The Stone of Archimedes (9 page)

Looking back toward the terminal, he finally saw Zendo followed closely by the nameless man carrying a small bag and heading toward them. The boss seemed to have a reasonable disposition.

Getting out quickly to greet his boss, Demetri gave up his front seat for the boss and then he put nameless in the center back and he filed into the back seat behind the driver.

The car pulled out slowly toward the airport exit.

“Did you find the professor?” Zendo asked, not even turning to look at him.

“The American woman?” Demetri said. “No, but we know where she's going.”

Zendo turned to him and said, “I meant the Malta professor. And why are we one man down?” He looked at the other two in the back and continued, “Niko, where's your cousin?”

Almost crying now, Niko explained what had happened at the apartment, including how Jake Adams had caught them just as they were leaving, murdering his cousin.

Zendo looked confused. “Why was he the only one left at the apartment? Didn't I always teach you to have a partner?”

Demetri took this one. “It was a mistake, Zendo. I left him there to make sure we had not left any trace of our visit.” He had still not mentioned the death of the professor, but he needed to soon or there would be hell to pay for the omission when he did find out. Now he explained the incident with the Malta professor, including the information obtained first to soften the blow of the man's death.

Stroking his long hair behind his ear, Zendo finally said, “I would have probably told you to kill the man anyway. But you should have waited for me so I could make sure the man told us everything he knew.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Demetri said, “I don't think he was in any position to lie to us. I trust what he told us.” He went on to explain what the Malta professor had been doing with the American woman.

“Tell me at least one of you happened to hit Jake Adams,” Zendo said, hopeful.

Demetri shrugged, “We have no way of knowing. But that man is crazy. He came running at as like a maniac firing his gun. He didn't seem to care if he got shot.”

Zendo shook his head and smiled. “I heard that about him. And I did warn you. Now, let's get down to the ferry terminal. Are you sure she will take the ferry?”

“Yes,” Demetri said. “The Malta professor said she was traveling with cash and didn't trust airline manifests.”

“So she knows we're after her. How much of a lead does she have.”

“Not much. The professor said she had just been at his apartment before we showed up.”

Zendo nodded. “Good. Then she might still be here in Malta.”

●

Sara Halsey Jones stood outside against the ferry's rail on the upper deck in the darkness, the relative cool from the summer night sending a slight chill through her body as the fading lights from Malta slowly dissipated on the horizon behind them.

But her chill, she was sure, had more to do with what she had just experienced at the University of Malta history professor's apartment. The two of them had just finished discussing her quest for the lost
Histories
of the Greek historian Polybius. Her work in Italy, Greece and Istanbul had led her to Malta and now full circle back to Italy. Well, Sicily. She knew that most Sicilians still didn't consider their island a part of the boot of Italy. And as an historian she knew well their beef and felt some sympathy for them. After all, they had been part of Magna Graecia, Greek settlements, before the Roman Republic finally took over in the third century BC.

She thought about the professor and hoped he was all right. Some of the men that came to the door she was sure she recognized from her time in Venice and Istanbul. One could have been the man that detained the American who had inexplicably contacted her in Athens, asking her if she was in fact Sara Halsey Jones—a strange and creepy man with a New York accent. How and why was an American calling her by name at a coffee shop in Athens? That was her first sign that her adventure collecting data on an obscure Greek historian had somehow raised concerns with someone. From that day forward she had done her best to stay off the grid, only using her passport when absolutely necessary. Which was a good reason to travel by ferry and train, where they might check out her passport but not report her passage to the government. Security was much less strict on these forms of transportation.

Sara had also come to change her appearance with each new location. Now she appeared like a widow in morning, dressed in all black with a scarf covering her hair, which she had started to put up on her head in a bun. Maybe she would cut it in Sicily. But how long could she keep running from these men? And why were they after her in the first place? These questions had haunted her for the past couple of weeks as she gathered information. Yet, she was the only one who really knew her true research target. If she discovered what she thought she would, she would write a book and hope to change the entire historical record of this entire region. Perhaps that was too strong. If nothing else, though, she would bring forth a more complete understanding of a truly remarkable man.

Hearing a noise behind her, she startled and a chill ran through her again, a common occurrence recently. But it was just a young couple in their early twenties coming to the upper deck for the romantic ambiance—something which she had not really experienced since her undergraduate college days. Perhaps she had spent too much time with her nose in the books to really live life. Now she was living life but fearing for it as well. And why? She had no clue.

If anything happened to the professor in Malta she would be sick with anguish. He was a nice man. She even thought he might desire a sexual relationship with her that night. How long had it been for her? She would need an abacus to calculate that. Well, the professor was a Frenchman, so he would have probably hit on just about anyone, she guessed. It was no indication of her desirability. Maybe she was beginning to not trust anyone, which is why she never told the Malta professor where she would go next. He had given her a few different possible locations for her to search, and she had enthusiastically settled on one in Sicily, although not the one she really planned to pursue. No, she had given the French Malta professor the wrong place she would go next. Since all of his suggestions had been in Sicily, anyone pursuing her would know that much. But they would not know the precise location. She had told the professor her next stop would be Messina, but her real destination was Taormina, the beautiful former Greek city on the cliffs overlooking the Ionian Sea. Although she had never been there before, she had seen many wonderful pictures and a documentary on television. But she wouldn't be there long, she thought, since her only concern there was to confirm something she already speculated to be true. First, though, she would take this night ferry to Catania, Sicily, and then hop a train in the early morning to Taormina.

Jake waited patiently in the driver's seat of their rental car just outside the Malta International Airport. He had convinced his newfound colleague, Elisa Murici, to contact her office in Rome for some help. There were only a few ways off the island—by air or by sea. And Sara Halsey Jones could not have been that far ahead of them. Now, she could just hang low and hide out in some hotel on Malta, but he didn't think so. He guessed she was still on the move.

So Jake had enlisted Elisa to contact her office and try to track down any passport use, videos at the airport and ferry terminal, which would take a while, or manifests on airlines and ferries. Although Sara wouldn't necessarily have to show her passport to the ferry operators, she would have to show some form of ID. And Jake had found in the past that they keep those records for at least 24 hours, just in case a ferry sinks. They liked to know who died and whose family would likely sue them.

Finally, Elisa got off her phone and glanced at him. “I'm glad you're on my side,” she said. “She's on the night ferry from here to Catania, Sicily. She used a Texas driver's license. They've got her on video wearing all black with a scarf and dark glasses.”

“Great. So she knows someone is after her.” He checked his watch and figured the crossing time from Malta to Catania. “She should get in there around four a.m.”

Elisa shook her head. “How do you know this?”

“It's about a hundred and ninety kilometers, or one hundred and fourteen miles from Valletta to Catania,” he surmised. “Based on an average speed of thirty kilometers per hour, that gets them in at four, assuming normal sea conditions.”

She simply stared at him.

“Plus, while you were on the phone with your people, I checked the ferry schedule on my phone.”

Hitting him in the arm, she said, “Not fair.”

“Let's go,” Jake said.

“Wait. Where?”

“I do understand some Italian,” he said. “They have a plane waiting for you at the private section of the airport.”

Elisa shook her head and followed him toward the non-commercial air section.

This would work perfect, Jake thought. A private plane meant no security, so he could keep the gun he had gotten from the Tunis cultural affairs officer.

It took them just twenty minutes to get to the private airport section, where Elisa gathered a package from a man in his mid-forties who appeared more interested in Elisa's physical attributes than her identification.

“All right,” she said to Jake. “You might want to go to the bathroom before we take off. Either that or hold it for an hour and a half.”

“What are we flying a biplane?”

She handed him her bag and the folder the man had given her. “Well I'm going to go.” Elisa headed toward the WC and Jake watched the man at the desk eye her fine posterior.

He thought about keeping his contact informed, but immediately brushed that thought from his mind. He wasn't used to having a babysitter, and never liked it when someone tried to push him too hard for information.

Elisa came out and took her stuff from him and continued on toward the outer door. Jake caught a wide smirk on the man's face, an approval of his apparent choice of women.

Out on the dark flight line, Jake finally saw the plane they would take to Sicily. It was a single engine Cessna Skyhawk painted white with green stripes. A man was standing by to help them step into the plane. When they got inside, Jake looked toward the cockpit and saw no pilot.

“Let's hope we have a pilot who knows what he's doing,” Jake said.

“Why do you assume the pilot will be a man?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Law of averages?”

Elisa shook her head, set her bag on the floor and climbed into the pilot's seat.

Now he felt like a complete idiot. He sat in the front passenger seat and kept his mouth shut.

Finally, her quick preflight done and her headset on her head, she smiled and turned to Jake. “Are you all right with a woman pilot?”

“I'm sorry. I didn't know you could fly.”

“You didn't check out my background?”

He shrugged. “Afraid not.”

“I was a pilot in the Italian Air Force in my twenties. I understand you also did some time in the American Air Force. Did you fly?”

“No. I was Intelligence.”

“You think highly of yourself.” She cranked over the engine and it immediately sprung to life and raised the noise level.

“The Intelligence field,” he explained loudly.

She pointed at the second headset, which he put on now.

“I'm messing with you, Jake. Buckle up. It's been a while since I flew last. But what do they say in America? It's like riding a bike?” She powered up and let off the brakes, shoving Jake back against the seat.

Moments later and they were up in the air and slowly turning over the capital city toward the harbor. Jake glanced down at all the boats until he saw a particularly large yacht moored farther out into the bay. He couldn't remember ever seeing a personal yacht that big. Once they cleared the outer harbor they climbed fast to their cruising altitude, the lights of Valletta quickly fading beneath them.

Jake glanced at Elisa, who seemed quite comfortable behind the controls. “Good thing we stopped at the first bottle of wine,” he said into the headset mic.

“Actually I fly better after wine.”

He looked for any sign of a smile, but she didn't seem to be kidding.

A half hour later and they broke through the darkness of cloud cover and into brightness of a near-full moon. Moments later and even the clouds below broke up, allowing them to see the moon shine off the ocean.

“It's peaceful up here at night,” Elisa said.

She was right. For the first time in a few days, Jake thought he could actually fall asleep. But just as his head was starting to bob down to his chest, he heard a strange sound against the fuselage on his side.

“What the hell was that?” Jake asked.

The sound again, like metal hitting metal.

Elisa pulled her right earmuff off and listened. “I don't hear anything.”

“It was like something struck us. Twice.” Looking outside the aircraft to his right, Jake finally saw flashing lights from another airplane—a green light on the left wing and a white light at the tail. “There's another plane.”

Suddenly another flash startled him. This was followed by a thump on the door just in front of him and a bullet hitting the control panel.

“Are they shooting at us?” Elisa yelled.

Jake had his gun out in seconds. “Hell, yes.” He slid open the door window and a rush of air flowed in.

She added power and put the nose down to gain speed.

When Jake saw the other plane make the same move, he took off his seat belt, twisted in his seat to get a better angle, and aimed his gun out the window. He shot twice and thought he saw his bullets strike the metal.

“How fast does this crate go?” Jake asked.

“Not fast enough. From the quick look I got, that's the Cessna Stationair I saw on the tarmac at the airport. He has thirty knots on us.”