Chapter 50
PULL over,” Rapp said.
“Now?”
Hurley’s incredulous expression suggested that Rapp might want to rethink his directive.
He didn’t.
“Now! That’s the woman from the Italian intelligence officer’s apartment.”
Hurley grunted, probably at the thought of stopping so close to the hotel and the scene of the crime, but he still dutifully directed the Fiat to the curb. “I’d ask if you’re sure it’s her, but there’s no point. You don’t forget an ass like that.”
Though he wouldn’t have put it quite the same way, Rapp had to admit that Hurley was right.
Even from fifty yards away, there was no mistaking the Italian woman’s sway or the manner in which her evening gown accentuated her curvy figure or the mass of black curls that tumbled down her back.
It also helped that Rapp had caught the woman’s reflection in the glass of a storefront window, but if there was anyone who could be recognized from the back as easily as the front, it was her.
“What’s the plan, Romeo?” Hurley said as he eased the car to a stop.
Rapp frowned as he opened the car’s door, but he didn’t bother to dispute his mentor’s claim.
Was the Italian woman incredibly attractive?
Of course. But that wasn’t why he was pursuing her.
She’d visited the apartment of an Italian intelligence officer.
A dead officer. Whether the woman was to blame for Romano’s death was immaterial.
She was the last remaining link to an operation that had completely unspooled.
“Circle the block,” Rapp said. “I’m going to have a friendly chat with the signorina.”
Hurley rolled his eyes. “If I recall, last time you talked to a pretty girl associated with this business, things didn’t end well.”
Rapp suppressed a flash of fury.
Greta had been more than just a pretty girl. He’d loved the Swiss woman. Maybe still loved her, but that no longer mattered. Her proximity to the business had irrevocably altered her life and shattered Rapp’s relational aspirations.
He’d already lost two women to violence. He wouldn’t lose a third.
Hurley should know this.
Probably did know this, which meant the barbed comment was most likely the former CIA officer’s none-too-gentle way of reminding Rapp to keep his eye on the ball.
Or maybe it was meant to probe his reaction in the same way a doctor used a reflex hammer to test a patient’s nervous system.
Either way, Rapp wasn’t going to give his mentor the satisfaction.
Rather than fire back with an angry response, or a left cross, he exited the car and shut the door.
Hurley accelerated and merged with traffic, leaving Rapp alone.
The avenue in question, Via Torino, was a one-way stretch of pavement that was more alley than thoroughfare.
The northwest-running street was flanked by multistory buildings and bounded by parking spaces, some legal, most probably not.
Hotels, restaurants, and apartments rose to either side of the street, giving the space a tunnel-like feel.
The tunnel terminated in a stretch of blue sky to the north, dominated by a church’s imposing facade and what looked like some kind of piazza.
The woman was using the small stretch of sidewalk to good effect, moving toward the piazza at an impressive clip considering the height of her stilettos.
The avenue was barely large enough to allow a single car to pass unmolested, but in typical Italian fashion, motor scooters edged around the slower-moving traffic with reckless abandon. Hurley rumbled past the woman without slowing and turned left to head west after reaching the piazza.
Rapp quickened his pace as he thought through options for approaching the Italian beauty.
As if she could hear his thoughts, the woman darted into the street, crossing just behind a red, sporty Alfa Romeo.
A less suspicious mind might attribute the action to a desire to avoid stepping beneath the lush green foliage spilling over the wall to the woman’s right.
Rapp didn’t think so.
He might have needed to duck under the shrubbery, but the woman could have passed beneath the branches unmolested. She was crossing the street because it gave her an excuse to take stock of what was behind her.
In other words, him.
Rapp angled his face, glancing down as he stepped around a pile of dog crap, but he suspected that the damage was already done. While she might not be able to see his features, the woman would undoubtedly recognize Rapp’s clothing and build.
She would realize she was being followed.
A boisterous ciao bella echoed down the street.
The Alfa Romeo’s driver followed up his greeting with an appreciative whistle.
That his car was still motoring forward while he was looking backward didn’t seem to be of much concern to the man.
Italian men were known for their flirtatiousness, and judging by her expression, this wasn’t the first time the woman had weathered a catcall.
She smiled at the driver and put an extra sway in her step for a stride or two before reaching the opposite sidewalk.
Rapp continued his normal pace as the woman covered the last couple of yards to the street corner.
Then she turned left and he broke into a run.
If she was as good as he thought she was, there was a decent chance she’d use the break in contact to disappear.
At that moment, he couldn’t have said what bothered him about that possibility the most—losing his only connection to the Pakistani or the thought of telling Hurley that the woman had ditched him.
Fortunately, Rapp didn’t have long to dwell on these negative thoughts because something else demanded his attention.
The sound of squealing tires.