“Yes, please.”
“Don't move. I'll be right back.” He patted her knee and she managed a smile. Then he hustled away, almost falling himself. He ran to the rear of the church and saw no one. Where, exactly, does one find an office in a cathedral? Where is the curator, administrator, head priest? Who's in charge of this place? Outside, he circled San Luca twice before he saw a custodian emerge from a partially hidden door by the gardens.
“Mi pud aiutare?” he called out. Can you help me?
The custodian stared and said nothing. Marco was certain he had spoken clearly. He walked closer and said, “La mia arnica si e fatta male.” My lady friend is hurt.
“Dov'e?” the man grunted. Where?
Marco pointed and said, “Li, dietro alia chiesa.” Over there, behind the church.
“Aspetti.” Wait. He turned and walked back to the door and opened it.
“Si sbrighi, per favora.” Please hurry.
A minute or two dragged by, with Marco waiting nervously, wanting to dash back and check on Francesca. If she'd broken a bone, then shock might set in quickly. A larger door below the baptistery
opened, and a gentleman in a suit came rushing out with the custodian behind him.
“La mia arnica e caduta,” Marco said. My friend fell.
“Where is she?” asked the gentleman in excellent English. They were cutting across a small brick patio, dodging unmelted snow.
“Around back, by the lower ledge. It's her ankle; she thinks she broke it. We might need an ambulance.”
Over his shoulder the gentleman snapped something at the custodian, who disappeared.
Francesca was sitting on the edge of the bench with as much dignity as possible. She held the tissue at her mouth; the crying had stopped. The gentleman didn't know her name, but he had obviously seen her before at San Luca. They chatted in Italian, and Marco missed most of it.
Her left boot was still on, and it was agreed that it should remain so, to prevent swelling. The gentleman, Mr. Coletta, seemed to know his first aid. He examined her knees and hands. They were scratched and sore, but there was no bleeding. “It's just a bad sprain,” she said. “I really don't think it's broken.”
“An ambulance will take forever,” the gentleman said. “I'll drive you to the hospital.”
A horn honked nearby. The custodian had fetched a car and pulled up as close as possible.
“I think I can walk,” Francesca said gamely, trying to stand.
“No, we'll help you,” Marco said. Each grabbed an elbow and slowly raised her to her feet. She grimaced when she put pressure on the foot, but said, “Its not broken. Just a sprain.” She insisted on walking. They half carried her toward the car.
Mr. Coletta took charge and arranged them in the backseat so that her feet were in Marco's lap, elevated, and her back was resting against the left rear door. When his passengers were properly in place, he jumped behind the wheel and shifted gears. They crawled in reverse along a shrub-lined alley, then onto a narrow paved road. Soon, they were moving down the hill, headed for Bologna.
Francesca put on her sunglasses to cover her eyes. Marco noticed a trickle of blood on her left knee. He took the tissue from her hand and began to dab it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry I've ruined your day.”
“Please stop that,” he said with a smile.
It was actually the best day with Francesca. The fall was humbling her and making her seem human. It was evoking, however unwilling, honest emotions. It was allowing sincere physical contact, one person genuinely trying to help another. It was shoving him into her life. Whatever happened next, whether at the hospital or at her home, he would at least be there for a moment. In the emergency, she was needing him, though she certainly didn't want that.
As he held her feet and stared blankly out the window, Marco realized how desperately he craved a relationship of any kind, with any person.
Any friend would do.
At the foot of the hill, she said to Mr. Coletta, “I would like to go to my apartment.”
He looked in the rearview mirror and said, “But I think you should see a doctor.”
“Maybe later. I'll rest for a bit and see how it feels.” The decision was made; arguing wouldVe been useless.
Marco had some advice too, but he held it. He wanted to see where she lived.
“Very well,” said Mr. Coletta.
“It's Via Minzoni, near the train station.”
Marco smiled to himself, quite proud that he knew the street. He could picture it on a map, at the northern edge of the old city, a nice section but not the high-rent district. He had walked it at least once. In fact, he'd found an early-hours coffee bar at a spot where the street ended at the Piazza dei Martiri. As they zipped along the perimeter, in the mid-afternoon traffic, Marco glanced at every street sign, took in every intersection, and knew exactly where he was at all times.
Not another word was spoken. He held her feet, her stylish but well-used black boots slightly soiling his wool slacks. At that moment, he couldn't have cared less. When they turned onto Via Minzoni, she said, “Down about two blocks, on the right.” A moment later she said, “Just ahead. There's a spot behind that green BMW.”
They gently extracted her from the rear seat and got her to the sidewalk, where she shook free for a second and tried to walk. The ankle gave way; they caught her. 'I'm on the second floor," she said, gritting her teeth. There were eight apartments. Marco watched carefully
John GitiSHAiM
as she pushed the button next to the name of Giovanni Ferro. A female voice answered.
“Francesca,” she said, and the door clicked. They stepped into a foyer that was dark and shabby. To the right was an elevator with its door open, waiting. The three of them filled it tightly. “I'm really fine now,” she said, obviously trying to lose both Marco and Mr. Coletta.
“We need to get some ice on it,” Marco said as they began a very slow ride up.
The elevator made a noisy stop, its door finally opened, and they shuffled out, both men still holding Francesca by the elbows. Her apartment was only a few steps away, and when they arrived at the door Mr. Coletta had gone far enough.
“I'm very sorry about this,” he said. “If there are medical bills, would you please call me?”
“No, you're very kind. Thank you so much.”
“Thank you,” Marco said, still attached to her. He pushed the doorbell and waited as Mr. Coletta ducked back in the elevator and left them. She pulled away and said, “This is fine, Marco. I can manage from here. My mother is house-sitting today.”
He was hoping for an invitation inside, but he was in no position to push on. The episode had run its course as far as he was concerned, and he had learned much more than he could have expected. He smiled, released her arm, and was about to say goodbye when a lock clicked loudly from inside. She turned toward the door, and in doing so put pressure on her wounded ankle. It buckled again, causing her to gasp and reach for him.
The door opened just as Francesca fainted.
Her mother was Signora Altonelli, a seventyish lady who spoke no English and for the first few hectic minutes thought Marco had somehow harmed her daughter. His bumbling Italian proved inadequate, especially under the pressure of the moment. He carried Francesca to the sofa, raised her feet, and conveyed the concept of “Ghiaccio, ghiaccio.” Ice, get some ice. She reluctantly backed away, then disappeared into the kitchen.
Francesca was stirring by the time her mother returned with a wet washcloth and a small plastic bag of ice.
“You fainted,” Marco said, hovering over her. She clutched his hand and looked about wildly.
“Chi e?” her mother said suspiciously. Who's he?
“Un amico.” A friend. He patted her face with the washcloth and she rallied quickly. In some of the fastest Italian he had yet to experience, she explained to her mother what had happened. The machine- gun bursts back and forth made him dizzy as he tried to pick off an occasion
al word, then he simply gave up. Suddenly, Signora Altoneili smiled and patted him on the shoulder with great approval. Good boy.
When she disappeared, Francesca said, “She's gone to make coffee.”
“Great.” He had pulled a stool next to the sofa, and he sat close by, waiting. “We need to get some ice on this thing,” he said.
“Yes, we should.”
They both looked at her boots. “Will you take them off?” she asked.
“Sure.” He unzipped the right boot and removed it as though that foot had been injured too. He went even slower with the left one. Every little movement caused pain, and at one point he said, “Would you prefer to do it?”
“No, please, go ahead.” The zipper stopped almost exactly at the ankle. The swelling made it difficult to ease the boot off. After a few long minutes of delicate wiggling, while the patient suffered with clenched teeth, the boot was off.
She was wearing black stockings. Marco studied them, then announced, ''These have to come off."
“Yes, they do.” Her mother returned and fired off something in Italian. “Why don't you wait in the kitchen?” Francesca said to Marco.
The kitchen was small but impeccably put together, very modern with chrome and glass and not a square inch of wasted space. A high- tech coffeepot gurgled on a counter. The walls above a small breakfast nook were covered in bright abstract art. He waited and listened to both of them chatter at once.
They got the stockings off without further injury. When Marco returned to the living room, Signora Altoneili was arranging the ice around the left ankle.
“She says it's not broken,” Francesca said to him. “She worked in a hospital for many years.”
“Does she live in Bologna?”
“Imola, a few miles away.”
He knew exactly where it was, on the map anyway. “I guess I should be going now,” he said, not really wanting to go but suddenly feeling like a trespasser.
“I think you need some coffee,” Francesca said. Her mother darted away, back into the kitchen.
“I feel like I'm intruding,” he said.
“No, please, after all you've done today, it's the least I can do.”
Her mother was back, with a glass of water and two pills. Francesca gulped it all down and propped her head up on some pillows. She exchanged short sentences with her mother, then looked at him and said, “She has a chocolate torta in the refrigerator. Would you like some?”
“Yes, thank you.”
And her mother was off again, humming now and quite pleased that she had someone to care for and someone to feed. Marco resumed his place on the stool. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes, it does,” she said, smiling. “I cannot lie. It hurts.”
He could think of no appropriate response, so he ventured back to common ground. “It all happened so fast,” he said. They spent a few minutes rehashing the fall. Then they were silent. She closed her eyes and appeared to be napping. Marco crossed his arms over his chest and stared at a huge, very odd painting that covered almost an entire wall.
The building was ancient, but from the inside Francesca and her husband had fought back as determined modernists. The furniture was low, sleek black leather with bright steel frames, very minimalist. The walls were covered with baffling contemporary art.
“We can't tell Luigi about this,” she whispered.
“Why not?”
She hesitated, then let it go. “He is paying me two hundred euros a week to tutor you, Marco, and he his complaining about the price. We've argued. He has threatened to find someone else. Frankly, I need the money. I'm getting one or two jobs a week now; it's still the slow season. Things will pick up in a month when the tourists come south, but right now I'm not earning much.”
The stoic facade was long gone. He couldn't believe that she was
allowing herself to be so vulnerable. The lady was frightened, and he would break his neck to help her.
She continued: “I'm sure he will terminate my services if I skip a few days.”
“Well, you're about to skip a few days.” He glanced at the ice wrapped around her ankle.
“Can we keep it quiet? I should be able to move around soon, don't you think?”
“We can try to keep it quiet, but Luigi has a way of knowing things. He follows me closely. I'll call in sick tomorrow, then we'll figure out something the next day. Maybe we could study here.”
“No. My husband is here.”
Marco couldn't help but glance over his shoulder. “Here?”
“He's in the bedroom, very ill.”
“What's-”
“Cancer. The last stages. My mother sits with him when I'm working. A hospice nurse comes in each afternoon to medicate him.”
“I'm sorry.”
“So am I.”
“Don't worry about Luigi. I'll tell him I'm thrilled with your teaching style, and that I will refuse to work with anyone else.”
“That would be a lie, wouldn't it?”
“Sort of.”
Signora Altonelli was back with a tray of torta and espresso. She placed it on a bright red coffee table in the middle of the room and began slicing. Francesca took the coffee but didn't feel like eating. Marco ate as slowly as humanly possible and sipped from his small cup as if it might be his last. When Signora Altonelli insisted on another slice, and a refill, he grudgingly accepted.
Marco stayed about an hour. Riding down in the elevator, he realized that Giovanni Ferro had not made a sound.
Red Chinas principal intelligence agency, the Ministry of State Security, or MSS, used small, highly trained units to carry out assassinations around the world, in much the same manner as the Russians, Israelis, British, and Americans.
One notable difference, though, was that the Chinese had come to rely upon one unit in particular. Instead of spreading the dirty work around like other countries, the MSS turned first to a young man the CIA and Mossad had been watching with great admiration for several years. His name was Sammy Tin, the product of two Red Chinese diplomats who were rumored to have been selected by the MSS to marry and reproduce. If ever an agent were perfectly cloned, it was Sammy Tin. Born in New York City and raised in the suburbs around D.C., he'd been educated by private tutors who bombarded him with foreign languages from the time he left diapers. He entered the University of Maryland at the age of sixteen, left it with two degrees at the age of twenty-one, then studied engineering in Hamburg, Germany. Somewhere along the way he picked up bomb-making as a hobby. Explosives became his passion, with an emphasis on controlled explosions from odd packages-envelopes, paper cups, Ball-point pens,
cigarette packages. He was an expert marksman, but guns were simple and bored him. The Tin Man loved his bombs.
He then studied chemistry under an assumed name in Tokyo, and there he mastered the art and science of killing with poisons. By the time he was twenty-four he had a dozen different names, about that many languages, and crossed borders with a vast array of passports and disguises. He could convince any customs agent anywhere that he was Japanese, Korean, or Taiwanese.
To round out his education, he spent a grueling year in training with an elite Chinese army unit. He learned to camp, cook over a fire, cross raging rivers, survive in the ocean, and live in the wilderness for days. When he was twenty-six, the MSS decided the boy had studied enough. It was time to start killing.
As far as Langley could tell, he began notching his astounding body count with the murders of three Red Chinese scientists who'd gotten too cozy with the Russians. He got them over dinner at a restaurant in Moscow. While their bodyguards waited outside, one got his throat slit in the men's room while he finished up at the urinal. It took an hour to find his body, crammed in a rather small garbage can. The second made the mistake of worrying about the first. He went to the men's room, where the Tin Man was waiting, dressed as a janitor. They found him with his head stuffed down the toilet, which had been clogged and was backing up. The third died seconds later a
t the table, where he was sitting alone and becoming very worried about his two missing colleagues. A man in a waiter's jacket hurried by, and without slowing thrust a poison dart into the back of his neck.
As killings go, it was all quite sloppy. Too much blood, too many witnesses. Escape was dicey, but the Tin Man got a break and managed to dash through the busy kitchen unnoticed. He was on the loose and sprinting through a back alley by the time the bodyguards were summoned. He ducked into the dark city, caught a cab, and twenty minutes later entered the Chinese embassy. The next day he was in Beijing, quietly celebrating his first success.
The audacity of the attack shocked the intelligence world. Rival agencies scrambled to find out who did it. It ran so contrary to how the Chinese normally eliminated their enemies. They were famous for their patience, the discipline to wait and wait until the timing was perfect. They would chase until their prey simply gave up. Or they would
ditch one plan and go to the next, carefully waiting for their opportunity.
When it happened again a few months later in Berlin, the Tin Man's legend was born. A French executive had handed over some bogus high-tech secrets dealing with mobile radar. He got flung from the balcony of a fourteenth-floor hotel room, and when he landed beside the pool it upset quite a few sunbathers. Again, the killing was much too visible.
In London, the Tin Man blew a mans head off with a cell phone. A defector in New York's Chinatown lost most of his face when a cigarette exploded. Sammy Tin was soon getting credit for most of the more dramatic intelligence killings in that underworld. The legend grew rapidly. Though he kept four or five trusted members in his unit, he often worked alone. He lost a man in Singapore when their target suddenly emerged with some friends, all with guns. It was a rare failure, and the lesson from it was to stay lean, strike fast, and don't keep too many people on the payroll.
As he matured, the hits became less dramatic, less violent, and much easier to conceal. He was now thirty-three, and without a doubt the most feared agent in the world. The CIA spent a fortune trying to track his movements. They knew he was in Beijing, hanging around his luxurious apartment. When he left, they tracked him to Hong Kong. Interpol was alerted when he boarded a nonstop flight to London, where he changed passports and at the last moment boarded an Alitalia flight to Milan.
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