Chapter 4
AS with much of Verona, the Piazza Erbe was a sight to behold.
Rapp’s trek had landed him on Via Cairoli, where a left turn and a quick sprint had taken him to the intersection with Via Cappello.
To his left, the wide cobblestone street led southeast back toward Juliet’s balcony.
To his right sat the piazza in all of its glory.
Where before Verona’s streets had felt enclosed and cramped, the piazza was airy and full of light.
An area for vehicular traffic on the piazza’s western side coexisted with a pedestrian area delineated by slabs of lighter-colored stone to the east. Rows of stores and restaurants lined the piazza, with the structures’ upper floors dedicated to apartments, many of which had flowers or lush greenery cascading down the wrought-iron balconies.
This was the postcard-worthy version of Verona.
Except for the row of police motorcycles lining the piazza’s northern end.
Rapp counted six motorbikes. Short of serving as a backdrop for a Hollywood espionage movie, he couldn’t imagine why such a large police presence would be concentrated in such a relatively small area.
Something wasn’t right.
At this time of the afternoon, the piazza was only moderately full. Most Italians were lingering over long lunches or perhaps an afternoon cup of espresso. Never a cappuccino. That drink was reserved exclusively for mornings.
The limited pedestrian traffic made the row of motorcycles all the more imposing, and the officers lounging with them intimidating.
The men were dressed in blue on blue—light blue shirts tucked into darker blue pants, which in turn were bloused into leather riding boots.
Six riders were clustered in a loose group around their bikes, sans helmets, smoking and talking.
They didn’t appear to be paying attention to their surroundings.
Had he not been on the tail of a fleeing weapons scientist for hire, Rapp would have pegged the men as ornamentation rather than a squad about to make an arrest. Maybe a show of force to keep rabble-rousers in line.
But he was tailing a fleeing weapons scientist.
Rapp turned left, scanning south down Via Cappello.
While he didn’t see the scientist’s John Lennon glasses bobbing along in the sea of faces, the man had to be heading this way.
Via Cappello narrowed significantly as it flowed south, but the street enjoyed a bit of a reprieve in the form of an intersection with Via Giuseppe.
The narrow west?east-running pedestrian area widened as it met Via Cappello, forming a space that while nowhere near as large as the piazza still provided room for pedestrians to congregate.
Acting on a hunch, Rapp followed Via Cappello south and gave Via Giuseppe a quick glance as he passed the intersection.
The space was surprisingly empty of window-shoppers and passersby.
Probably because of the motorcycle cops blocking off the miniature plaza from foot traffic coming from the west. As before, the men were standing near their bikes rather than straddling them, but unlike their compatriots to the north, these officers were actively routing pedestrians around the cordon they’d established.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
Four additional men were congregated just around the corner. While they were dressed in plain clothes, their mannerisms and posture screamed law enforcement. One of the men made eye contact with Rapp before glancing at the paper he was holding.
Probably a headshot of a certain Pakistani weapons scientist for hire.
Rapp quickened his pace.
Several tools of his trade were hidden on his person, including a 9mm Beretta, a suppressor for the pistol, an extra magazine, and a knife.
If given the choice, Rapp would choose the suppressed pistol for the job, but that was probably not an option.
The weapon was too bulky to conceal with the metal cylinder screwed onto the barrel, so he carried the component separately.
He had neither the time nor opportunity to remedy that shortcoming now.
The Beretta would function without the suppressor, but a pistol’s report would echo through the man-made canyon of buildings.
If he was going to get to the Pakistani before the polizia reached the scientist, he’d need to utilize something quiet but just as effective.
Rapp continued south down Via Cappello, opening his stride.
If done correctly, knife work could be quick and quiet.
It was never clean.
To keep the scientist from crying out, Rapp would need to target the brainpan or a lung.
This was difficult to accomplish on a moving person and almost impossible to do in a surreptitious manner.
Even the least security-minded person would guess something was amiss if they saw Rapp immobilize the Pakistani’s head with one hand while driving a six-inch blade into the base of his skull or up through his rib cage with the other. To make this work, he needed privacy.
But privacy was nowhere to be found on Via Cappello.
As if adding a soundtrack to his urgency, the unmistakable high-low pitch of a European police siren filled the air.
Rapp was proceeding under a worst-case scenario, in which the police officers intended to arrest the scientist. If this was true, the siren might be a mechanism to drive the Pakistani north into the interdiction squad’s waiting arms. For a moment he wondered whether the scientist had followed one of the western-leading side streets deeper into the city, but he discounted the idea.
Whoever had orchestrated this arrest had gone to great lengths to herd the scientist toward the rendition team.
Surely the planners would have made westward travel a similarly unattractive choice.
Unless the scientist had turned around completely.
He could be heading east toward the Adige River. The body of water twisted its way through the city, forming a natural boundary that could only be crossed at one of the bridges. Moving in this direction made zero tactical sense, but people fleeing law enforcement often made poor choices.
Rapp frowned.
He’d been hunting his quarry as if the scientist were a fellow operative rather than a frightened academic.
Rapp’s boxing coach had once remarked that the most dangerous opponent was an untrained fighter because they fought unpredictably.
Maybe the Pakistani had seen the police and doubled back with the intention of working his way south once he reached the river.
Or maybe not.
The crowd parted revealing a familiar face.
The man with the John Lennon glasses.