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He explained tothe house that he had to go do something for a couple of days, an emergency for his job, for the government, and would be back over the weekend, although he really didn’t know when he’d return.
He considered not taking his firearms, but he took a chance since he’d regret that decision if he needed them. Besides, he had the badge.
He left early from Tampa and caught a flight to Charleston to catch a direct to Naples. Before boarding the thirteen-hourflight, he took a chance and called her but left a message he hoped she’d get.
He settled into the plush leather seats in Business Class. It cost him more than he’d ever paid for a plane ticket, more than he’d paid for his first car. It was a fourteen-day turnaround, which he hoped would be enough time. He took a whiskey just so he could try to sleep. The seat next to him was thankfully vacant. He stretched out the back to prone position on both seats, and dreamed about pirates, white puffy clouds, walking on the beach, and, of course, butterflies.
Lots of butterflies.
Chapter Ten
He woke upwith an announcement about turbulence and the approach to landing in Naples, the captain asking for seatbelts and seat backs to be returned to their upright positions.
The steward picked up his warm whiskey glass, something apparently given to him while he was sleeping, and he never knew it. He also returned the grey blanket they’d covered him with.
He’d never slept so soundly on a plane before. Even when he was dead tired from ops in Africa or the Middle East, riding in those big transport planes that droned on and on and left him practically deaf when they landed, he couldn’t sleep.
Out of his window, he could see the picturesque Italian coastline, dotted with colorful buildings built into and on top of steep cliffs. Below, there wasn’t much beach, just a thin strip here or there. Most of it was harbor. Hundreds of small fishing boats and charters, as well as expensive yachts were parked in rows or free floating, anchored in the bright deep blue water. Farther down the coastline, some larger commercial ships and two cruise ships were docked, along with several small Italian military gunboats, built for speed.
Dimitri had met Italian Special Forces teams, even trained with some occasionally, as they did with all their allies and neighbors. Being a smaller country with a huge coastline, their Navy was one of the most advanced, and the single-man submarine vessels created during WWII were legendary for sinking ships and navigated undetected all throughout the Mediterranean, causing loss of life for the Allied troops.
Their advanced technology was second to none. Italy’s economy, both for shipping and for tourism, was forever tied to them having a safe coastline and navigable seas.
They landed, and he was directed to the baggage claim terminal, keeping his duty bag slung over his shoulder with the overflow.
Being Business Class had its perks and his bag was the first off the conveyor. He picked it up, turned, and nearly bumped into a skinny teen holding a card with his name on it. His real name.
“Dimitri?” the kid said.
“Yes.”
“Here, I will help you with this,” he said as he leaned forward to take his suitcase.
“Not necessary.” Dimitri grabbed it first. He was shown to a waiting van with an electrical contractor’s information painted on the side.
He added his luggage to the supplies and material in the back of the van, then slid next to the driver in the front passenger side.
As they pulled away from the curb and into heavy traffic congestion, the kid spoke rapidly in Italian, which did Dimitri no good. He shrugged. He thought he heard Moira’s name, but he couldn’t be positive.
The young man made hand gestures like a fish, until Dimitri realized he was talking about the ferry to take him to Capri, but he kept calling it Anacapri, which confused him. He just nodded his head, copied his hand motions.
It was as close as they’d get to communicating during the forty minute ride over to the ferry terminal, where he wasdumped off after being shown ten fingers. Dimitri was to take the ten o’clock hydrofoil ride to Capri. That he could follow.
He thanked the kid, who wouldn’t accept a tip, and again he heard Moira’s name, or so he thought.
The terminal was filled with mostly workmen bringing tools to the island, pieces of equipment or parts in boxes, even some office furniture on dollies. Several families rode together, perhaps coming back from a stay on the mainland. A small group of tourists were led by a uniformed guide carrying a little red sign with the number ten written on it, probably from one of the two cruise ships he saw berthed.
He attempted another call to let her know he was on his way and again left a message.
His curiosity was making his blood pressure spike. Nothing was familiar. Even the language wasn’t familiar. He heard no English spoken. The hydrofoil was fast and very loud. A faint water mist covered everyone on the outdoor seating area in front, which is where he sat so he could get a good view of the island as they approached. They were followed by sea gulls, just like the ones in California. The smell of the salty ocean, that fishy smell, was everywhere.
At last, the island rose in front of them, like a big crystal teeming from the bottom of the ocean floor, encrusted with shells and rocks, which turned later into little houses and shops. It was the island where King Kong lived. It was Bali Hai, all rolled into one. It was just as stunning as the pictures he’d seen on his computer. Even prettier, he thought. Just as the articles said, he was experiencing a piece of history revealing itself before his eyes. Two thousand years of history and counting. He could only imagine how tired the crews rowing the ancient Roman rulers across this channel must have felt when they arrived, rowing against the tide and the rolling sea, banners and flags flying in the breeze, the ancient ruler sitting back on hissilk pillows, enjoying the view and anticipating all the folly and games to come on his island paradise.
He did feel like he was escaping civilization, heading toward a whole other culture and the mysterious woman who had stolen his heart, just like Antony and Cleopatra.
Okay, that was being corny. But it felt epic. If it was a movie, it would have a rousing score and choirs in the background, announcing his arrival.
And then the blast of the hydrofoil nearly made him fall off his seat. His ears rang afterwards. Searching around him, he noted no one else was up front with him. Maybe for the spray, but certainly that horn blast was enough to cause a permanent defect. He didn’t want to look behind him, because he bet someone was laughing at his expense.
