustrade. McCabe turning now, looking at him, dark hair, late thirties, a guy he'd never seen before in his life, squatting next to him.
"You okay? Stay down. There's a sniper up there."
That's all he said. He was an American and had probably saved McCabe's life, but who was he? The guy glanced up at Psuz on the rooftop and took off, crouching low, moving along the balcony, and disappeared down the steps. The shooting continued, Psuz firing at the police, and the police firing back.
McCabe looked through the balusters, watched the dark- haired guy run down. Below him the Opel lost control, hit the stone railing on the second level, spun out and crashed broadside into the eastern wall. McCabe could hear the whelp of sirens, looked down, saw two carabinieri sedans enter Piazza de Spagna from opposite sides, pulling up at the bottom of the Spanish Steps, more cops getting out of the cars, moving through the scattering mass of panicked tourists. The shooting had stopped.
Mazara was confused. He had seen Angela on the terrace, sitting at a table by herself, sipping coffee. What was she doing? He ran there, hopped the entrance gate, and saw her crouching at the wall, peeking over. All of the customers had gone in the hotel, leaving their cappucini and espressos, their biscotti and cannoli on the tables. There was no one around. He crouched next to her. "What are you doing? Why are you here?" He reached for her hand and tried to pull her up. "Come with me. We have to go." He could see the carabinieri running down the steps, swarming the Opel, pulling Noto out of the vehicle. "There is no time."
She was watching the action below, hardly paying attention to him.
"It's over," Angela said, glancing at him. "Go before they arrest you."
"What about you?"
“I’m staying.”
And in that moment he understood, it became clear what had happened. "You and McCabe, uh?"
She looked at him and nodded. He reached behind his back, gripped the Tanfoglio, wanted to take it out and shoot her for betraying him, but he couldn't do it. Two carabinieri sedans drove up Via Sistina and stopped twenty meters away. And now Roberto had no choice but to go. He ran across the terrace and went over the wall, hanging and dropping to the courtyard below.
An ambulance followed two police cars pulling up on the street above them, lights flashing, sirens wailing, and a crowd had formed around the Opel, police holding people back. Angela had come down from the top, put her arms around him, hugged him and then stood close. Captain Ferrara opened the trunk. McCabe could see Chip curled up inside. The EMS techs moved down the steps with a gurney and lifted Chip onto it, untied the gag and freed his hands. His eyes were closed and McCabe didn't know if he was alive or not. Then Chip's eyes flickered open. He looked around and saw McCabe.
'"Are you afraid to die, Spartacus? When one man says no, I won't, Rome begins to fear.'"
"I think he's going to make it," McCabe said to Angela.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Joey boosted himself up on the eastern wall, and jumped a couple feet to the apartment balcony he’d seen earlier, going over the railing onto the patio and into the apartment, door unlocked, no idea who lived there, no sign of anyone, and moved down a dark hallway to the front door. He unlocked it and turned the handle, opened the door and went out.
He took the stairs down two flights, opened the door and moved through the crowd that had formed around Piazza de Spagna. He could see Sisto in the square, hands cuffed behind his back, two cops pushing him in the back seat of a patrol car. He walked past store fronts: Rucoline, Byron and Scalinata, all the way to American Express. He looked back. No one was following him. There was a taxi queue down the street. He went there, got in a cab and took it to the train station. It was 4:47.
Sharon had spent the night with Joey at the Excelsior but something was different. He had changed, or maybe she was finally seeing the real him. He seemed crude, vulgar, not the suave, handsome guy she had fallen in love with. It was a big disappointment after all the planning and anticipation, putting her life on hold, flying to Rome to be with him. She was ready to give up her marriage, what was left of it, her job and family to be with Joey. She had been that sure, that confident.
He was supposed to meet her at the hotel, be there when she arrived, but he wasn't, and he hadn't called till the next evening. She'd said, "You know how long I've been waiting for you?"
"I've been tied up. Doing a job for my uncle," Joey had said.
"What, they don't have phones in Italy?"
"Babe, I'll make it up to you," Joey said. "Check out, come to the Excelsior, this cool, classy hotel on Via Veneto, you'll love it."
"Why don't you come and get me?"
"I'm beat," Joey said. "Do me this favor, will you? We'll go shopping. I'll take you to a nice dinner."
That sounded better.
When she got to his room an hour later he seemed preoccupied like his mind was somewhere else.
"What took you so long?" Joey said.
"Hi, Sharon, it's good to see you. I'm glad you're here." Telling him what he should've said.
"I'm sorry," Joey said. "I've got a lot on my mind."
He looked tired, bags and dark spots under his eyes. "You've got a lot on your mind? I'm the one taking all the risk." She paused. "Want me to unpack, or what?"
"Yeah, sure. Make yourself at home."
"Why don't you take me to bed," Sharon said. "Show me how much you missed me."
Joey said he was too tired.
Too tired? From what?
His voice woke her up the next morning, Joey talking on his cell phone. He was already showered and dressed.
"I gotta go," Joey said. "Backo shortolo."
"I thought we were finally going to be able to spend time toge
ther, not worry about anything."
"We'll have lunch," Joey said. "I'll show you the sights."
He moved to the bed and kissed her forehead like he was her father.
"I'll make it up to you."
We'll see, Sharon was thinking.
Joey didn't come back for lunch, and she was getting antsy. Had been in the room the whole day, waiting, watching CNN. He finally called at 3:30, telling her to meet him at the train station. No explanation. Just be there, he'd said, talking to her like she was the hired help, barking orders, sounding like he was annoyed, irritated.
Sharon wondered what she'd gotten herself into. Was Joey like this before, and she'd missed it? No, he'd been gracious and attentive, a perfect gentleman. She wanted to check his passport, see if he was the same guy. She'd just left a bad relationship and wasn't going to get into another one. She considered cutting her losses, fly home and put it all behind her.
At 4:30, she packed her suitcase, took the elevator down, checked her bag with the bellhop, went outside and got in a taxi.
Joey saw her in the crowded terminal, standing by herself, looking around. Walked up to her, grinned and said, "Hey sexy, you waiting for someone?" He tried to kiss her and she ducked away. "What's the matter?" Joey said. "Where's your suitcase? Where's mine?"
"I didn't bring them."
He shook his head. "I just bought two tickets to Positano, most romantic fucking place in the world, you didn't bring our stuff?"
"I flew 4,600 miles to be with you," Sharon said. "And all
I've done is sit in hotel rooms the past three days, waiting for you."
"Well, now you've got my undivided fucking attention," Joey said. He wondered what her problem was. He'd paid for the plane ticket and the hotel room. Maybe it was her time of the month. All he knew, after the day he'd had he didn't need this.
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