Path of the Assassin (35 page)

When Meg awoke, Harvath was already gone. She had only slept a couple of hours, so her guess was that Harvath hadn’t slept at all. Knowing him, she concluded he had waited until she had fallen asleep and had gone back out on his own. Meg knew exactly where she would find him, though.

She took a shower and put on a fresh change of clothes. The complimentary buffet breakfast was already underway when Meg entered the hotel’s main dining room. She selected some food from the buffet and then took a table near the window, where she asked the waiter for coffee. Her mind was turning over and over, trying to figure out how they could track down Adara Nidal and what might happen if they didn’t.

After Meg had finished her breakfast, she asked the waiter if she could have one of the plastic pitchers full of coffee to take upstairs to her husband, who wasn’t feeling well. The waiter was more than happy to oblige. Meg fixed a tray with some extra food, and when the coffee arrived, took everything up to the room.

Back in the room, she wrapped the food in paper napkins and placed it, along with the plastic jug of coffee and a cup, into one of their fancy shopping bags with silk cords that could be drawn shut at the top. Carefully slinging the bag over her shoulder, she put on a pair of sunglasses, walked downstairs, and exited the hotel.

She turned right and headed past the bus terminal and taxi stand into the main square. Having learned from her training with the Delta operatives the importance of varying your routine, she decided to take another route to the marina. Instead of heading straight through the Piazzetta and back past all the high-profile boutiques, Meg turned left and went a different direction. She passed under an archway and onto a tiny thoroughfare. From the map she carried, it looked to be an easy yet roundabout way to get down to the water. She now remembered how difficult Capri’s windy little streets were to navigate, even with a map.

About fifty meters in from the Piazzetta, Meg stopped next to a restaurant called, Al Grottino, to once again check her map. As she was unfolding it, one of the little motorized luggage carts came careening down the narrow alley, and Meg had to jump to the other side to get out of the driver’s way. It was then that something on the door of the restaurant caught her eye.

It was a small sticker proclaiming that the restaurant was a member of Italy’s prestigious Unione Ristoranti Del Buon Ricordo. Meg’s heart began to race. She crossed back over and read the menu posted outside, and when she found what she was looking for, her heart pounded even faster. Trying not to draw any attention to herself, Meg made her way as quickly as possible to the Marina Piccola.

When Meg got to the marina, she spotted Harvath sitting in a blue-and-white-striped canvas beach chair beside the water.

“I hope you brought some coffee,” said Harvath, who was surveying the coastline with his binoculars as Meg approached from behind. “The restaurant here doesn’t open for another hour.”

“I’ve got coffee and something even better,” she said as she unslung her shopping bag and took the empty beach chair next to him.

“Coffee first,” he said as he pulled the binoculars away from his face. His eyes were red and bloodshot.

“I’ll talk while you drink,” said Meg as she handed him a cup of coffee and then pulled the food she had brought for him out of her bag.

Harvath took a sip of hot black coffee and then opened up a croissant and placed some of the prosciutto inside. As he took a bite of the sandwich, he said, “I’m thinking about renting a boat. I’m not convinced Hamdi is going to moor the
Belle Étoile
on this side of the island. All of the bigger yachts are definitely here, but if he wants his privacy, he might choose a more secluded spot.”

“I think I have something else we should run down first.”

“Meg, the clock is ticking. For all we know, Hamdi and the
Belle Étoile
are already here and we’ve been wasting our time looking in the wrong spot.”

“What if I told you,” said Meg, opening a small container of yogurt, “that I think I found one of Adara’s haunts on Capri?”

“I’d be all ears,” said Harvath as he raised the binoculars back to his eyes and once again scanned the water for any sign of the two-hundred-fifty-foot
Belle Étoile
.

“And eyes. Listen to me,” she said as she pulled the binoculars away from him, gaining his undivided attention. “Remember the plates she served dinner to us on?”

“Kind of. They were odd little hand-painted jobs with some kind of cartoon and Italian writing.”

“Exactly. Do you know what the writing said?”

“Mine said something about Pollo alla Romana, Frascati, and something else with the picture of a chicken in a toga. They looked like kids’ plates to me.”

“They were far from kids’ plates. Mine was Bavette ai Gracchi, from the Dante Taberna De Gracchi—a very good restaurant in Rome near Vatican City. Do you know what Adara’s had?”

“I didn’t get a good look from where I was sitting.”

“Well, I did. It had a lobster outfitted like a gladiator, but that’s not the most important thing. Across the top it read,
‘Risotto con aragosta e l’olio di tartufo’
—‘lobster risotto with truffle oil.’”

“The same meal she served us?”

“Yes. The Italian writing on your plate was the name of the restaurant in Frascati that served the Pollo alla Romana.”

“Meg, back up. I don’t get this.”

“It’s the plates. Each one represents the specialty of the house for a different restaurant in the Buon Ricordo organization.”

“What’s ‘Buon Ricordo’?”

“It’s an exclusive club of restaurants that celebrate Italian cuisine.”

“So what does this have to do with Adara?”

“I didn’t see where her plate came from, but on my way down here I figured it out.”

“Don’t tell me. Capri?”

“You got it. There’s a Buon Ricordo restaurant called Al Grottino right off the Piazzetta.”

“And the specialty of the house?”

“Lobster risotto with truffle oil,” answered Meg.

Al Grottino was still not open when Harvath and Meg arrived, so they killed time in a local bookstore, where Harvath bought a detailed topographical and coastal map of the island. If they came up empty at the restaurant, then the next move was renting a boat.

Meg was confident that Al Grottino would turn up something. A restaurant was much different than a perfume shop. People didn’t wear sunglasses at dinner, even on Capri, and what’s more, patrons were in a restaurant a lot longer than a shop, so chances were that someone in the restaurant would remember Adara Nidal. As a matter of fact, there was a very good chance that she had made a big impression.

Meg was even more certain when the restaurant was finally opened for lunch. The outgoing owner greeted them at the door, guided them deftly down several steps, and sat them at a table in full view of any passersby who might be considering his restaurant for lunch. There was nothing like a nice-looking young couple to draw in other customers.

The tiny restaurant had a beautiful arched ceiling and walls dotted with several small alcoves filled with different colored bottles of Capri wine, all artistically lit from behind. Harvath noticed the walls were also covered with photographs of the owner and what appeared to be numerous Italian celebrities. It was obvious that he was proud of his restaurant and took an active role in its operation.

On top of everything else, the man was very friendly and loved to speak English. It was not hard to draw him into gossipy conversation, especially about the famous people who came to eat in his restaurant.

The owner insisted on starting Harvath and Meg with a Caprese salad while they talked. When the dish arrived and Harvath took his first bite, it was easily the best mozzarella he had ever tasted. The owner could see the look on his face and was very pleased. He bragged about how he had a special source on the island for all of his cheese. Meg, clever woman that she was, brought the owner back around to talking about his clients. She shared with him that a woman they had met while out to drinks one night had recommend his restaurant. The minute she described Adara the man’s eyes lit up.

“Che bella donna!”
he exclaimed. “She has the eyes of silver, just like you say. The most beautiful woman who has ever come to eat at Al Grottino, after you of course, Signora.”

“So you know her?” took up Harvath, acting casual and only mildly interested.

“She has been here many times.”

“The lady must enjoy your cooking very much.”

“Oh, very much,” replied the owner. “Many times she asks me for my recipes and how can I say no to such a beautiful woman?” He shot Meg a quick, flirtatious glance. “The only thing I ask is that she not begin her own restaurant here on Capri. No one would come to see my face anymore.”

Now Meg got back into the conversation. “She is such an elegant woman. Don’t you think?”

“Very elegant and very beautiful,” said the owner.

“Does she own a villa here? I would imagine it is quite impressive.”

“No. No villa. She comes to visit and stays in the hotel.”

“Of course. The Quisisana,” said Meg with a smile.

“No, the Capri Palace in Anacapri. Last night she was here for dinner with a very handsome American man—”

“We’ll have to keep our eyes out for them. We’re staying at the Capri Palace also. I might know the man she was with,” said Harvath as he described Marcel Hamdi from Schoen’s surveillance photos.

“No. This man, he’s tall like the woman,
bello,
but blond hair. We say in Italian,
con un pizzo,”
said the owner, rubbing his chin.

“Ah, with a goatee,” said Meg.

“Ecco.
It’s your first time to Capri?” asked the owner, changing the subject.

“My first. She has been here before,” said Harvath as he nodded to Meg.

“Bella donna.
You have not eaten in my restaurant before?”

“No,” responded Meg. “This is my first time.”

“Then I will make for you something special. I have a nice
gnocchi
for your husband, and for you I make a
linguine ai gamberetti
. A special shrimps with tomato sauce, good?”

“Sounds delicious,” said Meg.

“Maybe also a nice wine. Something dry, but not too expensive. Okay?”

“Bene.”

“Lei parla l’italiano!”

“Yes, but my…” said Meg as she hestitated, “my husband does not.”

“Perffeto.
We can make our plans and he will never know,” said the owner with a conspiratorial wink as he went to place their orders in the kitchen.

Soon after, the lunch crowd picked up and the owner was quite busy. When he stopped by their table to check on how they had enjoyed their meals, Harvath took the opportunity to ask one more question. “The food was wonderful. We will have to buy the lady who told us about your restaurant a cocktail.” If the owner wasn’t suspicious already, he would be soon, but Harvath felt he had to push just a little bit further. “I wish we knew her name. Do you by any chance?”

“I’m sorry, no.
Allora, il caffè?”
said the owner, indicating that the subject was closed for good.

Meg ordered her customary cappuccino, and Harvath, a double espresso, which they finished quickly. As soon as they paid their check and left the restaurant, they walked as fast as they could to the cabstand just off the Piazzetta.

The open-air taxi brought them to the small yet bustling heart of Anacapri. Perched on a low hill above the town square was the five-star Capri Palace. It was accessible via a series of steps followed by a short walkway winding past the lower half of the hotel swimming pool. Glass windows along the walk, much like a large-scale aquarium, allowed people to peer through the water and watch the guests as they swam above.

Stores around the piazza sold everything from sandals, sunscreen, and beach towels, to local ceramics, film, and postcards. Harvath and Meg secreted themselves just inside one of the shops that had a good view of the hotel’s imposing white façade. Meg pretended to look for postcards while Harvath studied the tanned faces of the throngs of tourists milling around the piazza. They were everywhere—like ants crawling over an enormous hill of sugar. Harvath thought about using his binoculars to try and catch a glimpse of the guests around the pool, but being downhill from the hotel made it impossible. They needed to get closer.

He got Meg’s attention, and they stepped out into the street. The sun was extremely strong. The whitewashed buildings surrounding the piazza seemed to bounce the sunlight back with twice its brilliance. Walking past the cabstand, Harvath noticed a narrow side street that wound up the hill and ended right next to the hotel’s designer-clothing boutique. A taxi idled in the makeshift cul-de-sac.

As Harvath studied the sea of people once more, one in particular caught his eye. She was tall and thin, yet very toned. Her skin was a rich copper color, and though she wore a large straw hat and sunglasses, Harvath knew her right off by the way she moved. She was not one of the many casual tourists out strolling. This was a woman with a purpose and destination.

He grabbed Meg’s left arm and flicked his eyes in the direction of Adara Nidal. It took Meg a moment, but then she spotted her too. Neither of them dared utter a word as they proceeded up the stone steps toward the Capri Palace. Harvath reflexively reached beneath his shirt at the small of his back. He grabbed the butt of the Browning nine-millimeter and prepared to draw, and that was when everything fell apart.

The element of surprise was ruined when the blond woman from the perfume shop the previous evening appeared out of nowhere and squealed, “If it isn’t Capri’s most adorable newlyweds! How are you kids? Are you having a fabulous time here, or what?”

The woman moved right in front of Harvath and placed both of her hands upon his shoulders. He tried to avoid her, but it was no good. Her wrists were weighted down with gold bracelets and designer shopping bags and as she reached one of her hands out for Meg, she continued, “Isn’t this a small world? Or should I say
island?
What am I talking about? It is a small island. Don’t you just love Anacapri? This is where I always stay when I come. I mean I might go over to Capri Town, but this is where anybody who is anybody stays.”

Unfortunately, the woman had one of those voices that really seemed to carry. The commotion had been enough to turn Adara Nidal’s head and now she was staring right into Harvath’s eyes.

“Sorry, we’ve gotta run,” said Scot as he and Meg untangled themselves from the American woman and picked up their pace.

“Where’s the fire?” asked the woman as Harvath and Meg took off after Adara, who was already way ahead of them and closing in on the idling taxi.

Harvath half pulled his gun, but knew that the flood of tourists would make it impossible to get off a clean shot. He slid the Browning back into the holster, grabbed Meg by the wrist, and spun her back in the direction they had come. There was no way they could beat Adara to the waiting taxi. Their only chance was to catch it when it came onto the main road at the bottom of the hill.

They ran back to the stone steps and down into the piazza. Crossing the tiny square, Harvath steered Meg to the front of the cabstand and, in a move that would have made even the most seasoned New Yorker jealous, elbowed out a crowd of drunk Germans and hopped into their cab. The driver started protesting immediately, and it wasn’t until Harvath fished out a large Euro note that the man agreed to forget about their jumping the line. By that time, Adara Nidal’s cab had already come down the hill and had swung onto the main road heading south.

Meg instructed their driver in Italian to follow the other cab.

“What’s going on?” asked the old man, who was at least seventy if he was a day, as he pulled away from the piazza.

“Don’t worry about it. Keep driving,” responded Meg.

Despite his age, the old islander did a good job of keeping up, but not good enough. Adara Nidal’s cab made a hard right and their driver missed it. He continued south and had to swing an even harder right up what looked like a one-way street to get back behind her.

They were now headed toward the very western edge of the island, with two buses and several cars separating them. Harvath had to hand the old man another large banknote to convince him to risk passing the other vehicles. The roads of Capri had not been designed with high-speed chases in mind.

The driver made several attempts to move out from behind the bus in front of them, only to have to jerk the wheel back hard to the right because of an oncoming vehicle in the opposite lane. Slowly, he began to make some progress as he threaded his way forward.

Meg asked the driver what was at this end of the island that caused so much traffic. After passing another car, the man responded, “Grotta Azzura.”
The Blue Grotto
.

Harvath kept peeling off notes, crumpling them into balls, and throwing them into the front seat as he urged the driver to go faster. Though they had passed both buses and several of the cars, Adara Nidal’s cab was far ahead and disappeared every time it took one of the many curves in the winding road.

Holding on to the seat in front of him, Harvath stood in the open-air convertible and tried to keep track of her cab. He wondered why she would be racing toward the Blue Grotto. It had to be Hamdi. Maybe he had anchored the
Belle Étoile
off the grotto and was sending a launch to pick her up. Then the road forked and their driver veered to the right, away from the heavy stream of traffic. Harvath almost lost his balance. He couldn’t see the other cab anywhere, only a high cloud of dust hovering over the road in front of them, which hadn’t escaped their clever driver.

There was also a road sign. Harvath now knew where Adara Nidal was headed. Eliporto di Capri—Capri Heliport.

Before the taxi had even come to a complete stop at the gate of the heliport, Harvath was already out and running. The roar of the powerful Eurocopter AS365 Dauphin was deafening as it quickly lifted off. Through the Plexiglas window of its plush nine-passenger-capacity cabin, Harvath thought he could see Adara smiling at him, but he couldn’t be sure. The navy blue bird with its gold logos was flying directly west, into the sun.

The one thing Harvath did know was that he had seen that helicopter before. He had seen it in Ari Schoen’s surveillance photos sitting on the helipad of Marcel Hamdi’s megayacht, the
Belle Étoile.