Iron Dove. Judith Leon

Via Cavour. From previous trips, Nova knew that not far ahead lay Rome’s central train station. Cesare, however, braked to a teeth-clicking stop in front of the Hotel Imperial Cavour. She gave it a quick assessing appraisal and ranked the seven-story hotel tentatively as three-star.

      Again with sprinter-like speed, Cesare leapt out of the car and rushed around to open Nova’s door. Setting Principessa on the passenger seat, she let Cesare play gentleman, which, judging from his happy smile as she stepped from the car, pleased him. Joe, she noted, was glowering.

      “Registration is in your own names. Tomorrow morning I will pick you up promptly at nine. You will spend the day in briefings. We are somewhat short on time, so I myself will be making final arrangements for our lodgings in Positano and for our transportation the day after tomorrow to Sorrento by helicopter and from Sorrento to Positano by auto.”

      He opened the trunk and took out Nova’s gear. Joe, with quick-time speed to match Cesare’s, grabbed up his own gear. As the doorman piled everything onto a luggage cart, Cesare said, “Tomorrow I will pick you up after your briefings. By the way, don’t let Provenza frighten you.”

      Joe blew his breath out.

      Cesare looked first at Joe and then at her and shook his head. “But, of course, neither of you will be. What am I thinking? I myself am from Milan and the man is Sicilian, and I never really trust Sicilians.”

      He turned, sank into his Alfa and, with a wave and a ciao, took off.

      “At last,” Joe said as they strode toward the hotel entrance.

      “I think he’s funny. And informative.”

      “He’s going to drive me nuts.”

      She patted Joe’s arm.

      The stones of the street and the pavement already throbbed with heat. By noon, Rome would be as hot as Costa Rica had been.

      Once inside the hotel and registered, she said, “I’d like to walk down to the Coliseum and maybe through the Forum. Want to come?”

      He hesitated, clearly undecided. “Aren’t you tired?”

      “Not really.” In truth, the thought of what they might be facing had her wound up tight. Maybe a walk could calm her. “But you’re right. Tomorrow we need to be bright-eyed and clear-brained.”

      “Funny. I’m surprised that I actually forgot your insomniac thing about only needing three or four hours of sleep. I would want to come with you. Anywhere with you. But let me crash now. Tomorrow, after the briefing, we’ll do something.”

      They stepped into the elevator and the bellman followed them in with the luggage, crowding the modest space. Her shoulder pressed against Joe’s strong, hard, and utterly male one. She suffered the outrageously out-of-place wish that they weren’t headed for separate rooms, followed immediately by an urge to ruffle his cocky feathers. “I know how kids need their sleep.”

      He shrugged. “Just a normal guy who needs the normal amount of sleep. Unlike some weird folks I know.”

      He followed her down the hall. Her thoughts switched again to tomorrow. What would they learn? Were they only concerned with the sale of deadly information, or was it the virus itself that was to be sold? Tonight, even four hours of sleep might be hard to come by.

      Chapter 9

      Jabalya Refugee Camp, Gaza Strip, Palestine

      Ali Yassin stared at his brother’s bier, but his thoughts were on his mission in Rome.

      “Now, Ali,” his uncle said softly, bringing Ali back to the squalor of the tent he and his mother, brother and two sisters called home.

      His brother was dead, killed because he had been throwing stones. As dead as his father and two uncles before him. Ali became once again aware of the noise of the crowd outside, the sounds of the wailing of women and the chanting of prayers by men.

      His mother touched Ali’s hand. “Carry him proudly.” Tears welled in her eyes above the veil that would cover her as she followed yet another of her loved ones to his funeral.

      “Pride,” he said as he stepped over to the crude bier and, with his uncle and four other men, lifted it off the wooden table. “You can’t eat pride. Pride won’t put clothes on a man’s back. Pride won’t get a man an education. Pride is good, but it’s not enough.”

      With the other men, he moved toward the door, and then out into the street.

      Shouts of “Revenge! Revenge!” rose. The women’s wailing grew louder.

      Waving palm branches and Hamas flags, the mourners moved slowly down the narrow and filthy street toward the camp’s humble mosque.

      Soon his mother, sisters and uncle would have reason to be proud of what he would do, something that would make his name famous far beyond Palestine—and his mother would have the money given to the families of all martyrs who went to Allah.