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72:00:00
Late on a Thursday afternoon in October, precisely at 4:00 P.M., Central European Time, the chief executive officer of a large, multi-national organization based in Rome, stepped out of a black sedan at a private airfield southeast of that city and walked purposefully toward the airfield’s single building, a stucco structure with a rust-colored tile roof.
Seventy-two hours remained between that time and the focal moment that served as purpose for the individual’s journey. The countdown began.
72:00:00. 71:59:59. 71:59:58.
Where the individual was going and what he planned to do was known to only a trusted few, one of them a close friend who to maintain secrecy had given him the code name “Celebrity X.”
The man called X was dressed in black slacks, a black shirt, black socks, black shoes, a black jacket, zipper open almost to the waist. X wore the darkest of dark wraparound sunglasses, so dark you wondered if he could see through them. His cleanly combed hair also was raven black, a hint of his Mediterranean origins. His nose was straight, narrow, slightly hooked, one that would have made Julius Caesar proud. X stood near 6 feet, carried 160 trim pounds and had the straight-up stride of a person who worked out in the weight room as well as ran.
Following Celebrity X closely came two similarly dressed and similarly sized men, Mario and Angelo their names, clones almost, but actually they were bodyguards, who had popped out of each side of the limousine ahead of the man they were assigned to protect, pausing to survey the surroundings before allowing him to emerge. From a distance, you would not know which of the three was the executive, and which were the bodyguards, a purposeful deception. Should a bullet be fired from the rifle of a potential assassin, one of them would absorb it. The possibility of getting killed was part of their job description, and they accepted the danger that came with being guardian and companion for one of the most important men in the world.
Celebrity X and his two bodyguards did not enter the stucco structure, but waited nearby. If they knew others might be observing from the edge of the woods, they gave no indication. Within a few seconds, two new automobiles, black sedans, arrived and parked beside the limousine. A half dozen largely anonymous looking individuals climbed out of the cars. They too were dressed in black, like their predecessors.
While all waited, the bodyguard named Mario circled behind the first limousine, opened the trunk and removed a single suitcase. It too was black.
The executive nodded and acknowledged the small courtesy. “Grazie,” said Celebrity X. It made him uncomfortable that in his current position, he rarely was allowed to do anything unaided. Even as simple an act as moving a suitcase fell to others. It would be easy to succumb to the privileges of his office and accept the favors it brought, but he could not get used to doing so. X felt crowded, hemmed in, pushed into a closet, molded into a role not willfully chosen but impossible to avoid.
It had been from a desire to negate the pressures of his high profile job and find at least one hour a day of freedom from responsibility that had caused Celebrity X to begin running.
X wondered about the events that would transpire over the next seventy-two hours. Was he foolish to proceed? Was it an act of unnecessary hubris? Of pride? Was what he was about to do dangerous, not only to himself, but to those around him? Ironically, he worried as much about their safety as he did about his own. He knew that his position and his celebrity put him in harm’s way—and he was willing to accept that—but he no longer acted or stood alone. He felt the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
X and his entourage continued to stand by the stucco structure at the edge of the airfield. The structure was small, barely more than a single room. Only a slender antenna on the building’s roof indicated that it might serve a purpose other than a farm shed. It was the only building at the airfield. No airplane was visible nearby.
Despite their stealthy look, none of those accompanying the executive betrayed any anxiety. None of them smoked. None of them talked to each other. None of them even glanced at a watch to check the time. They knew the time without looking. They simply stood and waited.
Others watched from a distance. Two men concealed at the edge of the woods observed the arrival of the cars and passengers minus motion or emotion, as though they expected this event to happen at precisely the moment it occurred. The two men were armed with assault weapons. Unseen others positioned at intervals around the airfield were similarly armed.
Neither of the two held his weapon pointed at those just arrived, particularly not the man central to the group. To do so seemed almost obscene, but trained as specialists in security, they would react rapidly if provoked.
One now raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the scene. He viewed the darkly clad executive and those around him. Yes, it was their employer. He and the other guards had received word of Celebrity X’s movement only an hour before, barely enough time to get into position around the airfield. Although he did not want to voice the words, the first man knew that despite all the protection, X was an easy target if someone wanted him eliminated. He hoped that nobody nearby had such intentions.
“Alloco!” hissed the first man with the binoculars. Fool! “Forgive me for using such a term to describe our leader.” The man made the sign of the cross as though to absolve himself. “Does not he know how vulnerable he becomes when he enters the outside world?”
“I don’t think he cares,” mumbled the second man.
“Madre mia,” said the first. “I care. Where is our privileged leader going?”
“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”
“Do me the honor. Tell me anyway.”
“One of the bodyguards believes he is headed to America to run a marathon.”
This comment resulted in a palpable silence. “Santa Maria.” The first man finally commented. You’re right. I don’t believe you. An assassin’s bullet won’t be necessary. Don’t people die running marathons?”
“Not if they train properly,” said the second man.
The first man, the one with the binoculars, said no more, his attention diverted by the whistling hum of a jet airplane approaching the airfield on a landing pattern. Because he had been properly briefed, the man knew that the plane would be a Gulfstream G550, a business jet that could carry a dozen or more passengers, in addition to two pilots, across the Atlantic Ocean without refueling.
The first man looked away from the men on the runway and began to scan the sky until his eyes caught a glint of white that grew larger in his binoculars as the whistling hum of its engines got louder in his ears. After the plane landed, he knew that the executive would board it and move out from under the umbrella of protection established by those on the ground. Presumably, there would be another umbrella when and wherever the plane landed. Or did the executive hope that secrecy would protect him? That would explain the suddenness with which the trip to the airfield was announced.
Less than seventy-two hours now remained from the moment the dark-clad man stepped out of the limousine to the moment when he would become most vulnerable to enemies who meant him harm.
The countdown continued:
71:55:02. 71:55:01. 71:55:00.
Secrecy might not be enough to protect this individual so important to world harmony. The man with the binoculars hoped that he would not hear later on television that someone had attempted to harm the individual he was assigned to protect.
“Marathon?” said the first man. “Alloco! I’m sorry, but he must be mad!”