The next morning Abelard walked into the café shortly after it opened for the day, well before he reckoned Dona Maria would have anyone there to watch the place. There were already people milling about with steaming coffees and sweet pastries, loading up on empty calories before beginning the day’s routine. After a moment his trained eye fell on a long thin man with slicked back hair and a cocked eyebrow. He seemed to have a word and a smile for everyone.
As he made his way towards him he was bumped from behind, rather hard, by a strongly built, stern looking woman wearing a loud conspicuous red leather half coat. She laid a heavy hand on Abelard’s shoulder, crushing his collar, her grim demeanor now replaced by gawking surprise. She was terribly sorry and could he forgive her. If there is any damage she would pay, immediately, if Abelard so wished. No, no, no damage, thank you and he was in great a rush and could not stay to chat. He moved back to disentangle himself from the unyielding grip on his shoulder and left her standing alone, arm still outstretched, as he made his way over to the bar and the likely compliant waiter he had identified.
Would he be so kind as to give this sealed envelope to the lady, probably accompanied by several large men, who would be here at noon? And would it be alright if he gave him the other 20 euros when he came back that afternoon? No problem. Good.
Dona Maria was not quite sure what to conclude from Abelard’s change of plans, but she was fairly certain that there could not be anything in them to her benefit. The Piazza del Campo would be so well known to anyone who had ever set foot in Siena, it had never even crossed her mind that she might need a local thug to guide them. It was, after all just a Piazza, a big square surrounded by buildings without mysterious hiding places. She had intended to take the sample, kill Abelard, in public, if she was unable to persuade him to accompany her out of the piazza. And, just in case, the sample was not sufficient, cut off an arm, to satisfy the microbiologist who needed his DNA in order to do a proper study. What should she do now about this change of plans? Ever resourceful, Dona Maria sent someone to purchase a city map.
At the intersection to where Abelard had moved the meeting, the narrow cross streets were guarded by silent metal stanchions at their ends. On a north-south street, Dona Maria, with three thugs in tow, came up from one direction while the three others made their way down from the other. Abelard, who was standing directly at the crossroads, moved towards Dona Maria when he saw her approaching. After a few steps, he stopped and waited.
“That will be far enough,” Abelard said.
“Do you have the sample,” Dona Maria asked?
“Yes,” he answered and waved something at them.
Then he saw the slight nod of Dona Maria’s head and knew it was time for him to withdraw. He was already well inside the alleyway beside which he had stopped before the first bullets, fired by the men coming up behind him, ricocheted off the stone walls. Then the neighbourhood reverberated to the clatter of metal horseshoes. Only the echoes could still be heard when the first man reached the narrow passage down which Abelard had disappeared. As he peered into the semi-darkness, trying to adjust his focus to the lower light conditions, a metal jacketed crossbow bolt embedded half its length into his forehead. The impact was so severe it threw him two meters back before his limp body touched the cobblestones. Then the clatter of hooves began again. His pursuers rushed into the narrow chasm between the buildings, running towards the noise. But in the brick and stone maze it was impossible to pinpoint where the galloping sound was coming from. Suddenly it stopped, and as Dona Maria and her thugs were still staring into the gloom there came the unmistakable sound of an arrow flying threw the air. Thud, into the back and out the front of a tall thin man. He too was hurled a distance before falling dead.
That was enough for the others. They rushed towards the larger road where they had left their cars. Once there, Dona Maria ordered the two vehicles to circle the neighbourhood in opposite directions, reckoning Abelard would eventually be spotted either trying to leave or down one of the narrow streets which intersected the larger roadway. They did finally catch sight of him but not quite in the way they had expected, Abelard suddenly appearing, galloping alongside the car, the one without Dona Maria. Before the two men could draw their weapons, Abelard had swung his great, spiked metal ball at the window, which was conveniently rolled down for shooting, and smashed the driver’s skull. The car lurched forward and picked up speed as the dying thug depressed the accelerator. It then spun out of control, glanced off a metal stanchion and finally bounced over the side of the road, plummeting twenty metres to the valley floor and bursting into flames. The odds are now much better, Abelard thought, four down three to go.
But he was a little too confident. As he stared down at the burning wreck, Dona Maria and the surviving thugs pulled up behind him. Dona Maria and one man stayed in the gloom of an alley while the other gunman took careful aim at Abelard.
“Shoot him;” shouted Dona Maria, “now, shoot him now.”
With nothing to lose, and being quite sure he was finished, Abelard took a knife from his belt and threw it at the gunman. It did strike its mark but not before the gunman’s head had already exploded. The sharp crack of a high powered rifle followed soon after. It was the rifle bullet that saved him; not the knife. Then the overcast, moist air was filled with police sirens.
“You, I guess will have to be kept alive,” Dona Maria said, next to his ear, her gun touching his temple. “Take him to the car she ordered her surviving man. We will need him to get away.”
Screeching at high speed through the winding streets, they soon reached the outskirts from where they turned towards Florence. They were not alone, being pursued by several police vehicles shrieking their high pitched staccato wail. About three kilometers along the Siena-Florence road, Dona Maria concluded that they could not possibly outrun the police and ordered the driver up a long driveway which led to a small stone chapel. There were no vehicles to be seen and she had guessed it was empty. They skidded to a dusty stop and rushed towards the door, which they broke down. A moment later the police had surrounded the building. The inside was austere, adorned only with a raised alter and a large cross hanging behind it on the dilapidated plaster wall. The shouted demands by the police to give themselves up began almost immediately.
“Well, Abelard,” Dona Maria began, “we seem to have a situation here. You may think that you can get off by revealing what you know about The Society but you are wrong. They will never believe a man with such a dodgy past and, besides, I will have the best team of lawyers money can buy. But why take a chance with the vagaries of the courtroom and, especially, nosy investigators? My best bet is to shoot you right now and plead that you were a madman who had attacked us and forced me to drive you to safety.”
“What if we made a deal,” Abelard said, playing for time as he moved ever so slowly towards the only remaining stained glass window, the others having been removed or broken long ago and the spaces bricked up. “I won’t say anything about the murders, the assassinations, the simulated terrorist attacks and other parts of your business; and I will help you find the secret to my longevity. What do you say?”
“Sorry my dear Abelard but you seem to know much more than I had suspected and I am quite sure that I cannot trust you. Besides, I am under a family obligation to avenge my father’s death. Shoot him,” she barked at the thug standing just beside her. Too late, Abelard had already moved close enough to the window and hurled himself through it. The thug rushed forward and as he aimed at Abelard, who was already distancing himself from the chapel, sharpshooters put four closely spaced bullets into his chest.
“Alright, I’m coming out,” Dona Maria yelled, as she threw her weapon out the door.
“This man attacked us and has killed four of my people,” Dona Maria screeched hysterically pointing at Abelard who was now standing next to the police captain. Abelard was just as confused as Dona Maria. No one seemed to be paying him any particular attention. He wasn’t being manacled o
r interrogated. He was not quite sure what was happening.
“Ever since you pulled Mr. Bush into the car, earlier on, until the moment he left the chapel, we have recorded everything you said,” the captain practically whispered, or so it seemed to Abelard, having endured Dona Maria’s deafening ranting for much of the afternoon.
“Thank you Mr. Bush,” he said, as he put his hand on Abelard’s shoulder and from under his collar removed a finishing nail head sized device. “This is the microphone my officer placed on you at the café this morning,” he continued, pointing to the strongly built stern looking woman wearing a conspicuous red leather half coat, standing a few metres away, who had bumped into him that morning. Then he pointed to a large van with its doors open and through which could be seen banks of electronic equipment.
As Dona Maria was being led away, screaming bloody murder, Abelard saw a familiar figure step from one of the squad cars and approach him. It was Sanschagrin. “Hello Mr. Bush. I did say we would meet again. This is Captain Giancarlo Tremonti of the national police. When I asked for his help to keep an eye on you and hopefully solve the mystery of who you really are, he became very interested when he learned there was a connection to the Donatello. He has been trying for years, without success, to infiltrate their organization. He saw you as an opportunity to advance his own case.”
“So you used me as bait,” Abelard asked without seeming terribly fussed that they may have deliberately put him in death’s way?
“Actually not, since we remained as passive trackers right up until the last minute when we saved your life. All initiatives were your own without the least prodding from the captain.”
“About that saving my life event; thanks.”
“Shall we hold him for you, Hector,” the captain asked? “We have no reason to detain him as far as Italian law is concerned. He has not done anything wrong here.”
“Alas,” Sanschagrin sighed, without a trace of regret, “neither do we have any reason to hold him.”
“You are free to go, Mr. Bush. We already have enough self incriminating evidence against the Donatello and will not be likely to need your presence.”
Abelard, still heady with his run of good luck walked back into the warren of narrow streets to chase down and return the rental horse.
Chapter XXII
Attempted murder