Blowback

Kalachka’s description of Harvath must have been very good, as the Italian zeroed right in on him. So much for Harvath’s copy of the International Herald Tribune which he had folded open at the sports section and left in a predetermined corner of the table. Judging from the man’s white linen blazer and pastel-colored silk trousers, subtlety was not one of his strong suits. At least the man stuck to the script Harvath had established with Kalachka when he approached their table and said in slightly accented English, “I’m sorry to disturb you, but didn’t we meet last summer in Tremezzo? You and your wife were staying at the Grand Hotel, no?”

“Actually, we were at the San Giorgio.”

“Ah sì, it was the San Giorgio,” said the man as he motioned to one of the empty chairs and Harvath invited him to sit down. Once the waiter had taken his order and disappeared, the Italian introduced himself. “My name is Marco, “He said as he extended his hand and shook both Harvath’s and Aloctt’s. “I am at your disposal.”

Harvath got right to the point. “Our mutual friend explained what we need?”

“Of course, and it’s no problem,” replied Marco, waving his hand dismissively.

The man was a little too relaxed for Harvath’s taste. Leaning across the table and fixing him with his eyes, he said, “This is serious. I expect it to go off without a hitch. No problems at all. Do you understand?’

“Sì, sì. This is why I said no problem. Getting out of Italy is much easier than getting in. If your trip was reversed, then I would be concerned.”

Somehow, Harvath had trouble believing that. “Why is that?”

“Because you are crossing over into the Swiss province of Ticino, and Ticino has legalized marijuana. It’s the new Amsterdam. Many Americans haven’t heard of it, but it is well known by the Italians. Not only is cannabis legal in Ticino, but it is also much higher quality than what can be found throughout this country. Call it reefer madness, but everyone who smokes wants their marijuana from Ticino. The Italian border guards have their hands full trying to search as many cars and motor scooters as possible coming back into Italy via our local border crossing with Switzerland.”

“What about Swiss border guards and going in?”

Again, the Italian waved his hand in the air. “We never see them, except at the crossing itself. There’s about fifteen kilometers of chain-link fence defining the border between Italy and Switzerland with holes cut through it all along. I could drop you at the edge of the forest and you would actually be able to find arrows spray-painted on the trees to lead you in the right direction.”

“So the drug trade in this part of Europe must be very lucrative then.”

“It is what I hear, but I’m not in the drug business. I am an importer of strictly legal goods.”

“Really?” said Harvath, skeptical. “Such as?”

“Gold, furs, jewelry, watches, cigarettes-you name it,” said Marco. “As long as the taxes on these items are lower in Switzerland, there will be importers, like me, bringing them into Italy.”

The man was a criminal, there was no doubt, but Harvath had to admire his entrepreneurial spirit. “How do you plan on getting us across? Through the fence?”

Stirring his Campari and soda, the Italian reflected for a moment and then said, “We are flying you over the border in a kite, my friend.”

Ten minutes later, as Harvath paid the check and he and Jillian followed the man out of the café, Harvath wondered what the hell they were getting themselves into.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Marco was the conscientious type of driver who used both hands behind the wheel-one to control the car and the other to make obscene gestures at everyone else on the road. He followed the signs for Menaggio, and when they arrived at the tiny village of Orimento, he parked the car and said, “We go the rest of the way on foot.”

The rest of the way on foot turned out to be an hour-long hike past waterfalls and mountain pastures to the top of nearby Monte Generoso.

When they reached the 1700-meter peak straddling the border between Italy and Switzerland, Harvath could finally see what Marco had in mind. In a broad meadow fifty meters downhill, four young men lay next to a pair of oversized canvas bags, enjoying the afternoon sun. It was the bags that gave Marco’s plan away. Each was emblazoned with the logo of the local Swiss paragliding club-Volo Libero Ticino.

After taking a moment to catch his breath and drain the last of the water from his bottle, Marco walked Harvath and Alcott down to meet the men, one of whom was his cousin, Enzo-president of Volo Libero Ticino.