Army-Surplus bag. Before long, he was reclining in what amounted to a leather armchair, sipping a glass of champagne, gazing out the window as the city of Washington dwindled away under the wings. He was in pig heaven—or he would have been, if it wasn’t for that badge in his duffle bag.
The badge was wrong. The badge made him nervous. There was something about playing a cop that was . . . well, not what the good guys did. And that raised a question, a very interesting question, a question so fundamental that he didn’t even want to think about it.
What if I’m on the wrong side?
SEVEN
There was a crowd at the gate beyond Customs, where half a dozen drivers stood in a kind of receiving line, waiting to be found by their passengers. Danny’s driver turned out to be a square little man with bushy black eyebrows and a hand-lettered sign that read:
cray
sistemi di pavone
Seeing Danny react to the sign, the driver came forward with a smile. “Signore Cray?”
“Si.”
“Benvenuti!”
Taking the duffle bag from Danny’s hand, he led the two of them on a brisk walk through the terminal.
“Parle Italiano?”
he called over his shoulder.
“No.”
The driver’s shoulders rose and fell. “
Non importa.
I go Hotel d’Inghilterra, okay?”
“Si.”
“Molto bene.”
Coming out of the terminal, Danny was staggered by a wall of heat, noise, and diesel fumes. As excited as he was to be in Rome, he hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane, and the jet lag he felt was like Karo syrup in his veins. Then the driver was standing in front of him, holding open the rear door to a shiny new Alfa Romeo, illegally parked in a taxi zone. A few feet away, a policeman in an elaborate uniform nodded deferentially to the driver, who exchanged a little salute with him. Soon they were on their way.
It seemed to Danny that the industrial suburbs of Rome were like the outskirts of any big city. Weed-ridden and trash-strewn fields separated factories, office buildings, and car dealerships that were uniformly modern, ugly, and dull. Except for the wall of oleander bushes that divided the highway, he might have been anywhere, anywhere hot. The sun was a smear of glare in the colorless sky.
Then—had he dozed?—they were in the city itself, and the ruined grandeur of it all suddenly surrounded him, magnificent and impossible to ignore. The driver followed the Tiber as it wound past a huge castle, then crossed the river into a vast and confusing square. Scattering a cluster of nuns, the Alfa glided through a towering stone gateway that took them into a sprawling and tree-shaded park. Surprised by the leafy quiet, Danny leaned forward in his seat and asked, “What
is
this?
Dove?
”
“E la Villa Borghese,”
the driver replied in an incredulous tone.
“Naturalmente.”
They were out of the park almost as quickly as they’d entered it. Now they were on a busy thoroughfare, bumper-to-fender with Fiats and Vespas and thronged with shoppers. Antiquarian showrooms and designer boutiques stood side by side: Missoni, Zegna, Gucci, Bulgari. It was as if he’d wandered into an advertising supplement for an in-flight magazine. Then the traffic slowed to a crawl as the driver nosed the Alfa through the crowds, growling at pedestrians and fellow drivers alike. To Danny’s surprise, the man never once hit the horn but contented himself with a litany of mumbled expletives.
The mob began to dwindle; the Alfa turned up a cobbled street and moments later rolled to a stop at the edge of a faded red carpet. Danny heard the trunk spring open as the driver jumped from the car, calling to the bellman. In an instant, the door was held open for him, and he stepped out at the entrance to an old-fashioned hotel—an ochre pile of stone whose facade bore the name ALBERGO D’INGHILTERRA.
Danny checked in. The desk clerk took his passport. The driver disappeared. And a geriatric bellhop showed him to his room.
This was, as promised, a
The badge was wrong. The badge made him nervous. There was something about playing a cop that was . . . well, not what the good guys did. And that raised a question, a very interesting question, a question so fundamental that he didn’t even want to think about it.
What if I’m on the wrong side?
SEVEN
There was a crowd at the gate beyond Customs, where half a dozen drivers stood in a kind of receiving line, waiting to be found by their passengers. Danny’s driver turned out to be a square little man with bushy black eyebrows and a hand-lettered sign that read:
cray
sistemi di pavone
Seeing Danny react to the sign, the driver came forward with a smile. “Signore Cray?”
“Si.”
“Benvenuti!”
Taking the duffle bag from Danny’s hand, he led the two of them on a brisk walk through the terminal.
“Parle Italiano?”
he called over his shoulder.
“No.”
The driver’s shoulders rose and fell. “
Non importa.
I go Hotel d’Inghilterra, okay?”
“Si.”
“Molto bene.”
Coming out of the terminal, Danny was staggered by a wall of heat, noise, and diesel fumes. As excited as he was to be in Rome, he hadn’t been able to sleep on the plane, and the jet lag he felt was like Karo syrup in his veins. Then the driver was standing in front of him, holding open the rear door to a shiny new Alfa Romeo, illegally parked in a taxi zone. A few feet away, a policeman in an elaborate uniform nodded deferentially to the driver, who exchanged a little salute with him. Soon they were on their way.
It seemed to Danny that the industrial suburbs of Rome were like the outskirts of any big city. Weed-ridden and trash-strewn fields separated factories, office buildings, and car dealerships that were uniformly modern, ugly, and dull. Except for the wall of oleander bushes that divided the highway, he might have been anywhere, anywhere hot. The sun was a smear of glare in the colorless sky.
Then—had he dozed?—they were in the city itself, and the ruined grandeur of it all suddenly surrounded him, magnificent and impossible to ignore. The driver followed the Tiber as it wound past a huge castle, then crossed the river into a vast and confusing square. Scattering a cluster of nuns, the Alfa glided through a towering stone gateway that took them into a sprawling and tree-shaded park. Surprised by the leafy quiet, Danny leaned forward in his seat and asked, “What
is
this?
Dove?
”
“E la Villa Borghese,”
the driver replied in an incredulous tone.
“Naturalmente.”
They were out of the park almost as quickly as they’d entered it. Now they were on a busy thoroughfare, bumper-to-fender with Fiats and Vespas and thronged with shoppers. Antiquarian showrooms and designer boutiques stood side by side: Missoni, Zegna, Gucci, Bulgari. It was as if he’d wandered into an advertising supplement for an in-flight magazine. Then the traffic slowed to a crawl as the driver nosed the Alfa through the crowds, growling at pedestrians and fellow drivers alike. To Danny’s surprise, the man never once hit the horn but contented himself with a litany of mumbled expletives.
The mob began to dwindle; the Alfa turned up a cobbled street and moments later rolled to a stop at the edge of a faded red carpet. Danny heard the trunk spring open as the driver jumped from the car, calling to the bellman. In an instant, the door was held open for him, and he stepped out at the entrance to an old-fashioned hotel—an ochre pile of stone whose facade bore the name ALBERGO D’INGHILTERRA.
Danny checked in. The desk clerk took his passport. The driver disappeared. And a geriatric bellhop showed him to his room.
This was, as promised, a
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