Iron Dove

by Leon, Judith

  Did he believe that? Yes, of course. Oddly enough, he’d never yet seen Nova in a fight. He’d always been somewhere else when the fighting started. But he knew that in Germany, she had single-handedly incapacitated two terrorists, killed six others and blown a small mountain sky-high. He also knew that the higher-ups at Langley considered her to be almost spookily competent.

  “Well, I shall take some comfort in that. But I do not forget that while you two are in Italy, you are my responsibility.”

  Joe suppressed a chuckle. Cesare, the garrulous interior decorator, may have read her file, but that wouldn’t tell the half of what Nova was really capable.

  Today Nova and Cesare were going shopping for the clothes Nova would need to dazzle Greco and make an appropriate impression on Sorokin and Ya Lin, as well. Joe had thought she would go boutique foraging first thing, but instead she’d said, “Let’s hit the beach for an hour or two. I’ll have time to shop this afternoon.” The parasailing had been Joe’s idea.

  When Nova reached them, she grabbed his arm, grinning. “Fantastic,” she said. “But I need some real exercise. How about a swim?”

  He and Nova headed for the water. Cesare stayed put. Perfect, from Joe’s perspective. But Nova said, “Aren’t you coming, Cesare?”

  “I don’t want to leave Principessa. Do go on without me.”

  Joe grabbed her hand and pulled her into a run. They splashed onto water-soaked sand. He let go of her hand. They ran to the edge of the gently breaking surf, strode side by side until they were waist-deep. Then she put her hands over her head, dove in and started stroking out to sea; he followed.

  They passed two rows of anchored sailboats and yachts and still Nova swam outbound. He kept up. He would let the Amazon decide how far she wanted to go.

  When eventually she stopped, he turned to look back toward Positano. They were out about half a mile. “As always, you’re in top condition,” he said.

  She brushed water from her face, shook her head and leaned back to float. “It’s beautifully quiet, isn’t it?”

  They rested that way for long moments.

  A sudden splash of water hit him on the chest. Another splash, and water hit his face.

  He righted himself, treading. “So you want to fight?”

  “Are you too tired?” She grinned and a glint of fun put green fire in her eyes. “I should drown you.”

  He balled his fist and used his forearm to blast water at her. She swam toward him, then dived. The next thing, Nova had her arms around his waist and was pulling him under.

  He grabbed her shoulders and, kicking like crazy, drove them to the top. Their heads breached the water’s surface and he grabbed a lungful of air. He heard her do the same. She wrapped her arms around his chest, he wrapped his arms around her arms, and down they went again. This was going to be a test of who could stay down the longest.

  She lost. She released her grip on his chest, he let her loose, and she kicked to the surface. He followed her up and, when he surfaced, wrapped his arms around her again. He felt her breasts, her kicking legs, her belly touching his. He was amazed that, under the guise of punishing him, she’d started a game that smacked of intimacy. He wanted to kiss her. What the heck am I supposed to do?

  “You win,” Nova said, letting her hands sweep slowly across Joe’s back, testing just exactly how firm his muscles were. They were rock-hard.

  He grinned that electric, cowboy-from-Texas grin. “Didn’t I tell you this would be a vacation?”

  She felt their legs as they kept brushing together, a decidedly exciting sensation. “Yes, you told me a vacation.” Now she felt his hands exploring her back. Of course he would do that. She’d started this whole thing, and it was dangerous to think she could play at being intimate with a man like Joe and expect that he’d take it any other way than that it was real. “But I’d be having a real vacation if you would make peace with Cesare.”

  “You want me to make peace?” His grip did not lessen one tiny bit.

  “Yes. Peace.”

  “With Cesare?”

  “He’s bursting with enthusiasm, Joe. And well-intentioned.”

  “He’s going to drive me crazy with all his talk. Or we’ll all be killed in the car.” He grinned. “I’d much rather be cooped up on a mission with Principessa.”

  She couldn’t stop the laugh that popped out. Then it suddenly grew very quiet as they held each other, slowly treading water.

  “Maybe we should start back,” she offered.

  “Should we?”

  The look in his eyes suggested he wasn’t thinking about swimming. “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “If you promise to let Cesare do his babbling routine and let it slip off your back like this water is slipping down your skin, I will insist that, when we’re all together, you will be the one to drive. Deal?”

  His arms loosened their hug; his hands grabbed her shoulders. Their bodies, which had been moving almost as one, moved apart again.

  “It’s a deal. Partner.”

  Partner. Yes, they were just partners.

  She started back, a brisk breaststroke. “Tomorrow’s the big day,” she called over her shoulder.

  “Greco arrives at the restaurant pretty promptly at six.” He talked between kicks as he caught up. “I should be into his condo by six-thirty or six-forty-five at the latest. The safecracking program is good, but he may have a safe that’s a real time-consumer, in which case getting into it and copying the hard drive of his laptop, any papers, and whatever disks are stored along with it could take me up to two hours. You need to keep him away until eight, just to be conservative.”

  “Eight o’clock it shall be.”

  “You know, Cesare is worried for you. I told him not to be. That you can handle yourself. But guys tied into La Cosa Nostra are by nature superparanoid. You know. You do need to be extra cautious not to spook Greco.”

  She looked to him, but he was looking forward, toward the beach. She couldn’t read his expression. He was worried for her. Maybe with a bit of special worry?

  Chapter 15

  Nova rose early the next day. Now armed with various outfits from Versace, Armani, and Gucci chosen to sexually distract Greco, intrigue the drug-smuggling Sorokin and impress the famous but nearly broke Chinese movie star, Ya Lin, she felt the thrill of adventure when all systems were go—the thrill of risk. Nature’s natural high.

  True, Joe and the Company had deceived her by their omission of information, and she experienced a moment of angry brain sizzle every time she thought about that. But she couldn’t deny the charge that the suspense of a good hunt always gave her. More than once, she’d been accused by one of her high adventure tourists of being an adrenaline junkie. It was, for better or worse, true.

  She worked out in her bedroom. The apartment building looked like a thousand others from the outside, but their unit had three spacious bedrooms. While Cesare concocted a breakfast feast of cheese omelets with bacon crisps, five different fresh fruits, café au lait and croissants, she and Joe had another go at the SISMI-provided photos—from the ground and the air—and the layouts of Greco’s condo and the Sorokin and Lin mansions.

  Finally it was time to climb into their Laforza SUV and do their own on-site recon of all three target properties. Summoning consummate tact, she said, “Cesare, I love Principessa and I love you, but to keep peace, I want you to please let Joe do the driving.”

  Cesare stopped, stroked Principessa, who was perched on his arm, and shook his head. “They don’t like my driving, sweetheart.”

  “Oh, I love it,” she countered, smiling and casting a glance at Joe from the corner of her eye. “I love excitement. But humor me. Joe is the insecure sort who will be easiest for us to get along with if we let him feel he’s in control.”

  “Get off it, Nova!” Joe said, although he smiled at her latest attempt to rile him.

  Cesare grinned at Joe. “You know, I do so understand. I don’t have that sort of problem myself. Princ
ipessa and I will happily sit in the rear.” He tossed the keys to Joe, opened the rear door on the passenger side and slid in.

  Joe took the driver’s seat.

  Positano was the location of their rented home base. The cities on this famous coastline formed a necklace of colorful seashells, all about a twenty-minute drive from each other. Going north to south down the coast, first came Positano and then Amalfi, both clinging as if by the tips of their fingers to hillsides overlooking the glittering blue water of the Gulf of Salerno. And then Ravello, reached by a winding, steep uphill road into equally steep hills where it nestled surrounded by the exquisite green of Mediterranean shrub and oaks.

  Fabiano Greco’s bachelor pad was in Positano, their first destination. They arrived at ten o’clock and parked two blocks away. Cesare agreed to remain with the SUV. “We do not want to be a crowd. I am simply your guide, if anyone asks,” he said.

  Nova carried two cameras. Joe lugged a camera case and tripod.

  Last night, Cesare, who had once visited Greco’s condo, described in detail the interior. Very little recon was required here. The plan was for Nova to connect with Greco at the beach. Then the live-in maid, who also cooked for Greco, would receive a call from her priest, arranged by SISMI, saying she must come at once to the church because a gift had arrived for her from her daughter in America. Then Joe would break in. The cook would return two hours later, five hundred dollars wealthier. And Nova would disengage as soon as possible after two hours with Greco had passed.

  They strolled past the condo, Joe taking a particularly long look down the side alley. Then it was back to the SUV and off to see Ya Lin’s place in Amalfi. The drive was so beautiful—azure sea, sheer drops to sandy beaches, sails against the water, white-washed homes and businesses with their red-tile roofs dazzling in the strong sun. She let down the window and savored salty air and seaweed.

  They arrived at eleven-thirty, and once again they left Cesare parked a block away on the narrow, steep street. Were there any flat streets on the entire coast, she wondered wryly as she and Joe trudged uphill past the entries to two mansions situated below Lin’s.

  To make their cover as photographers interested in architecture plausible, she snapped photos of both mansions, the fronts of which could be glimpsed through their gates if she aimed at just the right angle. At Ya Lin’s gate she did the same.

  Joe muttered, “This place will be a bitch to get into if the housekeeper doesn’t accept my cover as a city fire inspector and let me onto the grounds. It’s evident from here that all the windows are easily accessible with the rope and hook, but there isn’t any place along this damn wall with a good blind spot. If I can’t get in during the day…Well, thank God, she doesn’t have dogs.”

  “The housekeeper will let you in. Your Italian is perfect—great northern accent. And then, there is always the trusty smile.”

  Nova hoped her optimism was justified because they had already agreed that their backup plan, for them to come in together at night, would be much more difficult and risky since at night Lin put the guards outside the house, and they walked the open grounds.

  A car braked to a stop nearly on top of them. Nova’s skin crawled with goose bumps as she and Joe spun around. The front doors of a black sedan flew open, and two very large and grumpy-looking men with Mediterranean complexions and beautifully tailored suits stepped out.

  “What are you doing here?” one with a bald head demanded in Italian, his tone reminding her of Star’s Doberman pinscher when you tried to take a bone from him.

  “I’m a photographer,” she said in a rush and in English, praying as her pulse accelerated that they wouldn’t understand her and so be confused. “I photograph architecture.”

  Apparently he didn’t understand. He came back again in Italian. “I said, what are you doing taking pictures here? No paparazzi allowed!”

  “Paparazzi,” Joe echoed. “No. No paparazzi.”

  Bald Head stepped up to Joe, close, inside any man’s zone of acceptance. “Get away from here,” he growled one last time in Italian.

  Nova grabbed Joe’s arm, gave both men one of her best, most innocent and quite apologetic smiles. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s a beautiful home on beautiful grounds. Sorry.”

  She and Joe sauntered back down the hill, all innocence. She turned once to check, and they were still watching. She waved, then turned and relaxed.

  Joe said, smiling broadly, “Well, I never thought I’d be glad to be taken for paparazzi.”

  When they explained to Cesare what had happened, he frowned. “You know, if they are up to no good and thus inclined to be suspicious, we could have a problem, because paparazzi are virtually always men—not attractive women. We don’t want them getting overly defensive. They may have said paparazzi, but they may have second thoughts and try to check you out. Hopefully the contessa will have done our job for us.”

  He stroked Principessa, thinking, then grinned. “In fact, this little encounter may work out fine since, if they do check you out, the grapevine gossip will have primed Ya Lin to accept Nova as a photographer.”

  Since it was past noon, they agreed to have lunch in Amalfi. Cesare took them straight down the road past the Cathedral of Sant’Andrea to a restaurant on the beach. They shared a huge pizza, washing it down with red wine.

  The drive to Ravello took them inland, past orange groves of divine scent and vineyards clinging to steep slopes. Cesare, who had been unusually quiet all morning said, “You said you once stayed at the Astoria when you attended the music festival, Nova. The view of the bay from its dining terrace is really quite stupendous, don’t you agree?”

  “I do indeed. I was ten. I was with my father and my mother. He loved great music. He loved Italy. He died flying in a seaplane to Capri for holiday.”

  “I am so very sorry,” Cesare said.

  “The drive here is bringing back bits of memory.”

  The heart of Ravello, where the Cathedral San Pantaleone dominated an intimate piazza, was blocked off from car traffic. Nova remembered sitting with her father, licking her first gelato and watching tourists mingle with locals: dark-robed priests linked arm in arm strolling toward the cathedral, women with straw hats to fight the sun, couples having someone take their picture. The hotel had been only steps away; at least, that was how she remembered it. And the concerts had been performed in an outdoor place where she could watch birds flying and see the sea at the same time.

  Her throat tightened and she blinked hard against threatening tears as she remembered her father smiling and leaning close to whisper to her, as a middle-aged man passed by them. “That’s the famous writer, Gore Vidal,” her father had said. She had no idea who Gore Vidal was then. She’d later learned that he was indeed famous, and that he owned a villa in Ravello, as many famous musicians and writers did.

  But that day her father was sharing something that had pleased him with her. They had spent the entire day together, a rare event. But though his responsibilities as a diplomat kept him busy and often away, she never once in her life doubted his love. Her father had set a very high bar for any man to reach. That was probably one reason why she was unmarried and unlikely ever to be so. That, as well as the fact that of the two men in her life after her father, the first had abused her and the second had betrayed her.

  They passed the point where cars had to park if people wanted to go into the town center. Not much farther on they turned left onto a narrow road that led past expensive homes.

  Joe said, “I’m going to drive past the entry so we can get a first look. We’ll walk back downhill.”

  The Sorokin property appeared to be as formidable to get inside as Nova had feared, based on the recon photos of the long and narrow house. The architect had essentially built the house’s backside flush with the mountain behind it. Most of the main rooms fronted onto the lawn. The front entry gate opened onto a sweeping drive through a huge lawn decorated with metal and marble sculptures.

  W
alking back to the SUV, she said, “There’s no way to get in from the sides or front without being detected. The entry will have to be at the rear.”

  “I agree,” Joe said.

  “That means a long rappel down the side of the cliff and then entry through that chimney.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Much as it pisses me off to say it, Joe, we need to change plans. We need to set it up so that you distract Sorokin and I go in.”

  “Like hell!”

  They reached the car and Joe yanked his door open. She slid into the passenger seat.

  “Welcome back,” Cesare offered cheerily. The usually silent Principessa barked once.

  “I mean it, Joe. Clearly I’m the one best suited.”

  “Clearly you’re not.”

  “Tell me you haven’t been worried that the chimney might be just a bit too tight a fit.” She added, even as she sensed the irony of the fact that she was going to be doing exactly what she’d said she didn’t want to do, “I’m also a more experienced climber. Did you figure from the photos how sheer that seventy-five foot drop down to the roof is?”

  Clenching his jaw, Joe turned the key and the SUV roared. He put it in gear and they took off, heading back downhill. “I can make the climb just fine,” he said, “and I can get down that damn chimney just fine.”

  “What seems to be the problem?” Cesare asked, his tone for once stern.

  “I am a better climber than Joe, and I’m smaller in size, especially my shoulders. He also knows, although it hasn’t come up before, that I’ve gone through the training at The Farm and although I’m slower, I can get into the safe as well as he can. If we’re going to do this right, and we are, I am the one who should go in. I was going to distract Sorokin by claiming to sell a fancy Ferrari. Joe can just as well be the seller. It doesn’t have to be me.”