After he retrieved the message, Jordan decided to call back when he woke in the morning, prior to the beginning of the festivities. He stripped off his clothes and headed toward the shower. Steam enveloped the bathroom, relaxing him. He came out of shower dried off, and hit the bed. No sooner had he put his head on the pillow than he was sound asleep.
Chapter Six
Startled, Jordan woke up to his phone ringing. He took a quick moment to compose himself and then picked it up.
“Who is it?” Jordan demanded.
“Jordan. It’s me, Max. Did you get my message last night?”
“Max, what’s going on? I was going to call you back this morning, after I woke up.”
“Sorry, Jordan. It can’t wait. I need to see you right away. I’m coming to Italy. We need to meet tomorrow.”
“What’s going on, Max?”
“Jordan, we can’t discuss this over the phone. Where will you be tomorrow?”
“At my usual place. Can we say ten o’clock? It’s Il Palio today, in Siena”
“Oh, my gosh! Are you kidding? Well, lucky you that you can have fun today, because it won’t be fun tomorrow, when we talk.”
“Great, Max. I’ll see you then.”
“Have fun, Jordan.” Max hung up.
He took his shower and went down to have breakfast. The hotel lobby was a bustle of activity. Excitement was everywhere with people loud and the lobby jammed, which made it a challenge for Jordan to maneuver himself across it to the lounge, where they served breakfast. He grabbed the last table by a window. It seemed he was the only one that was just now getting up, so he quickly filled his plate at the buffet and asked for a pot of coffee. People were everywhere in the street, wearing the colors and symbols of their respective contrade. He could pick out those that were from Tortoise and Wave, others from Owl, Snail and Giraffe. As he returned to his table, he found that Gerhardt had joined him.
He found himself quickly forgetting about the phone call from Max and seeing her tomorrow.
“Good morning, Gerhardt. Thank you again for dinner last night.” Acting unsurprised by Gerhardt’s appearance, Jordan sat down.
“Jordan, you are more than welcome. I was happy to be your host. Marco told me you were in need of some information. How can I help?
Jordan brought Gerhardt up to speed on the Pakistan operation and Tahir’s comments. “Marco felt you might be able to fill in some of the blanks.”
“I’ll try my best. Marco may have told you I’m former Stasi. I was the number two in their clandestine operation when the wall came down and the Russians sold us out. Fortunately, I had friends in the Kremlin who gave me a heads up and I was able to be in Switzerland at the time. My wife was Swiss, but when she passed away, I wanted to be somewhere else. I came here on vacation and never left.”
“Not a bad spot to live your life.” They both laughed. “How did you connect with Marco?”
“Marco and I spent thirty years trying to recruit the same people, carrying out similar missions. We had seen each other many times. We knew who the other was and what we did. Spying is like any other business. You’re competitors but, you know and respect one another. Sometimes, we won; other times, Marco did. But, we were always professional to one another. One day, I was walking down this street.” Gerhardt pointed out the window. “Just a few blocks from here. And, I see this Priest approaching in his brown robes. The face is so familiar and then I recognize Marco. I thought he was retired, like me, but I assumed he must be on an assignment, to be dressed in that fashion. So I followed him. As I turned a corner where he’d gone, he grabbed me and pulled me into an alley. He’d seen me and thought maybe I was freelancing and was there to kill him. Once we got it all straightened out, we had a great laugh. We spent the rest of the day drinking and reminiscing. Two old colleagues, talking about people we had worked with over the years and wondering where they were now. No different than any two people. We’re dear friends, now.”
“That’s a great story. I’m not sure I ever see myself sitting down with some of the folks on the other side, these days.”
“It’s a different world, today, Jordan. I don’t envy you at all. Going up against men like you do, you have my blessings. I’m not sure I could do it. They are rotten. Men like Amadi play by no rules, like so many of his comrades. Elimination seems the only option.”
“What about cells in the United States? I don’t mean ones put in for the short term. I mean ones that might have been in place for years, just waiting to be activated.”
“I think it is possible,” Gerhardt responded after a moment. “I remember hearing about and seeing some documents out of Iran. They were disappointed they didn’t get more out of holding the American hostages. It didn’t cripple America, like they had hoped. They developed plans for a long term project and it was going to cost them a lot of money and more than ten years; but, I think they were moving ahead. It had to do with families and getting families into the States. I never saw the details or any status reports.”
“So, you’re not sure if they actually did it.”
“No, but, I’m sure they started it. I’m just not sure they got people into the States. I think you’re better off to assume they got some element in that could be activated.”
“I agree Gerhardt.”
There was much commotion on the streets.
“Jordan, we must go. It looks like Mass has let out and the race will be starting soon. Here are my contact numbers. I’ll help in any way.”
“Thank you. You’ve already been a great help.”
They left the hotel and joined in with the throngs of people on the street.
Everyone was headed to the center of Siena. Unlike any horse race Jordan had seen, there was not a dedicated horse track in Siena, but rather the main Piazza del Campo in the town was transformed into the track. When Jordan had first walked into the Piazza for his first race, he thought his friends were pulling a fast one on him. No way could they race horses in this small area. On top of it all, over fifty thousand people were going to pack into the area to watch.
Jordan followed Gerhardt. “So, tell me what is our strategy for the race, to win or to make sure our enemy loses?”
“Ah, that is the question isn’t it and, I’m not sure we know just yet. We will need to pay attention to our horse and jockey and see how the line up for the start of the race.”
They started to climb up to their seats on one of the many balconies that surrounded the Piazza del Campo. Bleachers were placed on the balconies for the day, so as to accommodate as many people as possible for the race.
The attention went to the starting line. The Il Palio is run clockwise, versus counter clockwise, unlike most horse races Jordan had seen in the United States. Because of the small size of the venue and the quickness of the race — about ninety seconds — there was much bumping and jostling amongst the jockeys. The rules were such that the winner was the first horse that crossed the finish line, whether it had its rider or not. The course was narrow and more of a tri-oval than a circular course. Several of the turns were so tight that it would almost be impossible for every jockey to stay on his mount if most of the horses were running in a bunch as they entered the turn.
Jordan could hear the commotion of the crowd reach a crescendo as the horses began to arrive. Each contrade cheered as their horse entered the Piazza. As the horses moved closer to the starting rope, it looked, to the untrained eye, like a catastrophe waiting to happen. This race didn’t have the organization of a Kentucky Derby, with marshals on horseback leading the racehorses from the paddock to the starting gate. There was no gate structure attached to a tractor, giving each horse a slot from which to start. At this race, there was a rope across the starting line and the horses moved up against the rope. To the virgin eye, it looked like utter chaos; but, as Jordan had come to learn, there was a great deal of tactical interplay underway, with the jockey and the horse. Depending on one’s strategy, it was critical to be in the
right position for the start of the race. The starting judge could delay the start for as long as the positioning was entertaining the crowds, for there was no countdown, or signal that the rope was going to be dropped. At a certain point, the judge decided to start the race. He would just let the rope go.
Switching between watching the horses and their jockeys’ maneuver, and the judge holding the rope, Jordan tried to determine when the race would begin. The judge gave no indication of his intentions, as each jockey continued to attempt to put his horse in the best position, while at the same time trying to put enemies in a poorer position. Talking to one another, attempting to form alliances, the jockey would create partnerships for the race. Sometimes, they would bluff and make an arrangement they had no intention of keeping once the race began. Not only were the horses used as weapons, but so also were flying elbows, legs kicking and even the occasional whip lashing from one jockey against another. Several times, Jordan found himself flinching and moving backward, to avoid a blow he saw coming a jockey’s way.
As the rope dropped, pandemonium erupted in the Piazza. Horses bolted onto the course like they had been shocked by prods. There was no announcer, not that anyone could hear one anyway, as the Piazza was walled in on every side by a 15th Century palazzo, becoming an echo chamber of disjointed sound, of cheers and screams. As they tore around the course, the horses showed none of the beauty of a thoroughbred race; but, in its own right, it was a sight to see.
As they moved into the turns, there was considerable bumping, as horses and jockeys collided with one another. Quickly, one jockey was off of his horse and rolling in the dirt of the track, while his horse continued with the race and was still a contender to win.
The horse from the contrade for which Jordan and Gerhardt cheered was in third place and part of a group of three that had distanced itself somewhat from the pack. This gave the trio some room to move and position themselves. As they moved into the second lap and the tightest turn, their contrade’s jockey maneuvered his horse on the inside of the second horse, taking the turn intentionally wide, which forced the number two horse against the wall and gave that jockey no choice but to pull up and slow down, which allowed Jordan’s and Gerhardt’s contrade horse to move into second place. An erupting cheer thundered from those around Jordan and they pounded their feet on the bleachers and the whole balcony began to shake. For a moment, Jordan became somewhat concerned but, as his friends slapped him on the back, he joined in the cheers and decided not to worry about the stress loads on a 15th Century balcony holding ten times the amount of people for which it was intended.
Their horse closed in on the leaders as they entered the last lap. As they passed by, people leaped over the barriers and started running after the horses on the track. It was total mayhem. The horses were neck and neck, with no real space between them and two turns which remained before the finish. The noise in the piazza was thunderous. Jordan couldn’t even hear the people next to him, albeit they were obviously shouting at the top of their lungs.
They barreled through the next to last turn, both horses were headed to the final turn and the finish line. What would the final strategy be? Jordan could not guess. Both jockeys would have to make their move, as their horses seemed equal in speed and agility.
The horses entered the turn, the lead horse attempted to jam Jordan’s contrades horse against the inside barrier, with the hope the crowd would spook the horse but, just as the opposing horse and rider closed in, the jockey on the horse from Jordan’s adopted contrade quickly pulled back and to the left, sling shoting his horse around the leader and kept him reigned in tight, so the other horse found itself off balance and had to take short steps to regain its stride.
The horse of the contrade Jordan stood with rocketed across the finish line. Leaving the bleachers, Jordan and Gerhardt climbed down to the Piazza, to join the pressing throngs. Marching with the rest of the citizens of the contrade and their winning horse to the Church of Santa Maria in Provenzano, they proudly waved their banner and would spend the rest of the evening parading through Siena, while at the same time hosting the victory dinner for all citizens of Siena.
Chapter Seven
Leaving Siena after dinner, to return to his villa, Jordan’s mind went back and forth from the grand events of the Il Palio to what Gerhardt had told him and, finally, thinking what was so important that Max needed to come see him. At least the day in Siena and being part of the contrade that won had helped him escape from the dread of what the next day might bring.
Rounding the last bend, his villa lay directly in front of him. Nothing spectacular, it was run down, not having been well-maintained and the furnishings were worn. The agent had shown him so many other choices within his price range that would have been more comfortable and given him, as the agent described, the true Tuscan experience but, Jordan had opted for this villa. It fit him. It was basic, it was comfortable and, when he moved in, he felt at home.
He entered the villa, finding it as he’d left it the other day. He grabbed a Peroni out of the refrigerator and took a seat in the old comfy chair in the living room. The cold beer tasted great as it was traveling down his throat. The long pull resulted in half the bottle being gone in his first gulp.
He scolded himself for not stopping and picking up a newspaper. One might have revealed some information about what was going on in the world that would have caused the pending visit. His spartan villa had no TV, radio or Internet access. Most of the time, Jordan was grateful to be off the grid and somewhat out of the loop on the happenings in the world but, now, he wished he could have some modicum of information, to prepare himself for what might be coming. After a second beer, which was consumed almost as quickly as the first, Jordan headed up to the bedroom.
While he had expected a restless sleep, he was surprised to find he’d slept through most of the night and it was almost five o’clock in the morning. Quickly, Jordan decided to shower and take a quick journey to Sant’Antimo and go to Mass. It was a twenty-minute ride from the villa to the Monastery but, it always seemed to Jordan to take him back five hundred years. Outside the small village lay the fields, church and monastery of an Order of Brothers. Every morning, at seven o’clock, they gathered in the comparatively large Church and chanted Mass. Though their congregants kept dwindling, Jordan was always impressed that, even with the smaller number and the increasing age of the remaining brothers, they were still able to fill the huge space of the church with the most incredible sound.
Though Jordan didn’t understand Latin, he still felt the beauty of the experience. He found his favorite pew, to the left center of the altar, which allowed the acoustics of the Church to center right in that space. He would sit there and close his eyes and the most serene feelings would come over him. He felt as if he were floating, his mind becoming completely clear, devoid of all thought, except for the beauty of the sound that was enveloping him. It ended all too soon and Jordan found himself headed back to his car.
He was drove slowly home in anticipation that Max wouldn’t arrive until noon at the earliest, given flight schedules and travel time from the airport. So, he stopped at a small restaurant for breakfast. He was able to find the previous day’s Herald Tribune and scanned it to see if there were anything happening in the world that would explain the phone call and visit. He found nothing.
He slowed down, turning into the lane leading to his villa, noticing a different set of tire tracks on the dirt road. Possibly, the landlord had been by to check on him, as had been his practice every two to three days. Or, it could have been the local farmer who tended the olive groves surrounding the property and, on two occasions, left samples of his olive oil on Jordan’s doorstep.
He rounded the last bend and he saw a car parked in front of the villa. He didn’t recognize the car but, recognized the person standing next to it smiling at him. It was William Jendell, the co-leader from the Pakistan mission. How did they get here so fast, Jordan wondered as he parked next to the l
arge Audi?
“Hey ya, Jordan!” William called, as he put out his hand. “Bet you’re real glad to see me,” he said with a shitty little grin on his face.
If William hadn’t been so good at what he did, and gotten Jordan out of a few situations in the past, Jordan probably would have just hauled off and hit him.
“Hi, William. How’s the leg.” Jordan said restraining himself from taking any action. “You got here fast; I wasn’t expecting you for another hour or so.”
“Leg’s healing. We brought a G-5 from DC,” William said with a smile, his right hand simulating a plane flying fast. “Came directly into Florence. You can’t beat it!”
“I guess not.” Jordan stated. “Where’s Max?”
“Inside, waiting for you.”
“Hmm, I thought I locked that door?” Jordan focused on the door, mentally reviewing his actions earlier in the morning. He knew he’d locked it, but also knew it was a simple lock and would have been no challenge for William and/or Max.
“You did,” smiled William.
Jordan walked into the house to find Max in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator, reaching deep into the shelves. “What in the hell are you doing in my refrigerator?” Jordan called, wanting to startle Max.
Max jumped.
Having the desired effect Max quickly turned around with the look of a teenager caught shoplifting. “I was going to cook up some breakfast for the three of us,” Max stated.
“Allow me,” Jordan said, as he pushed Max out of the way, reached into the refrigerator and grabbed the eggs, an onion, and some fresh ham he’d recently been given by the tenant farmer.
“I guess this must be important if you commandeered one of the boss’s planes to get here so fast. I thought I had at least until noon to make the place presentable.”
Enemy Among Us-A Jordan Wright Thriller Page 3
