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Mrs. Campbell went over to a beer sign on the wall. With a flick of her wrist, she pulled on the edge—and the wood swung open to reveal a safe. In a blur she twisted the knob back and forth, right and left, and the safe unlocked. She grabbed a set of keys, then closed the metal door.
She motioned for us to follow. “Come with me.”
As we walked outside, Alessio angled toward me. “Do you know where this friend is at the moment? Even a rough guess?”
“Off the coast of Nice.”
Mrs. Campbell strode toward the docks, but kept going around the bend surrounding the inlet. “How’d they find you?”
“I suspect they were tapping phone lines,” Alessio answered. “Someone was making calls from here.”
“Someone was using burner phones,” I grumbled.
“Och, but on the other end,” Mrs. Campbell said. “They can still be listening.”
“Exactly,” Alessio said and I proceeded to ignore them both.
It felt like we walked forever. There were sailboats and fishing boats bobbing in the dark water. I wondered which one was hers.
She headed toward a long pier off on its own. At the end was a fancy cigarette speedboat. The kind used for drug running. I would know. Many of the Colombians I worked with had boats like this.
Stopping, she held the keys up to Alessio. “She’s full of fuel. Good luck.”
“I’ll return this back to you,” he said, taking the keys.
“I’m not worried. You’ll do your best.”
“We need to get to France,” I said. “Fast. Any idea where we can stop for fuel?”
“If you need to get to France,” Mrs. Campbell said. “You’ll need a plane.”
“You don’t happen to have one?” Alessio asked dryly.
“No, but an old friend of mine on Skye does.” She pulled out her mobile. “Let’s see if he picks up.”
* * *
Alessio
Nice, France
As Giulio contacted his friend, I went inland to find provisions. Nice was crowded with tourists, the hot Riviera sun encouraging bare skin and good times. I kept my head down and headed to a market. We were exhausted, having traveled by boat and plane to get here.
Mrs. Campbell’s friend had been a pilot in the Royal Air Force. He had a small plane that he kept on the Isle of Skye for tours. Thankfully, he’d been willing to accept a large stack of Euros in exchange for a trip to the south of France.
Before I went shopping, though, I had a call to make.
Unlocking my phone, I found the contact I needed and tapped on the glass.
“Pronto,” Vito D’Agostino said in my ear.
“I need to speak with your brother.”
A voice sounded in the background. They had me on speaker. “You have me, Alessandro. How may I help you?”
“You and Gianna Mancini. Is it true?”
“I hardly see how this is any business of yours.”
