The Da Vinci Deception (47 page)

He reached his hands into the darkness and touched the wet stones that lined the wall. He felt a draft and faced into it. As he stepped ahead the air moved faster. He was in a tunnel, another gift from the Italian army.

He moved faster. After fifty feet the tunnel gradually turned. There was light ahead reflecting dimly off the wet walls. Another fifty feet. Now he could see the end of the tunnel, a rectangle of brilliant light. He began to run.

Tony had half carried, half pulled Eleanor through the tunnel. They emerged at the first row of boathouses where the speedboat was moored. He forced her into the boat.

“Don't do this! Let me go!” she cried.

He slapped her hard on the cheek and she lashed out, her nails cutting into his arm. He struck her again. Then a third time with more of a fist than an open hand. She put her hand to her head. “Don't hit me,” she said with a voice tight with terror. “Please, don't hit me.” Her body was trembling.

Tony glanced at the fuel gauge. He always filled the tanks after a run over the lake and had enough to reach the Swiss end of the lake. He
opened a locker and took out a German rifle. It was heavy but accurate and took a thirty-round clip. He put a 9mm pistol under his belt.

He flipped the key to start the engines, and heard a noise behind him. He turned to see Stiehl jump into the boat. He reached for his gun but Stiehl was on him before he could pull it free. Stiehl grabbed him around the neck and pulled him onto the deck of the boat. “Get out!” he shouted to Eleanor. For an instant she was frozen, then she extricated herself and jumped to the dock.

“Run! Get the hell out of here,” Stiehl yelled.

Tony rolled over and onto his feet. As he straightened, his hand found the grip of the automatic. Stiehl faced the wrong end of the gun.

“I don't want to kill you, Stiehl, but I need one of you with me . . .”

There was a loud report, then another. Bullets tore into the spot where Eleanor had been standing seconds before. The shots came from one of Brassi's men. Stiehl lunged at Tony. Another shot was fired. Then another that was louder than the others. It came from Tony's revolver. Stiehl spun and fell. His right side was on fire. He put his hands where he had been hit, and felt the warm, sticky blood.

Tony brought the engines alive. He poked the nose of the boat away from its berth. There was more rifle fire, deadly shots kicked up water sprays and tore into the dashboard. He thrust to full power, turning south. Then in a zigzag course, he turned the wheel and aimed north. Two patrol boats were waiting and vectored on him. Tony saw the maneuver but maintained course until it seemed he would collide with one of them. At the last instant he swerved, and as he ran by he aimed his rifle at the stern of the patrol boat. At least one of the rounds he pulled off struck home. The back of the boat exploded. For a harrowing few seconds half a boat floated on the water, then sank.

The second patrol boat rushed in to pick up the crew. Now, Tony faced the hydrofoil that had come out of hiding. It was as fast as the white speedboat but not as maneuverable. Above was the helicopter, turning and twisting as if signaling.

One at a time, Tony thought, his eyes flashing from the helicopter to the hydrofoil. He ran as close to the shore as he dared; the hydrofoil followed. He cut the engines and was almost instantly becalmed. The hydrofoil flew past, but the helicopter recovered and remained above, lurking in the air like a giant buzzard.

He turned to full power and set after the hydrofoil. It was making a wide sweep, apparently circling to come up behind Tony. He cut the circle
in half. As the hydrofoil seemed to be bearing down on him, he made a crisscrossing pattern directly toward it. His eyes never left the port pontoon, a slim section of metal on which the craft relied for half its ability to raise its hull above the water. He took dead aim on the strut holding the pontoon. The pilot tried to swerve off, but was too late.

The bow of the speedboat sheared the pontoon; the hydrofoil sped on a short distance then fell on its side like a wounded goose.

Tony stared up at the helicopter. “Fucker.”

Deats looked down at the white boat streaking away from the disabled hydrofoil. “He's got a bellyful of confidence.” He motioned to the pilot to stay behind the boat. The pilot nodded and took the craft down to fifty feet over the water.

Deats put a map in his lap and estimated their position. Within minutes they would pass Bellagio, an unpromising goal for Waters. Beyond Bellagio, it was likely that he would choose a landing well north. Deats put his finger on Colico. From that small town one could take the military roads to the Julier Pass and the safety of St. Moritz.

“Tell Brassi he's headed north. To either Colico or Gravedona on the western shore.” The pilot spoke into his microphone. Deats set aside the binoculars and put a rifle across his lap. It was beautifully crafted, and so new the oil on the stock smelled with a rare freshness. Deats aimed at the white boat ahead. Through the telescopic sight he clearly saw the body lying behind the man he had pursued so long. The stiffness in his hand was still an annoyance, but the finger on the trigger moved easily.

The speedboat continued north past Bellagio. The helicopter kept a discreet distance behind. Then the boat slowed and Tony left the controls, went to Stiehl, and bent over him. The radio in the helicopter buzzed. It was Brassi, speaking in Italian. The pilot acknowledged the message. “The
comandante
is coming. They are approaching Bellagio.”

Deats was concentrating on the activity in the boat below. “My God! Look what the bastard's up to.”

Waters had picked up Stiehl's limp body and draped it over the railing. Tony climbed back behind the wheel and accelerated. The helicopter followed.

Once again the boat slowed. Tony stood, looked up to the helicopter, then pushed Stiehl into the water.

“He's forcing us to go down for the poor blighter!” Deats shouted.

They were directly over Stiehl. Tony had throttled to full speed and was making his desperate run for one of the northern towns.

“We can't stop for a dead body,” the pilot called out.

“He's not dead.” The wash from the rotors created ripples in a wide circle around the body that was feebly flailing its arms in an attempt to stay afloat.

The pilot radioed his
comandante'
s boat.
“Presto! Presto!”

Stiehl sank out of sight, then bobbed to the surface. Deats yelled to the pilot. “Down!” The craft dropped to a few feet over the water. Deats crawled onto a pontoon and reached an arm to Stiehl. “Grab hold!” he shouted. Stiehl managed to get a hand out of the water. Deats took hold of his wrist but lost his grip. They tried again. This time he grasped tightly. There was a horn blast. The launch had caught up. Two men dove from the boat and swam to Stiehl's side. Deats climbed back into the helicopter.

“Go. And fast!” was his simple command.

The helicopter banked and rose. They flew up the center of the lake and at three hundred feet had the harbor of Menaggio to the west and the small town of Varenna to the east. The warm sun had brought out a fleet of pleasure boats and a hundred white triangles played in the breezes. It was a dismaying sight to Deats. Tony could duck in among the boats and be lost. They hovered over the armada of sailboats while Deats studied the map.

“Go into the harbor,” he instructed the pilot. “If we don't see him, we'll go north.” He glanced at his watch, then again after they had flown over and beyond the harbor. They had consumed a valuable three minutes going down for Stiehl, and there was no guarantee they had not overflown the white boat. Deats pointed away from Mennagio.
“Presto! Presto!”

The pilot swung the ship into a speed attitude and headed to the center of the lake. The helicopter was an old workhorse, probably retired from the army and rehabilitated for a more sedentary assignment than chasing after a powerful speedboat. It vibrated and the engine's shriek was too loud to permit voice communication.

Deats signaled with his hands that he wanted to move closer to the easterly edges of the lake. He chanced that if Tony was still on the water, he was headed for Colico. It was a gamble. The lake was three and a half miles wide and they could not fly over both shorelines.

He scanned the water beneath and ahead with field glasses that were
difficult to focus in the shaking aircraft. By Deats's calculations, they were a minute and a half from Colico. Then the pilot tapped his arm.

He pointed directly ahead to the telltale rooster's tail pluming up from the deep blue water. “Faster!
Presto!
” Deats urged.

As they were coming up over him, Tony turned his boat around and sped directly under the approaching helicopter. He had locked the wheel, and as he passed, he fired at the plane's belly. Bullets crashed through the thin skin; one tore into the cockpit, narrowly missing the pilot. Tony ejected the clip and inserted another. The pilot turned sharply and flew back in a rocking motion. Again they passed and Deats fired at the boat's controls, but his shots were wild. Tony triggered a stream of bullets, again striking the underbelly, this time sending a shard of metal into the pilot's leg. He yelled out and grabbed where it felt like he'd been stuck with a knife. Deats crawled behind him and bound a piece of cloth over the calf where the blood soaked through the pants.

“Stop weaving,” Deats shouted. “I can't take aim.” The pilot acknowledged and indicated with his hand that he would fly low then swoop up and over the boat.

The helicopter banked, then dropped to ten feet over the water. The rotors whipped up a fury of spray, nearly enveloping the helicopter. Tony turned at a right angle to the helicopter's line of approach. As he did so, the aircraft rose up directly over the boat and hovered.

Deats took careful aim, the crosshairs centered on the shoulder. “I don't want to kill you,” he said calmly. “That might be too good for you.” His good intentions vanished as Tony brought the rifle up and took aim on the superintendent.

The crosshairs moved to the chest. Deats fired. He fired twice more. He saw red circles on the white shirt. He raised the sight and saw the face contort in anger, then dissolve into bewilderment.

Tony fell back against the wheel. The white torpedo, its fierceness spent, turned in a lazy circle through the wavelets as gently as a rising autumn breeze that wafted across the quiet lake.

“P
ut this in front of the little man with the long nose.” Caramazza handed a bottle of Cinque Terre to a young waiter. “He dares say our white wines are inferior to the French. Let him learn how wrong he is.”

The waiter presented the bottle to Jack Oxby, uncorked it, and poured the wine into a stemmed glass. Oxby sniffed the slightly fruity wine, then sipped it. He smiled appreciatively and Caramazza put his thumb and forefinger together at the corner of his mouth and made a clicking noise with his tongue. It was a gesture meaning great taste and approval.

“Our host is determined to prove there are good Italian whites,” Oxby announced to his dinner companions. He faced Bruno Brassi. “I had not meant to offend him, nor you.”

“I am no expert,” Brassi replied. “All Italian wines are
saporito.
”

“You criticized his wine, Jack. For God's sake, compliment his food,” Deats chimed in.

“I'll have no trouble doing that. He rates a Michelin star.”

Caramazza said good night to the last of his guests and came to the table. “Did you enjoy the wine, Signore Oxby?”

“Very much. A solid flavor, much like Montlouis, or a Vouvray.
C'est bon.
”

“That's enough wine talk, Jack. You'll be lucky to have water if you keep it up,” Deats scolded.