XV. A Farewell to Maciste
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Some two standard hours later, Mikhail brought Pangano’s flashy red sportscar to a halt in a quiet sidestreet in the upscale neighbourhood of Cabiria that doubled as the diplomatic quarter.
“The Republican embassy should be some five hundred metres down that street,” he said to Mayhew who sprawled in the passenger seat, looking rather out of place in his shabby borrowed work clothes. “Can you walk that far? Cause it’s probably not a good idea if I take you any closer. After all, we don’t want the security cameras of the embassy capture the two of us together.”
Mayhew rolled his eyes. “I may be wounded, but I’m not an invalid.”
He did look better, Mikhail had to admit. His skin, which had been deadly pale when Mikhail rescued him from the Arena, had ta
