by J B Raphael
“That’s fine, I’ll do the business then have a drink, oh and by the way, when you next see me I will look and smell a lot better!” he said, smiling.
“Si, signore,” she said, trying to smile. He ordered a large brandy to be served in the foyer, he didn’t want to offend any bar users with his fishy odour!
8pm saw a smart shiny and sweet smelling Jon walk into the ground floor bar ‘Americano’, in fact he turned one or two female heads as he took a seat at the end of the bar. Yes, he thought, I can chill out here quite nicely for at least a week, I can afford it, might even have a bit of female fun, who knows! The restaurant was nice but the food not quite what he was used to, never mind, he felt relaxed and safe here, he was hundreds of miles from his pursuers and therefore his enemies, who would see him destroyed in the most horrendous ways.
Rome
The honeymooners had arrived from Venice having done the whole of the tourist journies including the ‘Bridge of Sighs’ and the Grand Canal tour in a gondola, which they thought was enormously expensive, it was obviously a price for American tourists, but “You only do it once,” Mel said.
“If he starts singing ‘O sole mio’ I’ll push him overboard!” Mary-Lou said. They laughed.
The journey across Italy by train had been comfortable and the scenery amazing, through the mountains. The train went between two of the ‘Seven Hills’ and passed close to the Colliseum, “Wow, that is something,” Mary-Lou said, “how old is it?” she asked Mel.
“Oh, about 3,000 years old,” Mel answered.
“Really?” she said, “why is it in ruins?” she asked again.
“Mainly earthquakes over the centuries,” he replied with a smug look on his face.
“Well, they’ve had enough time to repair it!” she laughed.
The search for Liz Fenner had reached fever pitch, but after 4 days it was concluded that she had gone overboard. Her belongings were taken to the police station.
They were booked in at the ‘Fantasia’ 5* hotel, just off St Marks Square. It seemed out of place in the area, all stainless steel and tinted glass, but it had everything for the tourist, and some. Their suite was sumptuous, gold bathroom fittings and a huge balcony that cornered on St Peters Square, fabulous, they thought. Mel stood on the balcony and watched two men do the ‘map’ routine on an unsuspecting tourist. He called down to the tourist, “Look out!” As he spun round the thief dropped his wallet and ran off. The Roma trio disappeared very quickly, they’d be somewhere else in a few minutes. The tourist looked up and shouted, “Danke!” German, Mel thought, and wished he hadn’t bothered.
Sitting in the space-age bar, Mel casually picked up a newspaper, he read the headlines, with a picture of an attractive woman. He could only make out ‘American Tourist’, he showed it to Mary-Lou, “Hell,” she said, “that’s Elizabeth Fenner, I was on her divorce case a few years ago,” she said, and jumped up to go over to the bar, “What do these headlines say?” she asked.
The barman looked and said, “AMERICAN TOURIST missing from cruise liner, believed to have drowned overboard.”
When Mel heard this, his blood ran cold and hot at the same time, the murdering bastard’s here in Rome, or was, but there was nothing he could do, no jursdiction, and anyway he was on a very expensive holiday and didn’t have a hope in hell of actually catching Jon Weston. “Honey?” Mary-Lou said, “what’s wrong?”
“Oh, I just hate hearing about US citizens dying like that, it sounds dirty.”
“She was a lovely woman,” Mary-Lou said, “full of life and very wealthy after her divorce, about 12 million dollars, plus that big house on the top of Summer Hill, it’s beautiful,” she enthused. Mel’s hands were tied, but he thought that he would visit the local police and tell them what he knew about Jonathan Weston. They probably didn’t even know that he was in Italy, or that he was a prime suspect.
“Oh, honey,” Mary-Lou said, “we’re on honeymoon, please don’t be there too long.”
“I won’t hon, you can go shopping, but be careful of young dark girls, and men in leather jackets and jeans, with maps!”
Mel took a taxi to police headquarters, and with him a copy of the newspaper plus his identification and badge. He waited in a very ornate and large outer office for about 10 minutes, then he was ushered into the police Commissario’s office, “ Buongiorno,” he said.
“Lieutenant Novak.”
“Nice to meet you,” he said. Mel showed his ID and badge. “Why are the New York state police interested in this case?” the chief asked.
“I used to be with the New York State police department, and about 15 months ago I was assigned to a case where an American woman disappeared from a ship bound for New York. About 4 months later her body, minus certain parts, was washed up on a beach near New York City. Her name was Helen Smithson, from Oklahoma, but we got very lucky, we found DNA samples from semen in her vagina, it belonged to Jonathan Weston, from London, England.”
“That doesn’t prove that he killed her,” he said.
“No,” Mel agreed, then told him adbout her jewellery being sold in New York a day after the ship had docked. “He was with a Lorna Harper, who was sent to trial for taking her part in the crimes,” Mel told the chief.
“I see, so you want us to make all the efforts to find this man in Italy.”
“Yes,” said Mel, “there’s another woman gone missing from an Italian cruise boat only yesterday. He is definitely in your country. It has been highlighted on your TV news with his picture, and description.”
“Lieutenant Novak,” the chief said, “ our tourist industry is very important to us so we will search high and wide for this evil man. We will extend the TV coverage and instruct areas where he has been seen to dig deeper and turn over even the smallest stone.”
“Thank you, sir, I will keep in touch although I am here on holiday with my wife,” Mel said.
“You go and enjoy our beautiful country,” the chief said, “and thank you for coming to see me,” he added.
Mel got back to the hotel and called their room, there was no answer. As he put the phone down Mary-Lou struggled through the main door helped by the doorman. “Is there anything left in Rome? Do we have any money left?” he asked.
“Yes and no!” she laughed, “how did you get on with the poice chief?” she asked.
“Fine, he’s a nice guy, and he’s going to help as much as possible with the Liz Fenner case.”
“Good,” she said, “now, can we get on with our honeymoon please, there’s nothing you can do to help the poor lady now.”
“You’re right,” he said, “okay, let’s get this lot up to the room.” He walked over to the doorman and gave him $10, “Grazie signore!” the boy said.
Up in the room there were shirts, ties, socks, shoes, dresses, trousers etc., spread all over the room, “Have you forgotten luggage flight charges?” Mel asked.
“No,” Mary-Lou said, “there are a few things we are going to leave behind, like those trousers,” she said, pointing to his chinos.
“Hey, I like these pants with extra pockets!” he said.
She opened a package and produced another pair in cream, instead of the grey/brown colour of his present pair, “With extra pockets! Tah dah!” she laughed.
“Gee thanks honey,” Mel said.
“You are 34” x 32” aren’t you?” she asked.
“Er, yes, I think so!” he replied.
Capri
Jon was enjoying life on the ‘Island of Romance’, he had found himself a pretty young Italian waitress he had picked up at a coffee shop that he frequented every day at 10.30am. Today was no different, he chatted to Carla when she wasn’t serving customers. They were mainly tourists with quite a few being young honeymooners, walking hand-in-hand. He heard American voices, English, German, Scandinavian, Capri was probably the most visited place in Italy, apart from Rome. Jon met Carla most nights at 7 o’clock when she finished work, and took her to their favourite bistro in
a side street not far from the harbour, but tonight would be different. “It’s my birthday today,” she said, “and I’m inviting you to a little party with my family, at my home, please say you’ll come?”
“Er, yes, I’d love to,” he said.
There wasn’t an enormous gathering at Carla’s house, a moderate dwelling at the top of a picturesque cobble-stoned hill, but very homely. “Welcome,” her father said.
“Thank you,” Jon replied
“I’m sorry,” Carla’s father said, “there is no signora, my wife died when Carla was born, 25 years ago to the day,” he said looking to the sky, and crossing himself.
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Oh, non c’e problema, it’s many years and I have my Carla,” he added, putting his arm around her shoulder and kissing her head, “and I have my Bruno, her elder brother, he’s with the polizia, a detective sargeant.”
The tall good-looking man of about thirty smiled and shook Jon’s hand,”Nice to meet you,” he said as he stared into Jon’s face. Jon suddenly became uneasy and broke into a cold sweat, a fucking copper, he thought.
The evening was jolly, with friends and neighbours joining in until about midnight, but it was ruined for Jon by Bruno’s constant sideways glances at him, fuck he thought, somehow he has recognised me. He even tried the old trick of calling him ‘Jon’, but it was ignored and after that he gave up. He stopped calling at the coffee shop and told Carla that he was now doing ‘Estate Business’ and could only see her once or twice a week. A copper’s sister, he thought, no thanks. He decided he needed a car, hiring’s the best bet, something small and unobtrusive. Near the hotel was ‘Nuova Auto Rental’, he took, for a month, a small grey Fiat Cinquecento, just about enough leg-room for him, but nippy and as common as muck on the island, lovely, he thought!
Naples
The train journey down from Rome was hot and very uncomfortable, and took longer than the three and a half hours predicted by the official at the train station. No air-conditioning, and rolling stock left over from the second world war, Mel said, and no refreshment carriage, just a boy with a trolley selling soft drinks at grossly inflated prices. “Five bucks for a warm coke,” Mel almost shouted.
“Don’t worry, hon,” Mary-Lou said, “you can have an ice cold beer at the hotel, soon!”
The Hotel Royal more than made up for the train journey, about 400 years old, very ornate with ‘da Vinci’ style paintings everywhere. Their large double was a very large double, probably was once the bedroom of a nobleman, the Doge of Naples. “We’ve just gone back 400 years,” Mary-Lou said, looking at the high ceilings.
“I bet these walls could tell some stories,” Mel said. With all that, the hotel had all the mod cons. The Cafe Nero, the bars and the restaurants were magnificent, but expensive, “Oh, well,” Mel said again,” we are only here once.”
“Don’t worry, honey, you can do some extra shifts!” she said, patting his hand as they sat in the bar.
“Ten bucks for a beer,” Mel said, “let’s find a licquor store and bring some in.”
“The hotel will charge us if they find out,” Mary-Lou said.
“I’ll take the chance, we can take the empties out with us!”
“Will you shut up for a few dollars, you’d probably drop them half-way across the lobby anyway!” she laughed as her mind’s eye pictured Mel picking up the pieces.
“Okay, okay, but we cut down on champagne,” he said with a grin.
Naples was beautiful, unless you strayed off of the tourist tracks, down by the harbour the hovel dwellings with dirty children, garbage all over the streets and the stray dogs, the smell was terrible, the honeymooners found out the hard way when they took a wrong turn off of a main street because Mel mis-read the map!
St Petersburg
Vasili had returned from Rome without success, there had been no news apart from old TV images, and his men were shaking in their shoes because they had missed ‘Keiron’ at the quayside and lost him in the car chase. They had scoured the area but with no luck, hotels, coffee shops, bars, restaurants were all checked for days. Romas were questioned, but apart from the Irish passport lead, nothing, just a dead end. Vasili’s younger brother, Mikhail, had the idea of checking the docks to find out if ‘Keiron’ had taken a yacht or some sort of boat to somewhere. He walked along by the small yachts and fishing boats asking what people were there, if they had seen the man in the photograph. He had no luck until he came to almost the last fishing boat, “Have you seen this man?” he asked the young fisherman.
“Who are you, foreign police?”
“Yes,” the Russian answered.
“You have no power here,” the boy said. The Russian opened his jacket to reveal his pistol, and at the same time he took a wad of dollars out of his pocket.
The boy looked wide-eyed at the pistol and the money, “I took him to Capri about two weeks ago,” he said, at that moment he didn’t know whether he would receive some dollars or a bullet.
Mikhail peeled off a thousand dollar bill and gave it to the trembling fisher, “If you have lied to me, I will be back with this,” the Russian said, tapping his pistol.
“It’s the truth, I swear,” the boy cried.
“Okay, good,” said Mikail and tapped him on the cheek.
Vasili soon heard the news and ordered a jet to take him to Capri as soon as possible. He didn’t own a private jet, but he did own the company that leased them. Eight Lockheeds worth half a billion dollars, about an eighth of his entire wealth. Nobody got the better of him, he killed, tortured, maimed or at least bribed, but that wasn’t very often, pain, punishment and death were his main methods, and Jonathan Weston was at the top of his list for the worst punishment conceivable. Arriving at the private park place, he was met by Mikhail and six ‘agents’, “Well done, my brother,” he said to Mikhail, “you see, it took my family’s brain power to find this animal. Now, spread out and find him and FUCKING SOON,” he screamed.
Jon didn’t know about the new visitors to the island, would he be caught by the Italian police? it would be better for him if he was, far better. The gang would find it easier on such a small island, even though it was crowded with tourists of all nationalities. The Russians spread out as Vasili had ordered, two of them even walked past his little Fiat when he was in it, his blood ran cold, he knew who they were, he had to get off the island. Inside he was panicking, he was aware of what these people would do to him, he shivered. Right, think Jon, think, he said to himself. Deep breaths, deep breaths, he repeated inwardly. He sat there for ten minutes and then drove to the hotel, he packed a few clothing essentials into a back-pack and left the rest behind, he nonchalantly walked over to his car and drove up into the hills until nightfall. A fishing boat would be the answer, he drove down to the harbour. At the entrance he couldn’t believe his eyes, four of the Russian bastards walking along the quayside, easily recognisable, perhaps it was the way they walked, but it was very obvious who and what they were, death on legs. He turnrd the little car around and left the harbour area, if they had no luck tonight, which they wouldn’t, he would come back early next morning. He drove back to spend the night in the hills, in the cramped Fiat, but it was worth it, he thought. The sun woke him as it came over the brow of the hill, cars and trucks were beginning to trundle up the steep incline. The smell of wild plants and flowers flowed in as he opened the windows, he ached in places he’d never ached before! “Right Jon,” he said, “how do you get out of this one?” He put on his fedora and drove down the hill in to town, he needed a coffee desperately. At the bottom of the hill, on the outskirts of town where the shops began, he found a small cafe, ‘perfect’ he said to himself, ‘this will put some life into me’. It even had a convenience where he was able to wash, paper towels only, but it was better than nothing. He gave the girl behind the counter 10 euros for the coffee and the facilities. As he left his picture appeared on the TV on the wall shelf, her mouth dropped open, and she immediately pho
ned the poice with his description and that of the car plus the direction in which he was going. About half a mile down the road, it was blocked with police cars and heavily armed police. He skidded to a halt, but it was too late ...... ‘this is it’ he said to himself, ‘this is it, finally.’ He couldn’t believe it when the police walked right past him to a similar car about five behind him. It suddenly dawned on him as he looked at the little bonnet, the sun shining on the paintwork made it look silver, the girl in the cafe had seen him drive off in a mid-grey car that, in the blazing sun, made it look silver! A policeman waved him on whilst his colleagues pulled the other driver out of his silver Fiat!
He drove on down to the town and approached his hotel from a rear street, he went in through the tradesman’s entrance to the surprise of the kitchen staff. He climbed the rear stairs to the second floor, in his room he took everything out of the safe. His case was quickly packed and he disappeared down the rear stairs and was soon driving through the back streets down to the docks. He parked between two warehouses and looked up and down the quayside, no sign of the Russians, ‘good’ he thought and walked over to a fishing trawler at the quayside. Working on the deck was an old man of the sea, “Do you speak any English?” ‘Keiron’ asked.
“A little, from Americans during the war. Got any gum?” he laughed through an almost toothless mouth.
Jon pulled out a small wad of dollar bills, the old boy looked at the money, “Can you take me to Sicily?”
“Sicilia?” the man almost screamed.
“Yes,” said Jon.
“You are rich?” the fisher asked.
“No, but I can pay you well, in American dollars,” he said.
“$4,000,” the old man said.
“Okay,” Jon agreed, “$2,000 now, $2,000 when we get to Palermo. When will we go?” he asked.
“When my son arrives in one hour, we must fish on the way.”
Guiseppe, the son, arrived and looked very suspiciously at ‘Keiron’, “Who’s he?” he said in Italian, and the father explained. “No, no,” the boy said, “cinque mille, cinque mille euros, no dollars,” he was shouting and waving his arms about. He walked over to Jon, “Inglese?” he asked.
