Chapter 129 - The Cloister Exit
The mother superior of Santa Maria, an elderly woman named Sister Maria Concetta whose family had lived on the cliffs of Castelmola for three centuries, did not blink when she saw Patrice’s weapon. She merely made the sign of the cross, reached behind an ancient oak crucifix mounted to the whitewashed plaster wall, and pulled down a rusted iron ring key.
"The crypt," the old nun said in soft, rapid Italian, her eyes meeting mine with absolute clarity. "It leads down through the ancient Roman cistern into the ravine of the Madonna della Rocca. The tourists do not know it. The police do not use it because the stairs are steep and wet. Go. Before the maresciallo knocks on my gate."
"Thank you, Mother," Sarah whispered, kissing the nun’s withered hand.
We moved through the darkness of the subterranean crypt, our steps muffled by centuries of dust and damp moss. Patrice led the way, a small tactical flashlight cutting a pencil beam through the cold, subterranean air. Clara walked between Sarah and me, her small hand firmly wrapped around mine. Her grip was strong, unyielding, carrying the same fierce tenacity that had kept me alive through the sleet-swept logging trails of New Hampshire.
Behind us, through the thick stone walls, we heard the heavy, rhythmic pounding of iron on oak. The carabinieri had reached the outer gate of the convent.
"They will search the chapel first," Julien murmured from the rear. "Sister Concetta will take ten minutes to find the courtyard keys. That gives us fifteen minutes to reach the ravine."
The stone stairs were slick with condensation, winding downward through the belly of the mountain like the spiral of a sea shell. The air grew progressively warmer, thick with the smell of wet earth, wild mint, and the sharp sulfur tang of the volcanic rock.
After what felt like miles of descent, the tunnel ended in a low, arched opening partially covered by heavy wild ivy. Patrice parted the vines with his forearm, scanning the sunlit slope below.
We were standing on a narrow terrace halfway down the gorge, high above the coastal highway that connected Taormina to Messina. Parked on the gravel shoulder of the highway below, completely unnoticed by the police cruising the mountain peaks, sat a battered green flatbed truck loaded with empty wooden fruit crates.
"Whose truck is that?" I asked Julien.
"My brother's," Julien said with a faint smirk. "He delivers blood oranges from Catania to the ferry at Messina every Tuesday. He doesn't ask questions about cargo."
"Can we reach the ferry before Rossi seals the strait?" Sarah asked, her breathing ragged from the descent.
"The ferry to Villa San Giovanni leaves every twenty minutes," Patrice said, checking his watch. "Rossi cannot shut down the primary commercial artery between Sicily and the Italian mainland without triggering a military response from Rome. If we cross the Strait of Messina, we are back on the mainland network."
"And then?" Clara asked, looking up at me.
May you like
I gripped the manila envelope containing the Bastia port deed against my ribs.
"And then," I said, "we stop running. We take the night express to Rome, walk into the French Embassy on the Piazza Farnese, and hand Marc Rossi’s entire shipping empire to the French Minister of Justice."
