Hot Ice (7 page)

The truck’s driver suddenly became aware his prey was about to escape and abruptly turned off the pavement also. Just as Jason had anticipated, the much heavier truck did not fare as well as the much lighter Suzuki. The second its double rear wheels left the road, a geyser of muddy mix shot into the air, and it came to an abrupt stop and listed to the right like a sinking ship.

Jason made another abrupt turn, heading straight for the larger vehicle. When he was within a few yards, he brought the car to a stop, hopping out.

“Jason! What—?”

Without pausing in the knee-deep water, he shouted over his shoulder. “Drive back onto the pavement!”

As he reached the side of the cement mixer, the driver was halfway out of the window. By now the door was partially submerged and Jason guessed it had either jammed or was being held shut by water pressure. Jason made a grab for the driver’s shirt but was met with a swish of a knife’s blade splitting the air.

Jason sloshed his way a few steps toward the back of the big rig, where the driver couldn’t quite reach him and had to strain to see to the rear. With a leap, Jason had an arm around the one that held the knife. He took a step forward, slamming the arm down onto the windowsill. The sound of the cracking ulna and a scream of pain seemed simultaneous.

The knife splashed harmlessly into the murky water.

With both hands grabbing the man’s shirt, Jason wrestled him through the open window. Jason wrenched the injured arm behind the driver’s back, forcing him to kneel in the water. If the man was not an Arab, he certainly could have passed muster for one. Dark-skinned and bearded.

Jason placed a knee between the man’s shoulders, forcing him forward so that his face was only inches from seawater. “Who sent you?”

Turning his head, he spat in Jason’s general direction.

Leaning forward, Jason forced the struggling man’s head underwater. He watched until the frenzy of bubbles calmed before he used his free hand to grab a handful of hair. Gasping, spluttering, the truck driver gulped air as though the supply might run out.

“Now, we’ll try one more time: Who sent you?”

Although Jason spoke no Arabic, he was fairly certain he was hearing curses, not names.

The man’s head went back underwater. This time Jason waited until the bubbles ceased before pulling him up. At first, Jason thought he might have waited too long, but the man coughed into life like a balky car motor on a cold morning.

“Glad you’re back with us. Now, absolute last chance: Who sent you?”

Silence.

This time Jason had every intention of drowning his former assailant, but there was a tug on his arm.

“Jason, no!”

Maria had come up behind him. “Jason, you’re killing him!”

“Maria, the man tried to run us over, squash us like bugs. What do you suggest, that I sue him?”

“You can’t just drown him in cold blood!”

“There’s nothing cold about my blood. I’m mad as hell.”

Maria was pleading but those blue eyes were angry. “Jason, let him go.”

“Why? So he or one of his buddies can try again and maybe succeed?”

“You can’t just kill him.”

“Watch me.”

“Jason,” she pled. “Violence begets violence. You kill him, then they come for revenge. It has to stop somewhere.”

Maria covered her mouth with her hand. “My God!” She was pointing. “You already killed him!”

Jason looked down. There were no more bubbles. He let go and the man pitched forward, facedown. “Problem solved.”

Maria’s face went white. She stooped to kneel in the water and pull the man’s head above water, glaring at Jason “You, you … you murderer!”

“Maria, be rational: He goes free, you think he’s going to thank us? Maybe with a long-range rifle shot or a bomb. The only way you deal with those people, the only thing they respect, is force. They want paradise; I intend to help them get there.”

The dead man began to cough. His eyes opened. Then he vomited seawater.

“Looks like this conversation is moot,” Jason observed, nodding toward the spectators who had gathered on the causeway, including police.

Someone had used their cell phone to summon the authorities. Another reason to hate the things. Now there was no way Jason could finish.

Corporal Guideo Finallia, the ranking member of the main island’s three-man force, accompanied Jason and Maria to the door of the small police station. He had been assigned to this island to finish his time until retirement and was unhappy to be confronted with something more complex than a tourist whose pocket had been picked.

He ran a handkerchief across his sweaty face as he saw Jason and Maria into the street. He was clearly glad to say good-bye to Pangloss. The dog had behaved well but his sheer size could be intimidating to a stranger.

In the piazza across the street, the local open-air market was in full swing. Under canvas flaps, fish and other seafood were displayed on melting ice, to the delight of flies. Next to the fishmongers, butchers readily cut chunks from whole sides of beef, lamb, or pig or sold skinned rabbits hanging from horizontal bars, their long ears assuring the customer he was not buying a rat. Still-feathered ducks and chickens hung alongside. Farther along, fruit-and-vegetable sellers haggled with scarf-clad grandmothers and summer residents’ wives in designer pantsuits.

“The mens from Naples come,” the policeman said in broken English, “take this man away. He no have … er, proofs.”

“Identification?” Maria prodded.

“
Sì
, no ident-ti-fi-cation,” he confirmed gratefully. “Peoples on the road see what he do.” He looked at Jason. “He take truck, steal. You no know why he try to run you over?”

It was the fourth time the officer had asked the question.

Jason shook his head. “Maybe he has something against Jap cars.”

The officer put a chubby arm on Jason’s shoulder. “We find out.”

“I hope so. I can think of a lot better ways to spend my time than dodging cement trucks.”

Finallia looked puzzled, his thick eyebrows arching into a
V
over his nose. “Dodging?”

“Er, looking out for, getting out of the way of.”

The policeman smiled. “Ah, you make the joke! Americans always make the joke!” Then he became serious. “No worry. Company lock up rest of cement trucks.”

“That’s comforting to know.”

Finallia gave Jason’s hand a perfunctory pump, started to pat Pangloss on the head, and then thought better of it. “Go, have a little pasta, maybe pizza. No worry.”

They had taken no more than a dozen steps when Jason stopped.

“What?” Maria wanted to know.

It was the first word she had spoken to him since they had left the causeway.

Jason nodded. “That man in front of the pottery stall. He’s watching us. No, don’t look up… .”

Too late. The man Jason had spotted turned, shoving his way through a crowd whose white sneakers, souvenir T-shirts, and sunburned faces and arms marked them as cruise-boat passengers on a day trip as surely as any brand signified ownership of a cow. Jason took two steps in pursuit before realizing the futility of giving chase.

Maria maintained the same frigid silence she had begun before they left the causeway as she walked beside him up to the top of the hill toward Angelina, the Little Fisher-Girl, a trattoria specializing in local seafood. Its limited outdoor tables were already full of diners and a line had formed beside the entrance to the outdoor dining area, a small square delineated by potted bay trees.

Aside from decent fish and crustaceans, Angelina had made a concession to the largely American clientele it enjoyed in the summer: two large-screen TVs, tuned to CNN Europe. By September, Formula One races, soccer matches, and other events appealing to locals would draw customers to sip beer, wine, coffee, and grappa. The idea might make commercial sense, but Jason hated dining to the background of the talking heads, even if their voices were inaudible above the murmur of diners’ conversations.

The owner and maître d’, Giuseppe, met them at the entrance, his perpetual smile firmly in place. “
Signore
Peters,
Signorina
.” He bowed his head in that form of unctuousness particular to restaurant personnel greeting a big tipper. “Your table is ready.”

Their table was always ready even though Angelina took no reservations. The GTAEPS principle was as effective here as it was in New York, Los Angeles or, for that matter, Singapore: “Generous Tips Always Ensure Prompt Seating”—particularly in many European establishments where the gratuity is included in the bill. It also ensured Pangloss was as welcome as any other customer.

An English couple at the head of the line muttered angrily as Giuseppe whisked Jason and Maria to a table just now being cleared by one of the waiters Jason recognized as the proprietor’s youngest son. Pangloss settled by Maria’s chair expectantly. A few scraps always found their way to his place at Angelina.

Seated, Jason pretended to be enjoying the view. Over a sea of red-tile roofs, the harbor was visible and, beyond, the blue of the Bay of Naples faded into a gray haze. Fishing boats, no more than open rowboats at anchor in neat rows, bobbed gently in the swell. Their nets were spread to dry on the khaki-colored rocks of the breakwater like bright orange moss.

By the time he looked back at the table, a glass of white wine was frosting its glass in front of him. Another perk of tipping. Most Italians claimed that cold killed the taste, preferring their
vino blanco
only slightly chilled below room temperature, if at all. Jason was more than willing to concede the point: dulling the acidic bite of most Italian whites was to be desired. For the euros Jason left on the table after eating here, Giuseppe would have cheerfully served the wine as ice cubes.

Maria was studying her menu, although she had been here enough to have it memorized. They always ordered one of the catches of the day, anyway. “You nearly killed that man, you know,” she finally said reproachfully.

Jason felt eyes on him from neighboring tables. He leaned forward, speaking softly so he could be heard only by Maria. “You may wish I had. He has some pals already on the island and I doubt they’re here to buy my paintings.”

Her blue eyes peered over the top of the menu. “The man in the market? He could have been anyone.”

“Possible,” Jason conceded. “But he sure took off when he realized I’d spotted him. I’d bet he was surprised we weren’t so much shark chum out on the causeway.”

“You mean he was with the guy who tried to run us over? Why would they want to kill you?”

Jason shrugged. “I guess my popularity rating has slipped.”

Maria put her menu flat on the table and leaned forward on arms crossed. The pose pushed up her breasts, giving a tempting view of cleavage. “Let me see, now: for three years we live on this island where the greatest threat is boredom. I leave for a few weeks and you do a ‘friend’”—she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers—“a favor. A few days later, some unknown person appears on the island, steals a cement truck, and tries to run us down. You don’t suppose there’s a connection?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”

“Killing people doesn’t exactly enhance your appeal either.”

Jason was acutely aware of the silence at neighboring tables. “Any chance we can continue this discussion in private?”

She flushed as she noticed the curious faces around them. The menu went up again. “Sorry, I should have …”

But Jason wasn’t paying attention. He was riveted to one of the television screens.

It was filled with a photograph of Al Mohammed Moustaph.

Getting up from the table, Jason moved to the big-screen TV, where he could just hear the news announcer’s voice. The man spoke with that certain authority Americans always attribute to a British accent.

“… Moustaph, reputed to be in the command structure of al-Qaida, was kidnapped while visiting Africa.”

The screen shifted to a strangely familiar scene. It took Jason a second to recognize the black helicopter in a storm of African dust.

The film crew! The fucking TV equipment he had seen before he shot Bugunda! They must have had a cameraman in the pursuing jeep!

“Although no one has claimed credit for the abduction, an anonymous al-Qaida spokesperson, speaking on Al Jazeera, the Qatar television network, has blamed ‘the criminal element posing as governments of Western countries.’”

The camera panned the open area and Jason felt a wave of nausea sweep over him. There he was, running for the chopper for all he was worth. The camera zoomed in just he threw himself to the ground. It was less than a second but his face was clearly recognizable before he disappeared into the tall grass. The scene went suddenly blank, no doubt as the rocket demolished the jeep and its occupants.

The announcer’s voice continued unruffled, as though giving the match results at Wimbledon. Moustaph’s picture replaced the helicopter. “The Muslim extremists threaten unprecedented attacks on Western countries if Mr. Moustaph is not released from wherever he is being held.”

“Now we know why someone wanted to kill us.”

Jason had not noticed Maria come up beside him.

“Huh?”

“The little ‘favor’ you did in Africa for your friend,” she said in the even voice she used when most angry. “Looks like it might not just get us killed, but innocent people all over the world, too. You must be very proud of yourself.”

“How was I to know … ?”

“Jason,” she said as though addressing a dim-witted child, “how many times have I told you? Violence begets violence. It is an unending cycle that must be broken to end.”

Tell that to the people in the World Trade Center, he thought. Or, for that matter, at Pearl Harbor. But he said, “The man was responsible for Laurin’s death. I was hardly prepared to kiss and make up.”

She arched one unplucked eyebrow, an expression he somehow always found sexy. “And I am not prepared to live with a man who continues the killing.”

Spinning on her heel, no easy task since she was wearing flip-flops, she whistled to Pangloss and marched out of the trattoria, followed by every eye in the place.