“Where will you go?”
“My father has a friend in France who will help me.”
Salvatore said, “If you wish me to accompany you to the border—?”
Both of them knew how dangerous that could be.
“No, Salvatore,” Lucia said. “You have done enough for me. I must do this alone.”
The following morning Salvatore Giuseppe rented a Fiat in the name of Lucia Roma and handed her the keys.
“Be careful,” he pleaded.
“Don’t worry. I was born under a lucky star.”
Had not her father told her so?
At the Italian-French border the cars waiting to get into France were advancing slowly in a long line. As Lucia moved closer to the immigration booth, she became more and more nervous. They would be looking for her at all exit points. If they caught her, she knew she would be sentenced to prison for life. I’ll kill myself first, Lucia thought.
She had reached the immigration officer.
“Passport, signorina.”
Lucia handed him her black passport through the car window. As the officer took it, he glanced at Lucia, and she saw a puzzled look come into his eyes. He looked from the passport to her face and back again, this time more carefully. Lucia felt her body tense.
“You’re Lucia Carmine,” he said.
CHAPTER NINE
“No!” Lucia cried. The blood drained from her face. She looked around for a way to escape. There was none. And suddenly, to her disbelief, the guard was smiling. He leaned toward her and whispered, “Your father was good to my family, signorina. You may pass through. Good luck.”
Lucia felt dizzy with relief. “Grazie.”
She stepped on the accelerator and drove the twenty-five yards toward the French border. The French immigration officer prided himself on being a connoisseur of beautiful women, and the woman who pulled up before him was certainly no beauty. She had mousy hair, thick glasses, stained teeth, and was dowdily dressed.
Why can’t Italian women look as beautiful as French women? he thought disgustedly. He stamped Lucia’s passport and waved her through.
She arrived in Béziers six hours later.
The phone was answered on the first ring, and a smooth male voice said, “Hello.”
“Dominic Durell, please.”
“This is Dominic Durell. Who is this speaking?”
“Lucia Carmine. My father told me—”
“Lucia!” His voice was warm with welcome. “I was hoping to hear from you.”
“I need help.”
“You can count on me.”
Lucia’s heart lightened. It was the first good news she had heard in a long time, and she suddenly realized how drained she felt.
“I need a place where I can hide out from the police.”
“No problem. My wife and I have a perfect place for you to use for as long as you like.”
It was almost too good to be true.
“Thank you.”
“Where are you, Lucia?”
“I’m—”
At that moment the blare of a police shortwave radio crackled over the phone, and then was instantly shut off.
“Lucia—”
A loud alarm rang in her head.
“Lucia—where are you? I’ll come and get you.”
Why would he have a police radio in his house? And he had answered the telephone on the first ring. Almost as though he had been expecting her call.
“Lucia—can you hear me?”
She knew, with an absolute certainty, that the man on the other end of the line was a policeman. So the dragnet was out for her. This call was being traced.
“Lucia—”
She replaced the receiver and walked quickly away from the telephone booth. I’ve got to get out of France, she thought.
She returned to her car and took a map from the glove compartment. The Spanish border was only a few hours away. She replaced the map and started off, heading southwest toward San Sebastian.
It was at the Spanish border that things started to go wrong.
“Passport, please.”
Lucia handed the Spanish immigration officer her passport. He gave it a cursory glance and started to hand it back, but something made him hesitate. He took a closer look at Lucia, and his expression changed.
“Just a moment, please. I will have to have this stamped inside.”
He recognized me, Lucia thought desperately. She watched him walk into the little office kiosk and show the passport to another officer. The two of them were talking excitedly. She had to escape. She opened the door on the driver’s side and stepped out. A group of German tourists who had just cleared customs was noisily boarding an excursion bus next to Lucia’s car. The sign on the front of the bus read MADRID.