Giancarlo immediately understood the problem. Very often when calling overseas, there was a short delay between when a person spoke and when his voice came through to the person on the other end of the line. He knew he would have to speak in a deliberate manner and allow enough time for a reply.

“How are you doing?” he asked. “Are you enjoying your vacation ?”

“Um, pretty much,” Carter answered. “I’ve had quite a trip so far.”

Despite the poor quality of the line over which they were talking, Giancarlo could detect the hint of strain in Carter’s voice.

“Where are you now?” he asked.

“I’m in Castelalto,” he replied.

Giancarlo was surprised, for he had not expected him to go there so soon.

“Well, I’m glad you found your way there,” he said uneasily. “Bravo. But why have you called? Is there something wrong?”

“Yes,” said Carter, “there is. I will tell you all about it in a second, but first I have been asked to give you a message. It is from Antonella.”

At the sound of the name, Giancarlo froze.

“What is it?” he said.

“Just one word,” said Carter. “She said to tell you ‘Venga.’” Come.

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 47

When his plane landed in Rome some seventeen hours after he spoke to Carter, there was no time for Giancarlo to go into the city and sit around Termini Station waiting for a train to take him to Abruzzo. He had known this would be the case before he had made the hurried trip to Boston that previous afternoon to catch the only available flight to Italy. Giancarlo had briefly considered renting a car, but upon reflection rightly concluded it would be safer and quicker to hire a driver, and so he had made arrangements to have a car waiting to take him to Castelalto directly from the airport.

Now, as the car sped down the autostrada away from Rome and Giancarlo stretched out his legs in the backseat, he saw the wisdom of that decision. As bleary-eyed and exhausted as he was from the time change and the whirlwind of travel that had brought him there, he was glad for the time being to leave the driving in someone else’s hands. It was one less thing for him to worry about.

Looking back on the day just passed, it all seemed like a blur: booking his flight, arranging for the car, cancelling his classes, informing Sheffield of the situation, saying a clumsy, hurried goodbye in passing to Patricia, rushing home to throw a suitcase together, making the slow, frustrating drive through the afternoon traffic to Boston, waiting in line at the airport to clear security, and finally sprinting to the gate to board the plane. Just thinking about it all left him out of breath.