Chapter 7 #2
He laughed and started for the door. As he and Shelly headed out, Zach emerged from the hallway, dressed and ready for whatever his day might bring.
“Safe journey, guys. Keep in touch at all times,” he said, grimacing.
“Oh, yeah, and you do the same!” Grant told him.
“Will do, I promise. We may need your advice, even while you’re over the Atlantic!” Zach reminded him. “Pity, with all the AI in the world, we haven’t figured out how to be in two places at once yet.”
Shelly groaned but gave him a smile and a wave.
And they were on their way, Zach making sure that their St. Augustine quarters were secure once they were out.
“Want to drive?” Grant asked.
Shelly looked at him and grinned. “Hell, no. It’s the crack of dawn. And this is your territory; you know how to get where we’re going the fastest.”
“And you’ll take a nap in the car?” he queried.
“I’m not going to say it’s not possible!
” she assured him. But once they were in the car and he hit the ignition, she looked at him and said, “Seriously, I’m going to need to know everything you know.
I read your report, of course. But, naturally, our reports never really say everything that the rest of us—any of us under Jackson Crow—should know. ”
“We’re going to have about eleven hours on a plane, by the way.”
She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Eleven hours!”
“You don’t like flying?”
“Naw, I’m all right.”
He laughed. “Okay, considering the length of the journey, an hour to chat, and then almost ten for a long nap!”
Shelly groaned and then said softly, “Antonio Martinelli.”
“He is dead. I was nowhere near him when he died. They say that he killed himself rather than go to trial.”
“But he had a family,” Shelly said quietly.
“Exactly. And you know what I think already. That someone got to him and threatened his wife, his kids, and his grandkids. He was in his late sixties. I think he believed he’d had something of a life, at least, and he couldn’t take any chances that a member of his family might pay the price for him denying that he was guilty. ”
“And the Italian police? You worked with someone closely?”
“The Italian police are broken into several areas, just like here,” he told her. “I worked with a fellow named Alfredo Durso who was a carabinieri; they’re both police and military and deal with a lot of the heavy matters—”
“Such as the murder of a politician?” Shelly interrupted.
“Right. Alongside a member of the Polizia di Stato, local to Rome. Salvatore Giordano. Both are great to work with, and they both speak fluent English, which is great because my Italian can get us food and find restrooms and things like that. I was only able to interview the accused man, Antonio Martinelli, once.”
“But from that, you were certain he wasn’t guilty,” Shelly said.
He glanced over at her quickly. “Yes.”
“Because—”
“Oh, come on! You can tell sometimes, by the way a man acts, by the way he speaks. He wasn’t guilty.”
“Okay!” Shelly said, grinning. “I believe you!”
“And you would know, too, if you were able to speak with him, which … hey, who knows? Maybe you will be able to. After all, dead or alive, I’m willing to be the man who wants the real guilty party taken down.”
Shelly nodded and closed her eyes. “When we’re there … do you know where he’s buried?”
“I do. Cemeteries in Rome are known as necropoleis, from the Greek necropoli, and Antonio Martinelli happens to be buried in one of the most beautiful; it’s supposed to have been around for about two thousand years, dating back to the Roman Empire.
Cimitero del Verano. It’s a big tourist attraction, so … ”
“So getting to be there shouldn’t be much of a problem. What about his home, his house, his family?”
Grant was silent for a minute. He had been able to meet the man’s son, Armand, and knew that Armand was furious with all those involved in the accusations against his father and those who had been convinced his father had killed the politician.
Armand had been heartbroken, as had the man’s wife, daughter, in-laws, and grandchildren.
And it hadn’t been because they’d been afraid of being tainted themselves; they’d hated that a man as good as he had been had died under such a horrendous cloud.
“I’m sorry,” Shelly said softly. “You were emotionally involved in all this.”
He shrugged. “Hey, we’re jerks if we don’t get somewhat involved, and we’re idiots if we get too involved. But hmm, yeah. They seemed to be good people.”
“That’s good. We’ll need to talk to them, too. It’s hard to say. If you’re telling me that this is a beautiful and historic cemetery, such a man might be hanging around there. Or maybe, I mean, well, you know—”
“If. If his soul is hanging around at all, it will be best for you to try and reach him at the cemetery or around someone he loves,” Grant said.
“Yep. Hey, is your coffee okay?”
He laughed. “The coffee is just fine. And we’ve only got another ten minutes to get to the airport.
You can call Miles Corey, our pilot, and let him know we’re about to arrive.
Jackson sent us both the number so we could give him fair warning.
He’ll be at the airport already, but we can let him know that we should be through security in another thirty minutes. ”
It took longer than he had expected to get through security.
They were heading out on a private government plane, but they were carrying weapons.
He was already cleared by the Italian government to carry, but they’d have some work to do with government officials in Rome to see that Shelly could be legally armed.
“A private government plane,” Shelly murmured as they headed out to the tarmac. Grant smiled. She had no idea what the plane might be like. He’d already been on it, so he knew.
Miles Corey and his copilot, Jerry Manx, were waiting for them at the foot of the ramp. He knew them; they greeted Shelly cordially. She, of course, was equally warm and polite.
“I’m a good pilot, I promise,” Miles told her.
“And I’m a great copilot, I promise, too,” Jerry said.
And they were both great pilots. They’d both been in the U.S.
Air Force, flying hundreds of hours before moving into the commercial realm before being coaxed into service with the Krewe of Hunters.
Miles was as bald as a buzzard; Jerry had a headful of thick, dark hair. They were both in their mid-forties.
Shelly laughed. “Great! I get to feel way safer in the air than I do on the ground half the time.”
“Well, Florida drivers, yeah!” Miles said. “So, first time on ‘Hetty,’ as we call our bird, eh?”
“First time,” Shelly told them.
“And I’m going to get her on up that ramp,” Grant said, setting a hand on Shelly’s back to get her moving onto the plane, with Miles and Jerry right behind.
“We’ll try for the smoothest skies possible,” Miles said, heading on to the cockpit with Jerry behind him.
Grant watched as Shelly looked around the plane.
The plane wasn’t intended to be elegant.
It was meant to be practical. Agents worked on the plane, and it came equipped with a table that seated six to eight, as well as gadgets to get the best and most secure of the agency’s various internet connections.
But it also offered comfortable seating with two cots stretched along the rear of the plane, since agents might also need some sleep.
There was also a small kitchen and, of course, the facilities.
“What you expected?” he asked, amused.
She shrugged, grinning. “I had no idea! But it’s perfect, makes tons of sense.”
“Especially since agents are still assigned to the States or to the European division but might wind up coming or going, since it has become a small world.”
“Except for the eleven hours it will take for us to get there.”
“Buckle up!” Miles called from the cockpit.
Shelly arched a brow at Grant. He laughed.
“Pick a row. Any row. The seating is planned for as many as eight agents to travel at a time. Or agents and witnesses … eight people!” Grant told her.
She grinned and took a seat. He did the same, taking the seat next to her. The takeoff was amazingly smooth. Grant noted that, even so, Shelly gripped her seat until they were airborne.
“You don’t like flying,” he said.
“It gets one from point A to point B,” Shelly said.
“You should try to get some sleep then,” he said. “You’ve read my report on the situation in Italy, and I think I’ve told you everything I can regarding the people you’re going to meet. You should get some rest.”
“Are you going to get some rest?” she asked him.
“You bet. First, however …”
He grinned as he let his last word trail. Miles announced they were free to move about in the cabin, and he waited for the pilot to finish speaking.
Then he unbuckled his seat belt and headed to the kitchen.
He assumed that a meal would have been set up for them, and it had been.
Two plates complete with breakfasts—omelets, hash browns, and cinnamon bagel halves.
He smiled and popped the plates in the microwave and the bagel halves in the toaster.
He went to brew coffee and smiled again.
Miles had apparently already started that for them.
He heard Shelly and turned. “Breakfast is almost served,” he said.
“Wow. Nice!”
“Well, if you haven’t met Adam Harrison yet, you will. He is the kindest and most amazing man in the world. When he lost his son—”