Blood Prize by Ken Grace Page A

Sardinia to avoid the French patrols.”
    They didn’t speak again until they crossed the Tyrrhenian Sea. To the north, on the Italian mainland, Tom could see a few lights from the town of Fiumicino.
    “As soon as we hit the beach, Tom. We have to change into these overalls.”
    Noah held up a plastic bag, covered in tape.
    “We’ll be driven by our people to the cargo terminal at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome. There, we’ll be given staff identification and papers, but don’t say anything to anybody. Just stay near me and nod. Got it?”
    They boarded the Alexander Boeing B940 – 2000 cargo carrier, in the half-light before dawn. After a fifteen minute wait they taxied onto the tarmac and began their flight. Tom endured twenty-two hours in an area not much larger than a toilet, before he met up with their contacts and the rest of the G11 team in Sydney.

Chapter Fourteen
    F rom the deep shade of a waratah tree on the opposite side of inner city Oxford Street, Tom found what he looked for; a narrow lane running alongside a restaurant called the Jagat Palace.
    He headed for a gate at the rear of the building, which allowed patrons access to an outside eating area.
    A bearded man with a white collar sat alone at the far end of the courtyard, surrounded by a climbing pink rose. He seemed to be the only person willing to trade the restaurant’s air-conditioning, for the heavy heat of the flowered patio.
    “Father Dominico Rossi?”
    The priest looked up from his abundant serving of curried vegetables and dahl-fry, and frowned.
    “Yes. What can I do for you, young man?”
    “I need to talk.”
    “As you can see, I’m having my …”
    “It’s about Alexander Fox.”
    The priest sat back in his chair and regarded him. The annoyance in his expression barely concealed by the thickness of his black beard.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m Tom Fox. His son.”
    “That’s nonsense. What’s this about?”
    Tom attempted to answer, but the priest raised his hand and continued to speak.
    “Don’t start young man. I’m not interested in anything you have to say. I don’t care who you work for. I won’t discuss this with you. Is that clear?”
    Tom felt his stomach tighten; his allies might reject him if he returned with nothing.
    “Why did they kill my parents? Tell me. I know you know.”
    “Lower your voice.”
    The priest looked up at the profusion of flowers above him and shook his head. Without another word, he looked back at Tom, nodded towards the restrooms and headed for the entrance. Tom hurried to keep up.
    “If you’re Tom Fox, you’ll have a couple of identifiers. A birth mark shaped like a butterfly and a scar from a stab wound.”
    They entered the men’s toilet; cramming themselves into one of the cubicles.
    “Drop your pants and hurry up. I don’t want to be seen in here with a half-naked … Well, just get on with it will you.”
    Tom lowered his trousers and turned his buttocks to the man.
    “Oh, my Lord … They’re both there. Don’t say anything else, just do as I say. You could have been followed.”
    Tom shadowed the priest as he moved away from the restaurant. As instructed, he kept the clergyman in sight, utilising a slightly different route up Oxford Street, through the three adjacent areas of parkland that ran south to Bennelong Point and on towards the Sydney Opera House.
    They met again at the pool of reflection, at the southern end of Hyde Park and joined the crowd descending into Museum Station.
    “Don’t look at me and keep quiet. We can be seen and heard from a long way off.”
    They entered the train through different doors and sat one behind the other, as far away from potential listeners as possible.
    “How did you know me, Tom?”
    “I saw a picture in an old newspaper. You haven’t changed much.”
    Tom lied. The priest didn’t look like the young man in the picture. Thick black wavy hair, bushy brows and a roughly pruned beard, hid some of the deeper lines in the