The Blue Ring (37 page)

The
immigration officials checked the papers carefully. Of course they were in
order. Everything perfect; signed and notarised. Sister Simona was to accompany
Katrin to Bari and hand her over to the director of the charity and her new
parents and, in doing so, establish a link for the future.

The
white ship sailed away with Katrin clutching her plastic bag, and Sister
Simona, young, determined and nervous. Sister Assunta turned away, climbed into
the car and was driven back to the orphanage.

She
should have felt a sense of satisfaction, but in the past days there had been a
shadow in the back of her mind. A chisel chipping away at a segment of her
memory. An itch in a place she could not scratch. It had started with the visit
of the benefactor.

She had
appreciated his kindness and his logic. She had looked at his face and into his
eyes and listened to his quiet, persuasive voice and had decided that a closely
defined religion such as her own did not exclude goodness in others who held
different beliefs.

The
very fact that Gamel Houdris was not of her faith generated her respect. He
gave his wealth across religious boundaries. In her mind she saw his face again
as she climbed out of the car in front of the orphanage. She saw the thin
features and the dark eyes and she should have recalled the soft persuasive
voice. But instead she felt a cold irrational prickling of her skin.

It was
dark and late, but she decided to go through the dormitory. There were two
night candles burning, casting dim flickering shadows across the long ceiling.

The
children were asleep, except for one. At the far end of the room she heard a
soft whimpering. She moved quietly between the beds towards the sound. It was
the child, Hanya. She had arrived that morning from Tirane. Five years old and
thought to be simpleminded. But the simplicity had come from trauma, and Sister
Assunta knew that love and security would heal the trauma.

She sat
quietly on the bed and picked up the child and pulled her to her ample bosom.
The child sobbed against her, adrift in a flickering world. The nun stroked her
dark hair and crooned soft words. The sobbing abated and then stopped, and the
child sighed and the rhythm of her breathing settled into sleep.

The nun
held her into the night, wondering yet again if a child conceived in her own
womb would not have been more perfect. As she laid Hanya's head back on the
pillow and tucked the blankets around the small body, Sister Assunta decided,
yet again, that her womb would have been limited to a volume of love
unacceptable to the expanse of her heart. It was why she was a nun.

She
moved back between the beds. All was quiet. She felt at peace.

The
first of her charges was on her way to a real home. The others would follow.
She felt infinitely tired, but had found solace in the thought that in the
morning she herself would be travelling back to Malta and to the womb of her
own convent for two brief but consoling weeks of rest. She would tend the
garden and pretend to watch the lemons grow on the numerous trees in the
rolling garden and be at peace until she returned to ply her vocation.

Her
room was small and her bed narrow. She undressed and washed her face in the
cold water in the metal basin. She brushed her teeth and then wrapped herself
in one of her incongruously bright kikus that had been a parting present from
her congregation in northern Kenya. It seemed a lifetime away.

She had
always slept well be it on an earthen floor or a straw palliasse or a narrow
metal bed. But on this night she could not sleep.

She
moved and turned on the thin mattress. Images came into her mind and went as
quickly. She saw the wide eyes of the child, Katrin, as she gripped the hand of
Sister Simona, gazing up at the white ship.

She saw
the eyes of the other children as they were delivered into her care from the
back of an open truck. She saw the love and care in the eyes of her fellow nuns
as they received those children.

As the
dawn cast a sprinkling of light on the ceiling of her small room, she suddenly
saw the eyes of Gamel Houdris looking out at her from the back seat of that
black car.

The
last vestige of sleep left her as that image lanced into her brain and
triggered a long-ago memory. She pulled away the blankets and rolled her feet
to the cold stone floor. Her skin became damp and cold as her mind sent
messages to her body. From the past, she saw again the bundle at her feet. Saw
the car pulling hastily away. Saw the pale face and the stricken eyes of the
young woman and beyond that face, another. Darker, masculine. Eyes as black and
cold as frozen ebony. It had been twenty years ago, but the image was
unmistakable.

They
waited for two hours in the car park of the roadside cafe. Maxie went in to
fetch coffees and pastry. Juliet slept with her head on Frank's lap.

The men
had the patience of long practice. The patience of watching and listening and
knowing that danger is always as close as the width of a wafer. There was
little talk as they drank and ate the cakes, and anyone not within their circle
would have found what talk then was incomprehensible.

"The
big one tonight," Frank remarked.

"Just
a puff of wind," Rene commented.

"It
pole-axed Satta," Maxie added.

"He's
a one, that one," Frank stated.

"Coming
through the hedge backwards," Rene observed.

"But
with his hair on his head," Maxie added through a mouthful of cake.

Frank
chuckled. "What the hell are we doing? I haven't had so much fun in a yonk
of years."

"How's
Michael tracking things?" Maxie asked Rene.

The
Belgian grinned.

"He's
ploughing a furrow accompanied by sighs, groans and sometimes screams. That kid
walks on the edge...I love the bastard!"

The BMW
crept alongside. They were looking into The Owl's glasses.

Frank
reached down and, with thumbs and forefinger, closed Juliet's nostrils. She
opened her mouth and then her eyes. The Australian bent down and kissed her on
the forehead, smiled and said, "You leave these three uncles and go to a
couple more. Say hello to your dad and Guido and Pietro....Ciao, kid."

She sat
up and rubbed her eyes and looked through the window at the BMW.

"Who
are they?" she asked.

"Friends,"
Maxie said from the front seat. "You know one of them. You go to Naples
now."

Frank
reached across her and opened the door. She felt the cool air. She leaned over
the front seat and kissed Maxie on the cheek and then Rene. She picked up her
canvas bag from the floor, reached out a hand and touched her fingers against
Frank's lips, smiled and said,

"Don't
worry, mate...I think your accent's lovely."

They
watched her slip into the BMW and watched it pull away. Rene turned on the
ignition and they headed back towards Rome.

"Some
kid," Frank said from the back seat.

"Definitely,"
Maxie agreed. "It took her about ten seconds to turn you into a whimpering
pussycat."

"Miaow,"
Rene added.

Frank
curled up in the back seat and muttered, "Guys like you make an Aussie
throw a technicolour spit."

Rene
glanced at Maxie with a raised eyebrow. Maxie smiled and explained, "We
make him vomit."

The
black one came first. He was very large.

Laura
opened the door, sighed and said, "Creasy sent you."

The
black face split into a white smile.

"Sure
thing, Ma'am. And I'm told you make the meanest rabbit stew north of the
Equator." He was carrying a black Samsonite suitcase. She opened the door
wide and gestured, and he walked through. He put down his suitcase and studied
the interior of the large and old room and sighed contentedly. "How old is
it, Ma'am?"

"This
room? About four hundred years, but of course there are newer extensions. Can I
get you tea or coffee, or a glass of wine?"

He
smiled at her again and said, "Coffee would be fine, Ma'am. I'm sorry
to say that I drink quite a lot of it."

She
moved into the kitchen, asking over her shoulder, "Are you American?"

"Yes,
Ma'am. From Memphis, Tennessee. Though the fact is I've been out of the
States for many years."

He had followed her to the door of the kitchen. She turned and said, "All this
'Ma'am' business is going to be too much. My name is Laura. My husband is called Paul."

He ducked his head in acknowledgement. "Pleased to meet you, Laura. My name
is Tom...Sawyer."

She smiled, and he smiled back.

"Well, actually my real first name is Horatio, but somehow ever since I was a kid I've
been called Tom."

She
filled the large coffee-pot to the top and gestured to a seat. "How many
are you going to be?"

He sat
down and the cane chair creaked ominously. "By tonight we'll be
five," he answered.

The
alarm showed on her face. "Are you all going to be staying here?"

He
laughed and shook his head.

"No, Laura, there'll only be me here. Another will be staying with your son Joey and
his wife down the valley. The other three will be kind of roamin' around."

"Roaming where?" she asked curiously.

He waved a hand airily at the window. "Oh, out there, Laura. You know kinda
just roamin' around, takin' in the scenery."

She laughed and sat down across the kitchen-table from him. "Tom, this is a
small island. If you have three hard-looking strangers roamin' around, as you
put it, then the locals are going to start to talk."

He
shook his head. "No problem Ma'am...Laura. We all have a good cover."

"What's
that?"

He
smiled. "We're all dedicated bird-watchers."

She
threw back her head and laughed at the ceiling and then said to him seriously,
"There aren't too many birds on Gozo any more, thanks to our dedicated
hunters. They shoot anything that moves."

He
shrugged and said seriously, "Like I said, we're dedicated. It just makes
it more of a challenge."

"What
about at night?" she asked. "Will you all be roamin' around at
night?"

"Sure
thing."

"Looking
for birds?"

His
white grin came again. "Looking for owls, Laura...me and the boys are real
keen on spottin' owls."

She
shook her head in amusement. The coffee was perking. She stood up and poured
him a large mug and a smaller one for herself.

"Milk
and sugar?" she asked.

"No
thanks. I take it just as it comes...as black as me."

He took
a sip and nodded in appreciation just as the phone rang. She picked it up and
had a brief conversation with Joey. It ended by her saying, "No, mine's an
American...as black as the coffee I just gave him."

She
laughed at Joey's answer, put the phone down and said, "My son tells me a
Chinese man just arrived on his doorstep."

"Vietnamese,"
Tom corrected. "Do Huang...we call him Dodo."

"A
Vietnamese bird-watcher?"

"Sure."

"Where
do the other three come from?"

"Two
Brits and a South African...Good men...You and your family will be safe, Laura.
We don't expect to be around too long. Just a matter of days. I'll try to be as
unobtrusive as possible."

She
nodded thoughtfully and said. "You'll stay in the guest wing, but of
course take your meals with us, and, please, make yourself completely at home.
I'll cook rabbit tomorrow. Tonight we're having roast baby lamb." A
thought struck her. "By the way, what do I tell people? After all, we're
not used to being visited by oversized black Americans."

"I
guess you just tell them that I'm a friend of Guido's...Which happens to be
true."

"You
know him well?"

"Very
well." Suddenly his face went serious. "Ma'am...Laura...I also
knew your daughter Julia. I visited with them a couple of times in Naples. She
showed me a lot of kindness...She was a very fine lady."

There
was a silence in the kitchen, and then Laura said, "You are especially
welcome, Tom Sawyer."

"Is
he very mad at me?"

Jens
took his eyes off the road for a second to glance at her. She was curled up on
the seat beside him, her eyes radiating anxiety. The Owl sat in the back seat,
the large earphones of his Discman clamped over his ears. Quite frequently he
turned to look out the rear window. They would arrive in Naples in about twenty
minutes.

"That's
probably putting it mildly," Jens said.

Defensively,
she said, "I don't see why...I only wanted to help. I mean, I can help
with the cooking and cleaning and washing and everything at the pensione...I
know how to do all those things."

The
Dane sighed and explained to her concisely, "We're in the middle of a
hazardous operation which is rapidly approaching a climax. Everybody involved
is in danger. Some more than others. Everything had to be stopped in case they
were on to you...and they were. The last time I saw you was in Marseille. You
were lying on a bed in as bad a condition as I've ever seen any human being. If
our team had been even five minutes late at the airport, you'd be heading back
into that condition right now. Creasy had to send Frank and Maxie when they
were already planning a very delicate operation. He had to pull Rene away from
watching Michael's back at a time when Michael was extremely exposed. Me and
The Owl had to leave our work at headquarters and rush north to take you over
from the others...No doubt the people in Gozo who were looking after you have
been worried sick and will still be worried sick until we get to the pensione
and Creasy phones to tell them that you're safe. Yes, I guess Creasy is mad at
you."

She
cried late into the night in a small room in the pensione. She did not cry
because Creasy had shouted at her or been angry, because he had done neither.
She cried because of the disappointment she had seen in his eyes when he had
looked at her. She had immediately offered to go straight back to Gozo, but he
had shaken his head and said, "There's no way I can impose that
responsibility back onto Laura and Paul. They've had enough tragedy in their
lives."