The more important question was how he would kill him.

Ironically, he had not planned the actual event. He had been so focused on the other aspects that he failed to map it out.

But murder was best executed on the spur of the moment. To plan that too carefully—certainly, he would leave clues that would be discovered and trip him up.

And after all, what had his planning otherwise gotten him? Rubeo so far had not been touched by the disaster of his prideful invention.

Kharon was more than a little out of his element in the tough precincts of Palermo, and he knew that no amount of intellect could substitute for street savvy. But he wanted to obtain a gun, and he knew that this was the easiest place to do it, as long as he was willing to overpay.

He stopped first at a legitimate gun shop, where he had no luck; the owner told him that since he was not an Italian citizen, he could not obtain a license at the local police station, and therefore he could not buy the weapon. But at least Kharon learned what the actual procedure was.

It was not particularly onerous—one was required to register the gun at the local police station, a practice the gun dealer hinted was not always strictly followed. But it was impossible to register if you were a foreigner. Anyone even suspected of being from outside Italy—as Kharon’s poor accent undoubtedly made clear—would be immediately asked for identification.

Armed with the information, he decided that the easiest approach would be to simply claim he was an Italian citizen, back to the country after spending many years in America. All he needed were documents that would prove he was Italian.

Such documents were valuable not only to new immigrants, but to legitimate citizens who wanted to avoid the hassle of getting official records from city hall. A web search of news sources showed that two years before there had been a raid on several tobacconists accused of selling these papers; the list was an obvious pointer on where he should go.

The first was closed. The second was in the lobby of an expensive looking hotel. The only clerk Kharon could find was a young man who gave him a befuddled look when he mentioned that he needed new documents. Kharon told him a story about having lost his driver’s license—the story he had seen indicated that many of the customers of the phony docs bought them to escape the bureaucracy and fees involved in getting replacements. But the young man seemed indifferent.

Outside, Kharon was looking up the address of the next place on his smart phone when a man yelled to him.

“Signor—you need help, yes?”

The man had been in the shop, standing near the magazines. He was in his early twenties, dressed in new jeans and well-tailored sport coat. The odor of his cologne was strong enough to fight its way through the cloud of diesel smoke nearby.

“I need documents,” said Kharon.

“Why?” asked the man.

He seemed too young to be a policeman. But Kharon hesitated. The man’s English was very good, the accent more American than British.

Just the sort of slick operator he needed. If he trusted him.

Am I doing this?

Yes, finally. I am moving ahead after all these years of planning. It is time.

“I need to buy a gun,” Kharon said.

“That’s a very expensive problem,” said the man.

“Not from what I’ve heard.”

“Come on and have a coffee,” said the man, pointing to an espresso bar across the street. “We will talk.”

In the end, Kharon purchased a Glock 17. The pistol was an older version, the type before the accessory rail was added, but the gun itself was in excellent shape. Kharon field-stripped it for inspection in a small room at the back of the coffee shop the man had taken him to. Before he had it back together, his “friend” appeared with a driver’s license and an EU passport. He took a photo, and within ten minutes Kharon was an Italian citizen.

Amazing what five thousand euros could do.

The gun didn’t come with a holster, and Kharon knew better than to try and carry it bare in his belt. He went back to the legitimate gun store and purchased a holster. The whole time, he expected the clerk to say something, perhaps even refuse to deal with him, but the man didn’t even indicate he knew him, or glance suspiciously at the wrapped-up bag Kharon carried with him.

He stopped at another store and bought himself a jacket for two hundred euros. It was a little big, and the shop owner gave him a hard time, insisting that he have it altered, a process that would take a few days. Kharon had to practically shout at the man to get him to sell it as it was.

It was easier to buy illegal documents and a gun in Italy than an ill-fitting jacket.

Better equipped, he filled the tank on the rental car, then set out on the autostrada for the eastern end of the island.

Soon, he thought to himself, he would see Rubeo.

10

Sicily

Turk’s five minutes playing with the i ragazzi turned into roughly a half hour, and certainly would have lasted longer had the teacher not finally declared it was time for the children to eat lunch.

The kids demanded that he return. He promised he would come back in two days—a vow the teacher made a big deal of, even writing it on the class calendar.

The game vanquished Turk’s hangover, or whatever physical funk he had been in. It also left him hungry, so he walked over to the cafeteria and got himself lunch—a warm octopus salad with red and blue potatoes and the mandatory side of pasta.

He was just about done when he realized he hadn’t checked his phone for messages. There were a stack of them, including two from Ginella: Shooter Squadron was having a pilots’ meeting at 1500, and she hoped he’d be available.

It sounded like a voluntary request, and while the military wasn’t exactly known for volunteerism, Turk decided he would interpret it that way. He also decided he would head toward Catania, a city on the coast about eleven miles north of the base. He hadn’t been there since arriving, and from what he’d heard, it would be the perfect place to let his mind wander while he took a mental breather.

A public bus ran from the base up to the city. Turk hopped on it, and after a confused negotiation with the driver—who finally made it clear that he didn’t have to pay, grazie—he settled into a seat near the back and watched the countryside. Sicily was basically a volcano in the shallow Mediterranean, and the focal point of that volcano—Mount Etna—rose beyond the window as they rode. Despite the early spring heat, the top of the mountain was white-capped. A dim layer of mist rose from the peak; it was a benign presence this afternoon, barely hinting at its power to reshape the lives of the people in the area as well as the landscape.

Turk got out near the city square, or piazza. He walked around for a while, looking at the buildings and the people, his mind wandering. Finally he took a seat at an outdoor café at one side of the square, ordered a wine, then got the menu and had a plate of pasta and a second wine.

A succession of pretty women passed nearby en route to the tourist spots or somewhere to shop. He started to think he might like the idea of touring the country alone.

Few people came close to him, though occasionally he got a smile when his eyes met a stranger’s. Probably this was a function of the flight suit, he realized. He should have dressed in civilian clothes—he was the only serviceman around, American or otherwise, and it seemed to strike an odd note with the tourists who wandered by.