behind his ear and stuck it in his mouth.
"Beautiful," I said, clenching my hands to stop their trembling. "Nice and fast and showy. And one of these days you're going to kill yourself doing it."
He laughed out loud. "Well, you must admit it's fun trying."
We came up through the clouds into clear air, he stamped on the right rudder and swung slowly north, turning inland.
As for me, I turned up the collar of my trenchcoat, another item thoughtfully provided as part of my general wardrobe, closed my eyes and pretended to sleep and after a while, did just that.
Not too far out of Palermo on the coast road to Messina you come to the beaches of Romagnolo, a favorite weekend spot for city dwellers, only not today. It had been dirty weather all the way, heavy rain had cleared the beaches and there was a whole lot more of that nasty, gray mist rolling in off the water.
It didn't seem to bother Langley in the slightest. He simply sat there at the controls whistling softly between his teeth until a few miles along the coast from Romagnolo he said suddenly, "Going down, and I'd hang on if I were you. Could be a trifle bumpy."
It must have qualified for the understatement of the year. We skimmed the shoulder of a mountain, narrowly avoiding some sort of baroque palace and plunged into a wide bay beyond as the first gray strands curled along the tips of the wings. A final burst of power to level out in the descent and we dropped into calm water with a splash.
Mist closed in around us and Langley said cheerfully, "All right, old stick?"
"One of life's great experiences," I assured him.
I opened the window beside me and peered out as we taxied forward. The tip of a floating pontoon suddenly pushed out of the mist; Langley cut the engine and we drifted in. As I got the door open and stepped across with the line Langley handed me, a man in a black oilskin and stocking cap appeared from the mist. He had a dark saturnine face and badly needed a shave. Rather incongruously he was carrying an umbrella which he handed to me, relieving me in turn of the line.
I stood holding the umbrella in the pouring rain, wondering what in the hell was keeping Langley and then he scrambled out of the cabin and I saw that he had changed out of his flying kit and was now wearing suede boots and a navy blue nylon raincoat.
"Right, off we go, old stick," he said, completely ignoring the man in the black oilskin and we started along the swaying pontoon through the torrential rain, both sheltering under the umbrella. The baroque palace I had glimpsed from the air loomed out of the mist up there on the side of the mountain.
"Another of Stavrou's weekend places?" I asked.
"Don't be bitter, old stick," Langley said. "It just isn't you."
We crossed a shingle beach to a black Mercedes limousine parked at the end of a narrow asphalt road. As we approached, a uniformed chauffeur emerged and opened the rear door. He took the umbrella as we got in.
He slid behind the wheel and waited. Langley pulled down a flap at the bottom of the dividing screen, took out a bottle and a couple of glasses into each of which he poured a generous measure of an excellent brandy.
He toasted me. "You took that rather well, old stick. You know for an American, you're not half bad. Very strange." He poured himself another one. "On the other hand, you did go to Winchester, didn't you? I suppose that explains it."
To which there could really be no answer and before I could even try, he said casually, "Where to?"
"I thought you were supposed to keep out of my hair?"
"But I will, old stick. Honestly." He even managed to look hurt as he took a foolscap envelope from his inside pocket. "On the other hand, considering what's inside this I should have thought your friend Barzini would be enchanted to make my acquaintance."
I decided to play along with him for the time being, mainly because I'd been expecting something like this anyway. I said, "All right, Via San Marco. It's off the Via
"Beautiful," I said, clenching my hands to stop their trembling. "Nice and fast and showy. And one of these days you're going to kill yourself doing it."
He laughed out loud. "Well, you must admit it's fun trying."
We came up through the clouds into clear air, he stamped on the right rudder and swung slowly north, turning inland.
As for me, I turned up the collar of my trenchcoat, another item thoughtfully provided as part of my general wardrobe, closed my eyes and pretended to sleep and after a while, did just that.
Not too far out of Palermo on the coast road to Messina you come to the beaches of Romagnolo, a favorite weekend spot for city dwellers, only not today. It had been dirty weather all the way, heavy rain had cleared the beaches and there was a whole lot more of that nasty, gray mist rolling in off the water.
It didn't seem to bother Langley in the slightest. He simply sat there at the controls whistling softly between his teeth until a few miles along the coast from Romagnolo he said suddenly, "Going down, and I'd hang on if I were you. Could be a trifle bumpy."
It must have qualified for the understatement of the year. We skimmed the shoulder of a mountain, narrowly avoiding some sort of baroque palace and plunged into a wide bay beyond as the first gray strands curled along the tips of the wings. A final burst of power to level out in the descent and we dropped into calm water with a splash.
Mist closed in around us and Langley said cheerfully, "All right, old stick?"
"One of life's great experiences," I assured him.
I opened the window beside me and peered out as we taxied forward. The tip of a floating pontoon suddenly pushed out of the mist; Langley cut the engine and we drifted in. As I got the door open and stepped across with the line Langley handed me, a man in a black oilskin and stocking cap appeared from the mist. He had a dark saturnine face and badly needed a shave. Rather incongruously he was carrying an umbrella which he handed to me, relieving me in turn of the line.
I stood holding the umbrella in the pouring rain, wondering what in the hell was keeping Langley and then he scrambled out of the cabin and I saw that he had changed out of his flying kit and was now wearing suede boots and a navy blue nylon raincoat.
"Right, off we go, old stick," he said, completely ignoring the man in the black oilskin and we started along the swaying pontoon through the torrential rain, both sheltering under the umbrella. The baroque palace I had glimpsed from the air loomed out of the mist up there on the side of the mountain.
"Another of Stavrou's weekend places?" I asked.
"Don't be bitter, old stick," Langley said. "It just isn't you."
We crossed a shingle beach to a black Mercedes limousine parked at the end of a narrow asphalt road. As we approached, a uniformed chauffeur emerged and opened the rear door. He took the umbrella as we got in.
He slid behind the wheel and waited. Langley pulled down a flap at the bottom of the dividing screen, took out a bottle and a couple of glasses into each of which he poured a generous measure of an excellent brandy.
He toasted me. "You took that rather well, old stick. You know for an American, you're not half bad. Very strange." He poured himself another one. "On the other hand, you did go to Winchester, didn't you? I suppose that explains it."
To which there could really be no answer and before I could even try, he said casually, "Where to?"
"I thought you were supposed to keep out of my hair?"
"But I will, old stick. Honestly." He even managed to look hurt as he took a foolscap envelope from his inside pocket. "On the other hand, considering what's inside this I should have thought your friend Barzini would be enchanted to make my acquaintance."
I decided to play along with him for the time being, mainly because I'd been expecting something like this anyway. I said, "All right, Via San Marco. It's off the Via
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