Despite York’s hurry to see RJ, he couldn’t ignore the beauty of the shoreline. The drive brought them along the cliff that dropped some fifty to a hundred feet to the glorious Mediterranean Sea, so blue under the fading sunlight it seemed to stretch on forever. Calm, a few sailboats dotting the water, the sun low and reaching out an orange finger to touch the water.

Breathe. “It is nice.” He glanced out of the mirror. Didn’t see the cyclist, but a truck had turned in between him and the potential tail.

Yep, paranoid.

He closed his eyes. “How do you know this place?”

“The Mattucci estate? It’s in Ziggy’s family.”

“How do you know Ziggy?”

“Her partner and I did some job together. After he died, Ziggy filled in. She’s smart. Tough. Her family were resistance fighters in World War Two, working against Mussolini, and then Hitler. Helped hide and transport Jews to safety, and then, later, American and British fliers who got caught behind enemy lines.” He downshifted and pulled out, passed a slow moving, late model Lancia hatchback, putting the gas all the way to the floor.

“Should I get out and push?”

“I miss my Maserati.” He slipped back into his lane.

“You have a Maserati?” York shook his head. “I need to ask for a raise.”

Roy smiled.

“So, is there something between you and Ziggy?”

Roy glanced in the rear-view mirror. “He’s still there.”

“Who?” York hazarded a look. Shoot. The cyclist had also pulled out, passing the truck.

“If he’s trying not to be noticed, he’s doing a poor job,” Roy said. “I spotted him at the hotel, and then at the Berlin airport.”

“And the plane.”

“Hard to miss, with those tats.”

“He has a cleft palate.”

“Maybe it’s not him.”

Roy nodded. He down shifted as they climbed a hill, the road dropping off to their left to the sea, foamy as it crested against the cliff side below.

“What if she’s not there.”

“She will be. Ziggy texted last night, one word. Ciao. They’re there, York.”

He looked out the window, his hands on his jeans

Overhead, the sky was darkening, the clouds gray and heavy, maybe evidence of the storm that had delayed their flight, now gathering in southwestern Tuscany.

“We’re coming up to a town—Civitavecchia. Want to grab some grub?”

“I want to be there already,” York said. He glanced at the cyclist. He hadn’t advanced on them. “But yes, I’m starved.”

“There’s an Autogrill ahead.” Roy nodded towards a building on the side of the road, the words, providentially, Autogrill, on a sign above the building.

They pulled in, and York got out, watching for the cyclist.

He motored by without a pause, and York watched him disappear down the highway.

The nearby sea reefed a coolness into the air, the hills on the eastern side green and forested.