The Sands of Time (10 page)

The manhunt intensified, while the object of all this attention was hiding in the home of Salvatore Giuseppe, one of her father’s men who had managed to escape the firestorm.

In the beginning, Lucia’s only thought had been to avenge the honor of her father and brothers. She had fully expected to be caught and was prepared to sacrifice herself. When she had managed to walk out of the prison and make her escape, however, her thoughts changed from vengeance to survival. Now that she had accomplished what she had set out to do, life suddenly became precious again.
I’m not going to let them capture me,
she vowed to herself.
Never.

Salvatore Giuseppe and his wife had done what they could to disguise Lucia. They had lightened her hair, stained her teeth, and bought her glasses and some ill-fitting clothes.

Salvatore examined their handiwork critically. “It is not bad,” he said. “But it is not enough. We must get you out of Italy. You have to go somewhere where your picture is not on the front page of every newspaper. Somewhere where you can hide out for a few months.”

And Lucia remembered:

If you ever need a friend, you can trust Dominic Durell. We are like brothers. He has a home in France at Béziers, near the Spanish border.

“I know where I can go,” Lucia said. “I’ll need a passport.”

“I will arrange it.”

Twenty-four hours later Lucia was looking at a passport in the name of Lucia Roma, with a photograph taken in her new persona.

“Where will you go?”

“My father has a friend in France who will help me.”

Salvatore said, “If you wish me to accompany you to the border—?”

Both of them knew how dangerous that could be.

“No, Salvatore,” Lucia said. “You have done enough for me. I must do this alone.”

The following morning Salvatore Giuseppe rented a Fiat in the name of Lucia Roma and handed her the keys.

“Be careful,” he pleaded.

“Don’t worry. I was born under a lucky star.”

Had not her father told her so?

At the Italian-French border the cars waiting to get into France were advancing slowly in a long line. As Lucia moved closer to the immigration booth, she became more and more nervous. They would be looking for her at all exit points. If they caught her, she knew she would be sentenced to prison for life.
I’ll kill myself first,
Lucia thought.

She had reached the immigration officer.

“Passport,
signorina.
”

Lucia handed him her black passport through the car window. As the officer took it, he glanced at Lucia, and she saw a puzzled look come into his eyes. He looked from the passport to her face and back again, this time more carefully. Lucia felt her body tense.

“You’re Lucia Carmine,” he said.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“N
o!” Lucia cried. The blood drained from her face. She looked around for a way to escape. There was none. And suddenly, to her disbelief, the guard was smiling. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Your father was good to my family,
signorina.
You may pass through. Good luck.”

Lucia felt dizzy with relief.
“Grazie.”

She stepped on the accelerator and drove the twenty-five yards toward the French border. The French immigration officer prided himself on being a connoisseur of beautiful women, and the woman who pulled up before him was certainly no beauty. She had mousy hair, thick glasses, stained teeth, and was dowdily dressed.

Why can’t Italian women look as beautiful as French women?
he thought disgustedly. He stamped Lucia’s passport and waved her through.

She arrived in Béziers six hours later.

The phone was answered on the first ring, and a smooth male voice said, “Hello.”

“Dominic Durell, please.”

“This is Dominic Durell. Who is this speaking?”

“Lucia Carmine. My father told me—”

“Lucia!” His voice was warm with welcome. “I was hoping to hear from you.”

“I need help.”

“You can count on me.”

Lucia’s heart lightened. It was the first good news she had heard in a long time, and she suddenly realized how drained she felt.

“I need a place where I can hide out from the police.”

“No problem. My wife and I have a perfect place for you to use for as long as you like.”

It was almost too good to be true.

“Thank you.”

“Where are you, Lucia?”

“I’m—”

At that moment the blare of a police shortwave radio crackled over the phone, and then was instantly shut off.

“Lucia—”

A loud alarm rang in her head.

“Lucia—where are you? I’ll come and get you.”

Why would he have a police radio in his house?
And he had answered the telephone on the first ring. Almost as though he had been expecting her call.

“Lucia—can you hear me?”

She knew, with an absolute certainty, that the man on the other end of the line was a policeman. So the dragnet was out for her. This call was being traced.

“Lucia—”

She replaced the receiver and walked quickly away from the telephone booth.
I’ve got to get out of France,
she thought.

She returned to her car and took a map from the glove compartment. The Spanish border was only a few hours away. She replaced the map and started off, heading southwest toward San Sebastian.

It was at the Spanish border that things started to go wrong.

“Passport, please.”

Lucia handed the Spanish immigration officer her passport. He gave it a cursory glance and started to hand it back, but something made him hesitate. He took a closer look at Lucia, and his expression changed.

“Just a moment, please. I will have to have this stamped inside.”

He recognized me,
Lucia thought desperately. She watched him walk into the little office kiosk and show the passport to another officer. The two of them were talking excitedly. She had to escape. She opened the door on the driver’s side and stepped out. A group of German tourists who had just cleared customs was noisily boarding an excursion bus next to Lucia’s car. The sign on the front of the bus read MADRID.

“
Achtung!”
their guide was calling out.
“Schnell.”

Lucia glanced toward the hut. The guard who had taken her passport was yelling into the telephone.

“All aboard,
bitte.
”

Without a second thought, Lucia moved toward the laughing, chattering tour group and stepped onto the bus, averting her face from the guide. She took a seat in the rear of the bus, keeping her head down.
Move!
she prayed.
Now.

Through the window Lucia saw that another guard had joined the first two and the three of them were examining her passport. As though in answer to Lucia’s prayer, the bus door closed and the engine sprang to life. A moment later the bus was rolling out of San Sebastian toward Madrid. What would happen when the border guards found that she had left her car? Their first thought would be that she had gone to the ladies’ room. They would wait and finally send someone in to get her. Their next step would be to search the area to see if she was hiding somewhere. By then dozens of cars and buses would have passed through. The police would have no idea where she had gone, or in which direction she was traveling.

The tour group on the bus was obviously having a happy holiday.
Why not?
Lucia thought bitterly.
They don’t have the police snapping at their heels. Was it worth risking the rest of my life for?
She thought about it, reliving the scenes with Judge Buscetta and Benito in her mind.

I have a feeling you and I could become very good friends, Lucia…To the death of villains.

And Benito Patas:
It’s like old times. You couldn’t forget me, could you?

And she had made the two traitors pay for their sins against her family.
Was it worth it?
They were dead, but her father and brothers would suffer for the rest of their lives.
Oh, yes,
Lucia thought.
It was worth it

Someone on the bus started a German song, and the others joined in:

“In München ist ein Hofbrau Haus, ein, zwei, sufa…”

I’ll be safe with this group for a while,
Lucia thought.
I’ll decide what to do next when I get to Madrid.

She never reached Madrid.

At the walled city of Ávila, the tour bus made a scheduled stop for refreshments and what the guide delicately referred to as a comfort station.

“Alle raus vom bus,”
he called.

Lucia stayed in her seat, watching the passengers rise and scramble for the front door of the bus.
I’ll be safer if I stay here.
But the guide noticed her.

“Out,
fräulein,
” he said. “We have only fifteen minutes.”

Lucia hesitated, then reluctantly rose and moved toward the door.

As she passed the guide, he said, “
Warten sie bitte!
You are not of this tour.”

Lucia gave him a warm smile. “No,” she said. “You see, my car broke down in San Sebastian and it is very important that I get to Madrid, so I—”

“Nein!”
the guide bellowed. “This is not possible. This is a private tour.”

“I know,” Lucia told him, “but you see, I need—”

“You must arrange this with the company headquarters in Munich.”

“I can’t. I’m in a terrible hurry and—”

“
Nein, nein.
You will get me in trouble. Go away or I will call the police.”

“But—”

Nothing she said could sway him. Twenty minutes later Lucia watched the bus pull away and roar down the highway toward Madrid. She was stranded with no passport and almost no money, and by now the police of half a dozen countries would be looking for her to arrest her for murder.

She turned to examine her surroundings. The bus had stopped in front of a circular building with a sign in front that read
ESTACIÓN DE AUTOBÚSES
.

I can get another bus here,
Lucia thought.

She walked into the station. It was a large building with marble walls, and scattered around the room were a dozen ticket windows with a sign over each one:
SEGOVIA
…
MUÑOGALINDO
…
VALLADOLID
…
SALAMANCA
…
MADRID
. Stairs and an escalator led to the downstairs level, where the buses departed from. There was a
pastelería,
where they sold doughnuts and candy and sandwiches wrapped in wax paper, and Lucia suddenly realized that she was starved.

I’d better not buy anything,
she thought,
until I find out how much a bus ticket costs.

As she started toward the window marked
MADRID
, two uniformed policemen hurried into the station. One of them was carrying a photograph. They moved from window to window showing the picture to the clerks.

They’re looking for me. That damned bus driver reported me.

A family of newly arrived passengers was coming up the escalator. As they moved toward the door, Lucia stepped up beside them, mingling with them, and went outside.

She walked down the cobblestone streets of Ávila, trying not to rush, afraid of drawing attention to herself. She turned into the Calle de la Madre Soledad, with its granite buildings and black wrought-iron balconies, and when she reached the Plaza de la Santa, she sat down on a park bench to try to figure out her next move. A hundred yards away, several women and some couples were seated in the park, enjoying the afternoon sunshine.

As Lucia sat there, a police car appeared. It pulled up at the far end of the square and two policemen got out. They moved over to one of the women seated alone and began questioning her. Lucia’s heart began to beat faster.

She forced herself to get to her feet slowly, her heart pounding, and turned away from the policemen and kept walking. The next street was called, unbelievably, “The Street of Life and Death.”
I wonder if it’s an omen.

There were lifelike stone lions in the plaza, with their tongues out, and in Lucia’s fevered imagination they seemed to be snapping at her. Ahead of her was a large cathedral, and on its façade was a carved medallion of a young girl and a grinning skull. The very air seemed to be filled with death.

Lucia heard the sound of a church bell and looked up through the open city gate. In the distance, high on a hill, rose the walls of a convent. She stood there, staring at it.

“Why have you come to us, my daughter?” the Reverend Mother Betina asked softly.

“I need a place of refuge.”

“And you have decided to seek the refuge of God?”

Exactly.
“Yes.” Lucia began to improvise. “This is what I have always wanted—to devote myself to the life of the Spirit.”

“In our souls it is what we all wish for, is it not, daughter?”

Jesus, she’s really falling for it,
Lucia thought happily.

The Reverend Mother went on. “You must understand that the Cistercian order is the strictest of all the orders, my child. We are completely isolated from the outside world.”

Her words were music to Lucia’s ears.

“Those who enter these walls have vowed never to leave.”

“I never want to leave,” Lucia assured her.
Not for the next few months, anyway.

The Reverend Mother rose. “It is an important decision. I suggest that you go and think about it carefully before you make up your mind.”

Lucia felt the situation slipping away from her, and she began to panic. She had nowhere to go. Her only hope was to stay behind these walls.

“I have thought about it,” Lucia said quickly. “Believe me, Reverend Mother, I’ve thought about nothing else. I want to renounce the world.” She looked the Mother Prioress in the eye. “I want to be here more than I want to be anywhere else in the world.” Lucia’s voice rang with truth.

The Reverend Mother was puzzled. There was something unsettled and frantic about this woman that was disturbing. And yet what better reason for anyone to come to this place where her spirit would be calmed by meditation and prayer?

“Are you Catholic?”

“Yes.”

The Reverend Mother picked up an old-fashioned quill pen. “Tell me your name, child.”

“My name is Lucia Car—
Roma.
”

“Are your parents alive?”

“My father is.”

“What does he do?”

“He was a businessman. He’s retired.” She thought of how pale and wasted he had looked the last time she saw him, and a pang went through her.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Two brothers.”

“And what do they do?”

Lucia decided she needed all the help she could get. “They’re priests.”

“Lovely.”

The catechism went on for three hours. At the end of that time, the Reverend Mother Betina said, “I will find you a bed for the night. In the morning you will begin instructions, and when they are finished, if you still feel the same, you may join the order. But I warn you, it is a very difficult path you have chosen.”

“Believe me,” Lucia said earnestly, “I have no choice.”

The night wind was soft and warm, whispering its way across the wooded glade, and Lucia slept. She was at a party in a beautiful villa, and her father and brothers were there. Everyone was having a wonderful time, until a stranger walked into the room and said, “Who the hell are these people?” Then the lights went out and a bright flashlight shone in her face and she came awake and sat up, the light blinding her.

There were half a dozen men surrounding the nuns in the clearing. With the light in her eyes, Lucia could only dimly make out their shapes.

“Who are you?” the man demanded again. His voice was deep and rough.

Lucia was instantly awake, her mind alert. She was trapped. But if these men were the police, they would have known who the nuns were. And what were they doing in the woods at night?

Lucia took a chance. “We are sisters from the convent at Ávila,” she said. “Some government men came and—”

“We heard about it,” the man interrupted.

The other sisters were all sitting up now, awake and terrified.

“Who—who are you?” Megan asked.

“My name is Jaime Miró.”

There were six of them, dressed in rough trousers, leather jackets, turtleneck sweaters, canvas rope-soled shoes, and the traditional Basque berets. They were heavily armed, and in the dim moonlight they had a demonic look about them. Two of the men looked as though they had been badly beaten.