Rome in Ruins

A Nathan Grant Novel

by

Kenneth Rosenberg

Copyright © 2024 by Kenneth Rosenberg

All Rights Reserved

kennethrosenberg.com

Also by Kenneth Rosenberg

The American (Nathan Grant Thriller #1)

The Paris Conspiracy (Nathan Grant Thriller #2)

The Berlin Connection (Nathan Grant Thriller #3)

London on Fire (Nathan Grant Thriller #4)

Russia Girl (Natalia Nicolaeva Thriller #1)

Vendetta Girl (Natalia Nicolaeva Thriller #2)

Spy Girl (Natalia Nicolaeva Thriller #3)

Mystery Girl (Natalia Nicolaeva Thriller #4)

Enemies: A War Story

Memoirs of a Starving Artist

Chapter One

Spring arrived in the south of France with a vengeance as the violent winds of the mistral kicked into high gear, tearing at the roof tiles that Nathan Grant had only recently installed on his quaint little cottage in the village of Aureille. He’d finished that job just in time, one in a long list of projects that took him the entire fall and winter to complete and also included new windows, a section of living room wall, and the ceiling. Some of the fire-damaged furniture was replaced with antiques he’d picked up across Provence, though most of what he needed he planned to design and build himself. That was an ongoing project even before the fire. The biggest issue left to deal with at this point was the bills, a fact Nathan was reminded of when he spotted the postman, Henri, ducking his head into the wind as he came up the driveway, mailbag tucked up under one arm. The man was pleasant enough, but Nathan had grown to dread his arrival. “Bonjour, Henri,” Nathan said, opening the door to take it like a man.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” Henri stopped at the doorway and extracted a few pieces of mail from his satchel, making sure that none of the neighbors’ letters managed to escape. He quickly closed the flap and handed over the envelopes.

“What’s the news?” Nathan took his mail in hand. Henri was the source of all things Aureille. Nobody knew more about the comings and goings around town than he did.

“Only this miserable wind! That is the news.”

“Come on, Henri, you must have more for me than that.”

“Clementine Rousseau has returned from the Sorbonne for the summer. Her mother is overjoyed.”

“I’m sure.”

“It won’t last. That young one is a handful, as stubborn as she is beautiful.”

“Anything else? How is Pierre?”

“Pierre is busy with the Italians.”

“Which Italians?”

“The Italians! You have heard about the Italians, no?”

Nathan laughed in response. He had no idea what the postman was talking about, but it didn’t matter. It was all just small talk. “Thank you for the mail, Henri. You be careful out there. Don’t get blown away!”

“They say it will be over by this evening, thank heavens.”

“Whoever they are, let’s hope they’re right.”

“My sources are impeccable.”

“I’m sure. Take care, Henri.”

The postman plodded back up the path as Nathan stepped into his cottage and closed the door. He took the mail into his kitchen and dropped it onto a table before setting to work preparing a café crème. The espresso machine was one of the luxuries he’d allowed himself when he first bought the cottage a year and a half earlier, and he made good use of it each and every day. A clock on the wall told him that it was a little past 10:30 in the morning, which was borderline too late in the day for coffee with milk according to local custom, but that was a custom Nathan never understood. If he wanted milk with his coffee, so be it. Opening a metal canister, he measured two scoops of roasted beans into a manual grinder, cranked it by hand, and inhaled that rich aroma. Next, he grasped the handle on the espresso machine, twisted it off, and scooped in the ground coffee before tamping it down. It was all a familiar routine, one he could have done in his sleep, but he found satisfaction in the ritual, in pulling the shot of espresso into a ceramic cup, steaming fresh milk in a small metal pot, and then pouring it into the java. If things got desperate enough, he might just have a future as a barista. He wasn’t that desperate yet, though the pressure was building.

At the kitchen table, he set down his crème, blew across the top, and took a sip. Perfection. He placed the cup on a saucer, picked up the newly arrived mail and took a breath. More bills, no doubt. He flipped through them, one from his bank and another a credit card bill. The third piece of mail was unexpected. A postcard showed a beach scene, with rows of umbrellas and chaise lounges lined up along a serene blue sea. Nathan flipped it over and read the back. Constanta, Romania, it read on the top left, and below that was a personal inscription. Training continues apace. They gave us a week off, can you believe it? My mother is loving the sea. All the best, Natalia. Nathan’s chest swelled with pride. She was going to make a first-rate operative and MI6 was lucky to have her. He moved to the fridge, affixed the postcard to the front with a magnet, and returned to his seat at the kitchen table.

Sliding his finger under the flap of the bank envelope, he worked it open and pulled out the letter. This was for the mortgage payment, which he already had set to autopay. The statement was no surprise. In twelve days’ time, they would withdraw another 1,645 euros. He put the statement aside. The second bill was for credit card charges, mostly from the local building supply store, where he owed 5,350 euros for items that included roof tiles, paint, drywall, lumber, and the living-room window. He also still owed for furniture, food, utilities, etc. All told, his expenses for the month came out to roughly nine thousand euros. His bank balance came out to a little less than five thousand. A pension check from his time in government service wouldn’t arrive until the end of the month, and even then he was going to come up short. What did that mean? It meant he would have to roll over a sizable chunk of the debt on his credit card at exorbitant interest rates. This was not what he’d pictured when he opted for an early retirement. He’d done the math at the time and it all seemed doable, especially if he brought in some extra funds from the furniture business he was still attempting to launch. That was before assassins blew up half of his house. Even then, he’d expected his insurance company to pick up most of the bill, but his policy had an exclusion for terrorist attacks. He was still fighting them over the definition of a terrorist, but couldn’t afford the legal team he would need to fully take them to task. Instead, Nathan was left to juggle his debts and his assets, trying to make it all work. If things got bad enough he could always pull some from his retirement account, but not without a substantial early-withdrawal penalty. He put the bills back onto the table and took another sip of that glorious cup of coffee. Life was still good, if you knew how to appreciate it.

For the rest of the day, Nathan got back to doing what he loved most of all. With this wind, working outside was a non-starter anyway, so he relocated into the shed beside his house and picked up where he’d left off, building a cherry wood sideboard for his dining room. The piece was nearly finished, but for three doors on the front and two drawers above them. Nathan lifted a square section of wood, placed it on a workbench, and measured for the front of the drawers. He marked it off with a pencil and then measured again, just to make sure. “Measure twice, cut once,” rang through his head. When he was satisfied that he had it right, he placed the section on a table saw, donned his safety glasses, and hit the switch. The machine whirred to life and Nathan pressed the wood against the spinning blade, cutting a straight line down the middle. For the rest of the day, he lost himself in the flow of measuring, sawing, and sanding. After the drawers were complete, he set to work on a set of shelves, and then the doors. He stopped long enough for a quick afternoon lunch, and then came back to carefully apply the first coats of varnish. Wooden knobs would come last, when the varnish was dry. By the time he was finished for the day, the winds were letting up. There was no better weather forecaster in the village than Henri, the trusty postman. Nathan cleaned up and took a shower. Pierre was due a visit. Aside from the chance to catch up, it would save him from having to cook. In the meantime, he might find out a little something about these mysterious Italians.

Nathan made his way on foot through the village, to the restaurant in Aureille’s central square. The place was surprisingly busy, with all of the outdoor tables either occupied or reserved. He found a stool at the bar beside Moreau, a retired tradesman who often drank his beer in the cafe.

“Bon soir, Moreau, comment ça va?”

“Ah, the American has joined us,” said Moreau. “I was beginning to think you were in hiding.”

“You know how it is, you get locked into a project, it’s hard to drag yourself away.”

“Those days are behind me, I am happy to say.”

“What’s with the crowd tonight?” Nathan spotted Pierre hurrying across the patio with plates of food on his arm. “Summer has barely even started.”

“It is the Italians,” said Moreau.

“Nathan!” said the bartender. “What can I get you?”

“I’ll start with a Stella, thanks Laurent.”

“Bien sûr, one Stella.” Laurent took down a glass and drew the beer from a tap before placing a coaster on the bar, and then the frosty beer on top. “Dinner?”

“Chicken Cordon Bleu, thanks, buddy.”

“I apologize that your usual table is not available...”

“No worries. Moreau was just starting to tell me about these infamous Italians.”

A harried Pierre approached, passing along an order to his bartender before giving a quick nod to Nathan.

“You’re earning your keep tonight, Pierre,” said Nathan.

“And the main event has yet to begin.” Pierre moved off again to his tables as Laurent set about mixing the drinks.

“What’s the deal, Moreau? Who are these Italians everyone is talking about, some kind of tour group?”

“Not a tour group, no. You haven’t heard?”

“I’m waiting.”

“Truly, it is one particular Italian who is causing such a stir.”

“Who’s that?”

“Isabella Palermo. You’ve heard of her, no?”

Nathan sipped his beer and thought it over. “Sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe.”

“The movie star?”

“I don’t watch a lot of movies. Especially not Italian movies.” Nathan didn’t see anybody in the place who resembled a movie star, but he was able to put two and two together. A table was reserved in her name, word had gotten out, and everyone for miles around was crowding in to get a look. Just Nathan’s luck, he’d chosen the wrong night to come to the restaurant. At least the wind had let up and the beer was cold. While he waited for his dinner to come out, he ordered a second Stella. By the time his Chicken Cordon Bleu appeared on the bar, there was still no sign of any Italians. Nobody else in the restaurant was willing to give up their seats, however. After their dinners were consumed, the customers moved on to a cheese course, then a digestif, and finally a coffee. These people were here for the show, and they weren’t going to sit through an entire meal only to miss it in the end.

“Where is she?” Nathan asked Moreau.

“Perhaps if we are fortunate, she won’t appear at all.”

“That would suit me fine.” Nathan tucked into his meal.

“They say she is here for the festival. I don’t understand why she chose to bother us. She should have stayed over there with the rest of them.”

“Over where?”

“Cannes! Of course!”

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

“Do you live under a rock entirely?”

“Mostly.” Nathan took a quick look at his watch. After dinner he might stretch his legs with a moonlit stroll through the countryside. One had to make the most of such pleasant weather, especially after a cold and rainy winter. He was halfway through his chicken when murmurs of excitement rippled through the establishment.

“There she is,” said Moreau. “The main attraction has arrived.”

On the far side of the square, just beside the stone church, two cars pulled to a stop. In front was a silver Range Rover. Behind it, a sleek black Mercedes sedan. Two doors on the left side of the Range Rover swung open. From the front passenger seat, a burly man in a black suit emerged, with a thick neck and bulging biceps. Out of the rear door came a thin, gangly man with a mop of dark hair. The larger fellow moved to the Mercedes and opened the right rear door. The patrons in the restaurant held their collective breath in anticipation. Two slender legs swung out, with black stiletto heels landing on the cobblestones. Even from this distance, lit only by streetlamps, Nathan saw the thin fingers of a woman take the man’s hand. The entire spectacle of it was almost too much. Who was this woman, anyway? Her head appeared, followed by her svelte figure as she rose to her feet. Nathan had to admit, she was stunning. The rest of the patrons seemed to agree, as they exhaled and then picked up their conversations, trying to pretend it was all no big deal but failing miserably. Phones came out to snap surreptitious photos. The more daring spectators didn’t bother to hide it as they captured the arrival on video, holding their devices aloft. The actress pretended not to notice. For Nathan, this was merely a peek into the oddities of the human condition. This woman acted out scripted scenes before a movie camera, and yet in the eyes of the world that made her a goddess. She certainly looked the part, wobbling across the cobblestones on her heels, her shapely figure in a skin-tight white dress, cut low to accentuate her impressive cleavage. Her long, dark hair was combed back, not a strand out of place. Bright red lipstick completed the picture, though perhaps more than anything else, it was the eyes that sold it. Large and almond-shaped, with thick black liner, they made it hard for Nathan to look away. If a teenage boy with some artistic talent had set out to draw the perfect woman, he’d probably have had Isabella Palermo in mind.

“You realize what this means, don’t you?” said Nathan. “This woman coming here?”

“She has good taste?”

“Once these images get out on social media, we will never have a quiet night in our restaurant again. This is the end, my friend. Our little cafe has been discovered. Pierre and Laurent will need to hire extra help.”

“It is good for business, no?”

“Good for business, but bad for us.”

Moreau slouched in his seat. “I hope you are wrong, my friend.”

“So do I.”

Isabella Palermo and her entourage crossed the square and entered the restaurant terrace. Another young woman trailed just behind, wearing a fashionable brown jacket and matching knee-length skirt. That meant four of them in all. Pierre showed them to their table and pulled out a chair for Palermo, who sat cross-legged and leaned her head back. The others arranged themselves at the table and the gangly man pulled out a packet of thin cigarettes, offering one to the actress who accepted with two fingers. For himself, the man took out a pouch and rolling papers, deftly sprinkled tobacco into one of the papers, and licked the edge before rolling it up. He lit her cigarette first, followed by his own. Nathan’s focus shifted back to his meal. He’d seen all he needed to see. As he cut his chicken, however, the burlier member of the entourage worked his way through the terrace, pausing briefly at each table.

“No photo,” the man said. “No photo.” He moved to the next table. “No photo.”

The patrons grumbled with dissatisfaction, but put their devices away. It didn’t matter, anyway, the damage was done. These people had enough photos and video to put Aureille on the map, and all Nathan could do was brace for the impact. Maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as he expected. At least he could hope. He took another bite of his chicken and then washed it down with a swig of beer, savoring the taste of both.

“No photo.” The burly man stopped at the bar, hovering over Nathan and Moreau with a menacing air.

“Do you see a phone in my hands?” Nathan replied.

“No photo,” the man repeated, as though these were the only words in English that he knew. He crossed his arms and flexed.

Nathan looked him up and down, fighting an urge to punch the man in the face. In the end, he opted to follow his better instincts, turning away to ignore the man entirely. “What a circus, eh, Laurent?” he said as the bartender busily mixed another round of drinks.

Laurent shook his head and gave a sly smile, lifting the drinks and moving them down the bar for Pierre. Nathan shifted his view enough to see the burly fellow rejoining the rest of his party.

“I know you, Monsieur Grant,” said Moreau. “The entire village knows you. We have seen the chaos that can erupt when you are involved.”

“What are you suggesting?” Nathan laughed.

“I am suggesting that this fellow is fortunate he left us alone. That is all.”

“Come on. Is that what people around here think of me? That I’m just an agent of chaos?”

“They have long memories, Nathan. That is all I will say on the matter.”

“Fair enough.”

Moreau had a point. It wasn’t Nathan’s fault, per se, but a previous incident had started in this very cafe. That was the instance which left Nathan’s house half destroyed and three men in the morgue, one of them a close friend of his. It had taken a whole lot of outreach on his part to bring the village back around to his side. He wasn’t about to squander that goodwill by picking a fight, no matter how annoying this bodyguard was.

“How was it, Nathan?” Laurent cleared Nathan’s empty plate.

“Fantastic, as usual. My regards to the chef.”

“I will let him know. Can I get you something else? A glass of cognac, perhaps?”

“No, just the check, thank you.”

“Of course.” The bartender moved away.

“I’d better be going myself,” said Moreau. “The wife will wonder what is keeping me.”

“Since when did that concern you?” Nathan drank down the last of his beer.

“You know, marriage is all about compromise.”

“Whatever you and the missus have going seems to work all right.”

Moreau grumbled, then fished out a handful of euros and placed them on the bar. The laughter of children echoed across the square. A familiar pack of boys, roughly ten to twelve years of age, jostled one another in excitement. Nathan knew them by sight if not name, and could place each one with their respective family. They gathered on the steps of the church, pointing toward Isabella Palermo and chattering among themselves. One took the bold step of strutting up and down in front of his friends, chin in the air with one hand behind his head, doing an approximation of a movie star on the red carpet. To his friends this was hilarious, and Nathan had to agree that it was at least somewhat entertaining. Palermo’s burly bodyguard was not so amused. The muscles in his neck stiffened and he sat up straight, but the actress placed a hand on his forearm to calm him.

“It’s a great thing to be young, isn’t it?” Nathan watched the boys having their fun.

“I wouldn’t remember,” Moreau replied.

Laurent placed the dinner check on the bar and Nathan glanced at it, then pulled out a credit card from his wallet. He tapped to pay on the bartender’s card reader, then dropped some euro notes on the bar as a tip. “Thank you, again, Laurent!”

“Have a good evening, Nathan. We will see you soon.”

“You bet.” As he stood to go, one of the boys was making his way across the square toward Isabella Palermo’s table. He had a bold smirk on his face and held a phone in both hands. This could be trouble, Nathan realized. So far the bodyguard hadn’t noticed, but when he did finally look over, one hand shot up in the air, finger raised.

“No photo!” the bodyguard commanded, but the kid was having none of it. No beefy outsider could tell him what to do. Instead, the boy continued forward, camera pointed directly at the actress and her entourage. The bodyguard rose to his feet as though he wanted to pound the kid, but the boy still wouldn’t back down, not with his friends egging him on.

“ Très bien, Vincent!” they called out. “ Cinématographie professionelle!”

The bodyguard lurched forward in an attempt to snatch the phone from the boy’s hands but the child dodged the outstretched arm. A great hurrah arose from the others, but what came next left Nathan, and nearly everyone else in the restaurant, aghast. The grown man began to chase the boy around the square. They ducked and weaved as they went, with the kid keeping just out of reach. Every time the bodyguard’s outstretched arm missed him, the cheers grew louder, joined by the patrons in the restaurant, many of whom were filming this spectacle themselves. Eventually, the bodyguard seemed to give up. His bulky frame simply wasn’t agile enough to catch the kid, and he stopped where he was in the center of the square, staring the boy down from four meters away. The boy smirked, his phone pointed straight at the man, recording it all for posterity. The rest of the boys were beside themselves with glee.

“Looks like he showed the meathead who’s boss,” said Nathan.

“Meat what?” said Moreau.

“Never mind.”

The meathead was halfway back to the restaurant when he suddenly spun back around and lurched forward. Caught off guard, the phone slipped from the kid’s hands, crashing to the cobblestones and away, followed by the kid who fell face first after it. This time, the man was quicker off the mark. He reached the phone and picked it up, then carried it back to the restaurant before retaking his seat.

“Did you see that?” Nathan said. “The guy just stole a phone from a ten-year-old!”

“Humans behaving poorly,” Moreau replied. “It is no surprise.”

In the center of the square, the kid rose to his feet with tears streaming down his face. What began as a rebellious game had ended with wounded pride, a scuffed knee, and confiscation of what was undoubtedly the boy’s most prized possession.

“He can’t just steal the kid’s phone,” said Nathan. “Tell me he didn’t just steal that kid’s phone.”

“Please, Nathan. Do not involve yourself.”

“What’s wrong, Moreau, you think I can’t handle that meathead?”

“But of course you can! That is why I worry.”

Nathan knew this was good advice. Inserting himself into this drama was likely to end badly for everybody involved, but his sense of justice nagged at him. Was the actress going to let it go down like this? She seemed to be enjoying it. Back in the square, the kid retreated humbly to his friends, who stood commiserating in their small pack, examining the kid’s scrapes and trying to calm him down. It was clear, though, that until he got his phone back there would be no calming him down. Meanwhile, the actress and her entourage carried on with their dinner, ignoring the urchins entirely. The oldest child, a son of the local butcher, made his way across the square and approached the actress’ table. Eyeing the phone and pointing, he said a few words, but instead of returning the device, the meathead pushed it further out of reach. The actress spoke not a word, watching the events unfold with a slight smile on the edges of her lips. Nathan was rising from his seat when he saw Pierre, a tray of empty dishes in one hand, make his way across the patio.

“Patience, my friend,” said Moreau. “Pierre will take care of it.”

“He’d better.” Nathan sat back down.

At the table, Pierre had a few words with the meathead and a few more with the actress. In response, she nodded and waved a dismissive hand in the air. The bodyguard lifted the phone and held it out for the boy.

“See?” said Moreau. “All settled.”

The boy took the device in hand and was quickly joined by its owner, who took the phone and examined it. “C'est cassé!” the boy shouted. “It’s broken!” The rest of the children came to see.

“Andare via!” the bodyguard hollered, the muscles bulging in his neck. “Go away!” He rose to his feet and took a menacing step toward the children, attempting to shoo them off. In response, they scattered a few feet, just out of his reach.

“Please, sir...” Pierre tried to intervene once again, leaning close.

After a few more words from the actress, the tall gangly man pulled out his wallet and thumbed through it. He extracted a few hundred euro notes and held them out. The young boy grabbed them and then counted.

“Plus!” he said. “More!”

The gangly man shrugged his shoulders and showed his empty billfold. The young woman in the entourage fished through her handbag, took out a few hundred more and gave these to the boy.

“C'est assez?” said Pierre. “It’s enough?”

The child wiped his tears with one hand and walked away, with the rest of the gang trailing along behind and chattering away like canaries.

“See?” said Moreau. “Everybody is happy in the end.”

“Sure, Moreau,” said Nathan. The adrenaline surging through his veins began to ease. Just when he’d thought his involvement was unavoidable, the whole thing was over. Disaster averted. Pierre nodded his head and turned away. Nathan saw the waiter’s lips move as he mumbled something under his breath. It was too far away for Nathan to hear the words, but apparently the same couldn’t be said for the bodyguard, who jumped to his feet. Up came one brawny arm and the meathead shoved the waiter in the back. Pierre stumbled, lost his balance, and crashed to the cobblestones, sending shattered crockery and broken glass across the patio. A collective gasp rose from the patrons but all Nathan heard was his heart pounding in his ears. Nobody treated Pierre like that. Nobody. In a flash, Nathan barreled across the patio. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have kept on marching, across the square and on home. Instead, he approached the bodyguard, who stood leering over the prostrate Pierre.

“Hey!” Nathan shouted.

The bodyguard spun around, puffing out his chest. For Nathan, there was only one acceptable course of action. He made a fist with his right hand, pulled his arm back and then followed through with all of his weight, punching the man as hard as he could, square on the jaw. He had to hope one punch would do it. An all-out brawl in the middle of the restaurant patio would get ugly, but Nathan was fortunate. The meathead collapsed in a heap onto the cobblestones. More gasps erupted from the patrons, too stunned to speak. The children, on the other hand, erupted in cheers, glorying in this instant karma. Pierre joined Nathan’s side, along with Moreau. The tall, gangly man hurried to check on the bodyguard, out cold at their feet.

“You ought to go,” The waiter said to Nathan.

“I’m sorry, Pierre. I couldn’t help myself.”

“All the same, you should go. Before he wakes up.”

“Have the police been called?”

“They know where to find you. Until then, it is best that you go home.”

The bodyguard was beginning to regain consciousness, but still stunned and confused. “Somebody call an ambulance, at least,” Nathan added.

“This is not your concern,” said Pierre.

The patrons trained their cameras Nathan’s way. All he wanted was to disappear. “Tell the police I’ll be waiting.”

“Go home, have that cognac, relax,” said Moreau.

Nathan turned his attention to the actress. Isabella Palermo hadn’t left her seat. She wasn’t looking at her bodyguard, however, her eyes were directly on Nathan. She didn’t look upset or angry in any way. In fact, it seemed that she was still enjoying this, all of it. He found it unsettling on a level that he couldn’t quite unpack. “Good night, gentlemen,” he said to his companions, then headed off across the square. The boys, gathered in a pack on the church stairs, eyed Nathan in quiet awe as he went past and turned the corner. Why was it that sometimes, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble?

Chapter Two

Nathan had a pretty good idea what to expect. He’d assaulted a man in public, with fifty witnesses and video evidence that showed exactly what went down. He was guilty, there was no contesting that fact. It wouldn’t take long for the police to show up. The waiting was the hardest part. The first thing he did was take a small ice pack out of his freezer, wrap it in a towel, and tape it over the fingers on his swollen right hand. Next, he used his left hand to call a local lawyer he knew, Geraldine Durant. When he got her on the line, he explained the situation.

“Oh, Nathan, you ought to learn to control yourself. Have you tried meditation?” she asked.

“I’m more concerned with my present circumstances, Geraldine. Can you help me?”

“It is possible that they will decline to press charges. Perhaps it is better for them to forget the whole affair. This actress, she will not want the publicity of a trial.”

“What if they do press charges? What do I do then?”

“Then, you call me back.”

“That’s all you’ve got? Come on. I’d rather be proactive, to have a plan in place.”

“Nathan, you have not been arrested. If the police come for you, call me. Until then, I have other issues that need my attention.”

“Fine, Geraldine, but I suspect we’ll be talking again quite soon.”

After hanging up the phone, there was one thing left to do. Nathan went to his liquor cabinet and poured himself a large glass of good old American whiskey. He switched on an outside light for the police and then took a seat in his living room, with a view out the front window and up the gravel drive. Nathan took a sip of the whiskey and let the spirit warm his insides. Despite any potential complications, he had not a twinge of regret. That meathead had it coming.

It was a little over thirty minutes later when the cruiser arrived, pulling gently into the driveway and coming to a stop. Nathan watched as the officer got out and make his way toward the house. He recognized the man as François Blanchet, an easy-going sort that the French might refer to as très sympathique. Arresting Nathan Grant was the last thing Blanchet would want to do, yet here they were. Nathan waited until the officer knocked on the door before he downed the last of his drink and stood. Opening up, he found Blanchet holding his hat in his hands and looking contrite.

“Good evening, Blanchet,” said Nathan.

“Good evening to you, Monsieur Grant. I am sorry to disturb you, of course, but I do believe you know why I am here.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“No. I was instructed to arrange for a meeting between the parties.”

“What, me and the meathead? You want me to have some sort of pow-wow with that man?”

“A representative of the actress would like to speak with you, tomorrow morning, if that suits you.”

“Do I have another option?”

“If you refuse this meeting, I am to inform you that assault charges will be filed.”

“I see. What is it that they’re looking for? I can pay the man’s medical bills if that’s it. I’ll even throw in a little extra for his pain.” Nathan realized how much further strapped this would leave him. He didn’t have the money to be throwing around. This entire episode would put him deeper in the hole.

“That is between the parties.”

“Can I bring a lawyer?”

“I would recommend it.”

“Where and when?”

“L'hôtel de ville,” Blanchet referred to the city hall building. “Ten o’clock sharp.”

“Tell them I will be there.”

“Very well. Good night, Monsieur.”

“Good night, Blanchet. Thank you for coming.”

Nathan felt relieved as he watched the officer go. He wouldn’t be spending the night in the local jail, but this thing wasn’t yet over. They had leverage over him, Signorina Palermo and her people. Whatever it was that they wanted from him, it would be hard to refuse. Perhaps with Geraldine by his side, he could negotiate a reasonable settlement. Until then, he’d try to get some sleep. With some luck, things would look better in the morning. He texted Geraldine the details, then tossed the ice pack back in the freezer and took a hot shower. I will be there, Geraldine had texted back by the time he got out. Nathan dried himself off and hit the hay.

By the time he woke up, the swelling in Nathan’s fingers had gone down somewhat. They were still sore, but nothing like what the bodyguard would be feeling. If it was up to that man, charges would undoubtedly be pressed. His ego would be wounded even more than his face. If the bodyguard was at this meeting they’d scheduled, it might take some willpower on Nathan’s part not to hit him yet again. He remembered Geraldine’s advice. Meditation. He’d heard that before. Maybe he’d try it sometime. For now, he got up, shaved, and put on a respectable set of clothing, opting for a pair of brown slacks with matching leather shoes and belt, and a white collared shirt. When he was dressed, he went into the kitchen and made a breakfast of sausage, eggs, toast, and his first cappuccino of the day. Later on he might have another, or an Americano in the afternoon, if he wasn’t in the slammer. He finished his coffee and his breakfast. The clock on the wall read 7:43 a.m. That meant two more hours before he’d have to head over to the city hall. How to kill the time? He opted for a walk in the countryside, swapping his shoes for runners and pulling on a sweater before opening the front door. There on the doorstep was a small basket filled with fresh, white eggs. Beside it were two one-liter glass bottles of milk. He looked around, but saw nobody. Where had they come from? He had no idea, but he carefully lifted his haul, holding the bottles one in each hand as he balanced the basket of eggs between his torso and his forearm. He took it all inside and deposited the items in the fridge before returning to close the front door behind him and head off down the rural lanes.

It felt good to be out, moving, inhaling that cool, fresh morning air. He’d only gone a short distance before a car approached on the road. The driver honked the horn and waved an arm out the window. “Bravo, Monsieur Grant, bravo!” one of Nathan’s neighbors called out.

“Merci, madame!” Nathan waved back as she went past. That was nice, a little local support when he needed it. Despite having spent nearly two years in this small village, he was an outsider and always would be. Sure, he was well-acquainted with the postman, and the police officers, the servers in the cafe and his immediate neighbors. That didn’t mean he was entirely accepted here. One had to go back generations in a village like this to be afforded that level of respect. If Nathan lived here from now until the day he died, he would still be an outsider. That was why these little signs of appreciation meant so much to him. He might yet have to pay a fine, or be sentenced to community service, but in the end, sticking up for Pierre and the kids will have all been worth it.

Pockets of fog nestled into the landscape as Nathan made his way up and across rolling farmlands. The sun rose into the sky and the mist burned off, portending a warm and sunny spring day. Off came the sweater, and by the time he came past his cottage once more, he stopped in only long enough to drop it behind and change his shoes. From here it was a ten-minute walk to the city hall, where his immediate fate would be decided. At the cottage next to his, Nathan was greeted by his neighbor Étienne, who waved more enthusiastically than usual.

“Bonjour, Nathan!”

“Bonjour, Étienne, bonjour.” Nathan continued up the road. As he passed the third home, two children ran out the front door, meeting him at their gate. One was a boy of twelve and the other his younger sister.

“Good morning, monsieur,” said the girl.

“Good morning to you.”

“We walk with you, yes?” said the boy.

Nathan was surprised by the request. They’d never walked with him into the village before, but he was happy enough for the company. “Sure,” said Nathan. “Come on along.”

The pair shouted to their mother, telling her that they were off. She appeared in an upstairs window and waved. “C’est bon. Bonjour, Monsieur Grant!”

“Bonjour, Madame.”

The kids bolted through the gate and the three of them continued along the road. “Shouldn’t you two be in school?” he said.

“No. We have a holiday today,” said the boy.

“Today? What for?”

“For you, monsieur.”

“For me? What does that mean?”

“For you, monsieur,” the boy repeated. Nathan shrugged and kept walking. At another house, they were met by two more people, this time a husband and wife. “Good morning, Nathan,” said the husband. “Do you mind if we join the parade?”

“What parade?”

“This one.”

“Sure,” Nathan laughed. “Join the parade.”

On they went, Nathan and his growing list of companions. The closer they came to the heart of the village, the denser the population, until the houses were right beside each other all along the lanes. More people joined them, no longer asking first but just smiling and waving and chattering with their friends and neighbors. These were men, women and children of all ages. Occasionally, one would clap a hand on Nathan’s back and offer some encouragement. It didn’t take long before it really did feel like a parade, with upwards of twenty souls tagging along. “What is this all about?” Nathan asked.

“About?” said one of the women. “It is about reclaiming our dignity, that is what!”

“Okay, then,” Nathan replied. Coming into view of the city hall, he saw twenty more local residents standing out front, including most of the children from incident in the square, along with their parents. A few of the kids held a sign. Merci, Monsieur Grant! Red hearts surrounded the lettering on either side. Nathan’s chest swelled with affection. He was greeted with cheers, and applause, and more pats on the back. Standing at the top of the stairs was Officer Blanchet, along with the chief of police, Olivier Trudeau, and beside them, Nathan’s lawyer, Geraldine. “This is an awful lot of fuss over nothing, don’t you think?” Nathan said to them as he ascended the steps.

Geraldine reached out and they shook hands. “Good morning, Nathan.”

“Good morning to you, Geraldine. Sorry to drag you into this. Are they here yet, Palermo’s people?”

“Not yet. We expect them soon.”

“Do you think the meathead himself is going to show?”

“Excuse me?”

“The bodyguard. The man whose face I punched. Do you think he will be here?”

“I don’t know, Nathan.”

“If so,” said the police chief, “please try to control yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I plan to behave.”

“Good.”

“It might be this crowd that the man has to worry more about.”

“Blanchet and I will do our best to protect him.”

They didn’t wait long before the familiar black Mercedes appeared, making its way up the road. The car pulled to a stop and three people got out, the young woman from the actress’ entourage, the tall, gangly man, and the bodyguard, with a bandage pasted across his chin. The assembled crowd began to jeer, calling out insults in French.

“Boo, boo!” the crowd called out. “Go home, you’re not wanted here!”

The bodyguard stood tall in the face of these taunts and the group made their way up the steps.

“Good morning,” said Geraldine.

“Is it?” said the tall man, but Nathan was focused the bodyguard, who seemed to be doing all he could to avoid eye contact. That was just as well.

Blanchet held the door open and motioned them all inside. “Please.”

Geraldine went first, followed by the rest, with the chief bringing up the rear.

“Use the conference room,” the chief said to his officer. “I expect this encounter to be civil.”

Blanchet led the group to a room in the back with a long conference table. Nathan and Geraldine sat on one side and the actress’ representatives on the other. Officer Blanchet stood by the door, closing it behind him and then crossing his arms as he monitored the proceedings. For the first few seconds, the two parties sat eyeing one another without a word, unsure where to start. It was the others who called the meeting, Nathan reasoned. They ought to be the ones to kick things off.

“My name is Geraldine Durant, attorney at law,” she spoke first in any case. “I am here to represent Monsieur Grant. If you please, we kindly request that you inform us of the nature of this meeting. What is it that you want of him?”

“I am Raphael Costa, business manager for Signorina Isabella Palermo,” said the gangly man. “With us today is Signorina Palermo’s personal assistant, Maria De Luca, as well as the man your client so savagely attacked last night, her personal bodyguard, Mr. Marco Olivieri.”

Under the table, Nathan clenched his hands into fists. He wanted to say that this guy had deserved every bit of it and more, but he knew better. For his part, Olivieri gathered the courage to stare at Nathan directly, his face red with fury. If it had been just the two of them in this room together, only one would likely walk out. Blanchet seemed to know it. He cleared his throat as a warning. Nathan turned to focus on Signorina De Luca, who appeared pale in contrast, the color having drained from her face. Nathan couldn’t disagree with her sentiment. Neither of them wanted to be here.

“I must inform you first and foremost,” said Costa, “we are prepared to press charges on behalf of Signor Olivieri. This was a clear case of assault, in full public view. A court of law would have no choice but to convict your client, Signorina Durant. An open and shut case, as they say.”

To this threat, Geraldine remained calm. She was never one to get overly excited. It was one of the reasons Nathan had called her in the first place, the other being that she was the only lawyer in the area he knew personally. They’d met at a backyard barbecue thrown by one of his neighbors the summer before, celebrating Bastille Day. He knew that if he could count on anybody to get him out of a jam, it was going to be Geraldine.

“It seems to me that you have an alternative remedy in mind,” she said. “Perhaps you can share that with us?”

From outside the building echoed the rising chants of Nathan’s supporters. “Li-ber-té! Li-ber-té!” The natives were getting even more restless. Inside the conference room, Costa struggled to frame his request. What did he want? This man was the business manager for one of the most famous women on earth. He would be used to sitting in conference rooms much fancier than this one and making outrageous demands for his client. In this case he seemed ill-at-ease, but if he wanted to maintain his plum position, he’d need to put it out there.

“My client would like Signor Grant to come to work for her,” Costa said.

The request left Nathan speechless. He looked at Costa, trying to determine if the man was joking. From the stone-faced expression that stared back, Nathan realized that he was dead serious. “No way, forget it,” Nathan shook his head.

“Perhaps the gentleman would like to hear our offer before he makes any rash decisions,” said Costa. “It is his very freedom at stake.”

“You can’t possibly expect me to accept a job offer under these circumstances. Seriously? You think I’m going to work for your boss to avoid some legal trouble? I’d rather do my time in jail, if it comes to that.”

“The assignment would be for six weeks only, Signor Grant, for the duration of a film shoot in Rome. My client is willing to pay quite handsomely, at a rate of ten thousand euros per week.”

This last bit got Nathan’s attention. His thoughts went to the stack of bills waiting on his kitchen table. This would solve those problems and then some, enough to pay his mortgage for the next two years, even after taxes. It was almost a shame that he was such a man of principle. “Go ahead and press charges,” he said. “We’ll see you in court.” In some respects, Nathan was calling their bluff. Even if they did press charges against him, he was fairly confident that they wouldn’t come all the way back to Provence for a trial. Without an appearance by the meathead, or any of Palermo’s entourage, the only testifying witnesses would be the villagers, who were all on Nathan’s side. Costa would understand this as well, no doubt. Nathan had no real fear of doing actual jail time. This whole thing was a nuisance, no more. “I am willing to pay for Mr. Olivieri’s medical expenses if he had any, but you can forget about the job offer. I don’t respond well to extortion.”

“I see.”

“Any offer to pay medical expenses is contingent on your not pursuing charges,” said Geraldine.

The veins in Olivieri’s temples throbbed, but he managed to keep his mouth shut.

“To be clear,” said De Luca, “if your client is willing to continue the conversation regarding our offer, the fee for his services may be negotiable.”

“You’re starting to piss me off,” said Nathan.

“We know better than to make you angry,” said Costa. “How about this, then? No charges, no medical bills. Signor Grant is free to go, how do you say, no strings attached?”

“Without contingencies?” said Geraldine.

“No contingencies, no extortion.”

“We would like that in writing. I don’t want this hanging over my client going forward.”

“Yes, of course. Is this satisfactory, Mr. Grant?”

“I protest!” Olivieri spoke up. “This man assaulted me!”

“We understand your frustration, Marco, it was a terribly unfortunate incident,” said De Luca. “Isabella has assured me that you will be compensated.”

“But Mr. Grant,” said Costa, “with the threat of legal action behind us, would you consider our offer under these circumstances?”

“I don’t get it. Why me? After what went down last night, how can your boss want me on the payroll?”

“I can’t rightly answer that, Mr. Grant. She saw something in you, apparently. Something that the rest of us seem to have missed.”

“Uh, huh.” Nathan was not convinced. His mind flashed back to that smile on her lips the moment after he’d pummeled her protector. There was some messed-up psychological shit going on with this woman, that much was undeniable. All the same, tens of thousands of euros were on the line here. It would be foolish not to at least hear them out. Right? “What would my role be?”

“You would accompany Signorina Palermo to the set each day and make sure nobody disturbs her,” said Costa. “On occasion, you may accompany her to dinner or a special event.”

“What about this guy?” Nathan pointed a thumb toward the meathead. “Is he going to be there? Because if that’s the case, then my answer is still no. Get rid of him and we’ll talk.”

Olivieri sprang to his feet and swiped at Nathan with one arm across the table, missing by a few inches. The bodyguard attempted to bolt around to the opposite side, but Officer Blanchet stood in his way.

“Easy, Marco,” said Costa. “Why don’t you wait in the car?”

Olivieri fumed as he and the officer stood chest-to-chest. “You listen to this man, after all of my service?!”

“Please, Signor Olivieri,” said Blanchet. “I would prefer not to arrest anybody today.”

“The car, Marco,” Costa repeated. “We will be along shortly.”

Olivieri was in a no-win situation, and he knew it. “Sì, Signor Costa, as you wish.”

Blanchet took a step back to let the bodyguard past. Olivieri walked out the door and down the hall. As he left the building, a chorus of boos erupted outside.

“You’ve got to fire that guy,” said Nathan. “Whether I come to work for you or not, that man is a menace. He’s doing your client no favors with his behavior.”

“Yes, we agree,” said De Luca. “He will be let go.”

“What do you say, Mr. Grant?” said Costa. “Will you come to work for us?”

“Twenty thousand per week.”

Costa didn’t even have to think about it. “Fine.” He reached out a hand to shake on it.

“Half up front.”

“One week.”

Nathan tilted his head to one side, picturing twenty thousand euros in his bank account. Instinct told him that this whole thing was a bad idea, but it wasn’t only greed that got the best of him. There was also a kernel of curiosity. He could use a change of scenery for a while, and he had to admit, this Isabella Palermo woman intrigued him. Why not find out what made her tick, and get paid at the same time? He might live to regret it, but it wasn’t like the Army. If he didn’t like it, he could always quit. “All right, that works for me,” he said, “but there’s one more thing.”

“Yes?” Costa’s patience was wearing thin.

“I want an apology, for last night.”

“We are very sorry for your inconvenience.”

“No, not to me, to the residents of Aureille. I want you to stand outside the city hall and apologize to each and every one of them.”

Costa didn’t seem to like this idea at all, though he wouldn’t refuse it. “I suppose that is a reasonable request.”

“What if we add free gelato for everyone in the village?” said De Luca. “Would the children enjoy that?”

“They would be over the moon.”

“Fine.” Costa held out his hand once more and this time, Nathan shook it. “A car will arrive for you first thing in the morning to transport you to the airport. We will see you in Rome.”

De Luca took a business card from her small purse and handed it to Nathan. “My contact information is here. Send me your bank details and I will arrange for the initial transfer right away.”

Nathan took the card and then looked to Geraldine in disbelief. This meeting had not gone at all the way he’d expected. He didn’t know what to expect in Rome, either, but with a bit of luck, it would all amount to six weeks living la dolce vita before returning to France, one hundred and twenty thousand euros richer. If meathead had managed it, so could Nathan Grant, and with a whole lot more finesse. After all, how tough a job could it be?

Chapter Three

The joy on the children’s faces made Nathan’s bargain feel entirely worthwhile, for that reason alone. He’d accompanied his friends and neighbors to the nearest gelato stand, taking his place behind the counter to help scoop the cones. The crowd swelled so large that in the end they’d had to take over all three gelato shops in town. Signorina Palermo’s representatives didn’t stick around, they high-tailed it out of there as soon as possible, but not before De Luca passed Nathan an extra thousand euros to cover the cost. Nathan still wasn’t sure what to make of the situation overall, but when it came to Signorina De Luca, he felt they saw eye to eye.

Once everyone in the village had their fill of gelato, Nathan headed home to pack. What would one need for a six-week detail protecting a world-famous movie star? The suits he owned were not designer labels, he’d bought them off-the-rack at a men’s chain in the US. These garments wouldn’t stand up to the scrutiny of fancy Italians, but Nathan wasn’t trying to impress anybody. Palermo’s people had come to him. They’d have to accept what they got. Perhaps the bigger question was, should he pack a sidearm? He didn’t have a permit for the one in his safe and he doubted he would need it anyway. Who would he use it against, some rabid fan seeking an autograph? No, it was best to leave the weapon at home, locked up where it wouldn’t get him into any trouble. He was the hired brawn, not the hired gun. From what he could tell, it didn’t seem like that kind of job.

Just past 8 a.m. the following morning, Nathan got a text from Signorina De Luca, informing him that a car would arrive in twenty minutes to pick him up. That gave him enough time for one last coffee, this time a quick espresso. When he’d finished it, he cleaned his fancy machine, washed out the cup, and twenty minutes on the dot after the text, a black sedan pulled into his driveway and stopped near his front door. Nathan hoisted his garment bag and headed out, locking the door behind him. He greeted the driver, who responded with a grunt as he loaded the bag in the trunk. Nathan took the front passenger seat and they headed off. Under normal circumstances, Nathan flew out of the airport in Marseille, so he was surprised when the driver turned north instead of south.

“Not Marseille?” Nathan asked.

“No,” the driver explained. “Avignon.”

Nathan understood that he wouldn’t be flying commercial. This entire endeavor was going to be a lesson in how the other half lived, or more accurately, the other one percent. Upon reaching the airport a little less than an hour later, his expectations were confirmed. The driver pulled up to a security gate and the car was let through. They drove onto the tarmac of a general aviation airport and continued past a variety of small planes before stopping in front of a private jet, identified on the tail as an Embraer Phenom 300. Waiting beside the stairway were a pair of attendants, one male and one female. Through the cockpit windows, Nathan saw two pilots going over their pre-flight checklist. The male flight attendant moved to retrieve Nathan’s bag from the trunk. Nathan stepped onto the tarmac, where he was greeted by the female attendant.

“Good morning, Mr. Grant. I do hope that your journey is progressing smoothly,” she said.

“Thank you. Fine, so far.”

Nathan was escorted onto the plane, where his bag was hung in a storage cabinet and he was shown to a large, plush leather seat facing a small table.

“Can I get you anything? A mimosa, perhaps? Breakfast?” said the female attendant.

“No, thank you. I’m in good shape.”

“If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Great, thanks.”

Five minutes later, they were taxiing for takeoff. This sure beat flying commercial. The why of it all still nagged at him, but Nathan tried not to over-think it. He was hired to protect a famous actress from her adoring fans, that was all. Easy money. Right?

After an hour and a half in the air, the plane landed in Rome and another car drove Nathan into the city, where he’d be staying at a small hotel for the duration of the shoot. Filming would take place at various landmarks across Rome, as well as a studio on the outskirts. Nathan wouldn’t have to worry about transportation or logistics, Costa had assured him. The job was to keep onlookers from getting too close, and Nathan made it clear that he wouldn’t be disrespectful in any way to the general public. If somebody wanted to snap a few photos of Isabella Palermo, Nathan wasn’t going to stop them. He was here to protect her safety, not her online reputation. That was the deal, and on Palermo’s behalf, Costa had accepted.

Nathan’s hotel room wasn’t fancy but would do just fine, with a window overlooking a quiet street, a wardrobe to hang his clothes, a dresser, desk and an antique bed with a decent mattress. A bellman hung Nathan’s clothes. He tipped the man, then followed him down to the lobby where Signorina De Luca was waiting.

“Good morning, Mr. Grant,” she said.

“It’s going to be six weeks, you might as well call me Nathan.”

“Bene. You may call me Maria, if you wish.”

“Excellent. Good morning to you, Maria.”

“I am here to fetch you. Signorina Palermo is waiting in the villa.”

“We wouldn’t want to keep her, would we?”

“No, Signorina Palermo is not fond of waiting, for anyone.” De Luca led Nathan out the front door and onto the narrow cobblestone street, where a Vespa scooter bounced past and handfuls of tourists wandered in either direction.

“Are we walking?” Nathan asked.

“Yes, it is not far.” De Luca turned left, and they joined the tourist parade.

“A short commute, I like that.”

“You will be on call twenty-four hours per day.”

“That, I don’t like.”

“It is part of the job, Mr. Grant. Nathan.”

“Don’t worry, she’s paying me too much to complain.”

“I am happy to hear it.”

This wasn’t Nathan’s first trip to Rome. He’d spent a bit of time here over the years and knew the general lay of the land, but it usually took him awhile to reacquaint himself with the place. These ancient, narrow streets were like a maze. If you didn’t have your bearings, it was easy to become disoriented. He had the map on his phone if he needed it, but on the off chance things got dicey, he might not have time to consult it. As they made their way along, he might have been anywhere in the city as far as he could tell, but then they took a left turn and went half a block further, entering the landmark Piazza Navona, with its long, rectangular shape, bustling sidewalk cafes, and three fountains, one at each end and a third in the center. Directly across from them was a large church with two towers reaching toward the sky. De Luca turned to the right and they walked halfway down the square before coming to a classical-style building just like all the others, four stories high with windows overlooking the scene below. A large, iron door was closed tight, but De Luca pressed a button on the wall and looked into the electronic eye of a security system. A buzzing sound came from the lock and the door swung open. Standing inside was a beefy man whose tailored black suit was a whole lot more stylish than anything Nathan Grant had in his wardrobe.

“Buongiorno, signorina.” The man greeted De Luca before eyeing Nathan.

“Buongiorno.” She moved past with Nathan right behind.

“The lady and gentleman of the house are waiting by the pool.”

“Thank you, Hector.”

A grand entryway was decorated with ornate furniture on plush carpets, Renaissance art on the walls, and a sweeping staircase leading to a landing on the second floor. In the center was a life-sized marble sculpture of a woman, nude from the waist up and missing both arms, with hair tied in braids that wrapped around her head. Nathan paused to take a closer look as they went past.

“Venus,” said De Luca.

“That’s a reproduction, right?”

“The pool is in the courtyard,” De Luca replied, moving toward a set of double doors.

“I hadn’t been aware that there was a gentleman of the house.” Nathan followed after her.

“Technically, it is the gentleman’s house.”

“Are they married?”

“No. Not married.” De Luca lowered her voice. Through the doors, they continued down a hallway and emerged in the villa’s central courtyard. A swimming pool was flanked by Roman columns and another carved marble statue, this one of a voluptuous woman entirely in the nude. Overhead, a retractable glass ceiling was open to the bright sunshine of a glorious spring day. To the left of the pool was a wooden deck with a row of chaise lounges, a matching table, and six chairs. A server in uniform stood at the ready. Sitting at the table and smoking a thick cigar was a large man in a charcoal gray suit, with matching hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. Reclining on one of the chaise lounges, Isabella Palermo looked as sophisticated as ever in dark sunglasses and a white one-piece bathing suit. Her hair was combed back, and she sat sideways with her legs tucked up beneath her.

“There they are,” the man said.

“I’m sorry if we kept you,” said De Luca.

“Nonsense!” said Palermo. She lowered her sunglasses with one finger to get a better look at Nathan. “Come in, please. I hope your journey went smoothly, Signor Grant.”

“Smooth as could be, thank you.”

“Wonderful.”

“Please, join us.” The man stood and motioned toward one of the other chairs at the table. “I have heard quite a lot about you. I am Adnan Abbas.”

“Will you be needing me any further, Signorina?” said De Luca.

“No, thank you, Maria. You may go.”

De Luca gave a slight nod of the head. “Goodbye for now, Mr. Grant.”

“Thank you,” Nathan replied as the young assistant retreated the way they had come.

Abbas shook Nathan’s hand with a firm, confident grip. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. This was a man who knew how to get what he wanted, including both a stunning villa in the heart of Rome and the most famous actress in Italy to go with it. Whatever he was doing, Nathan thought, it worked for him. “Please, sit.” Abbas released Nathan’s hand, and the two men took their seats.

“Can we offer you something to drink, Signor Grant?” said Palermo. “An early lunch, perhaps?”

“I’m fine, but thank you.” This was the part where Nathan would learn the contours of the job, and hopefully gain a fuller impression of his boss. Or bosses, if you included Abbas.

“Isabella tells me that you have integrity, Mr. Grant,” said Abbas. “A moral center. You stood up for innocent children.”

“And a waiter. Don’t forget Pierre,” said Nathan.

“Of course, we mustn’t forget Pierre,” said Palermo. “You protected them from a bully.”

“Your bully, to be clear.”

“Yes, that is true.” Palermo pouted.

“You could have brought the entire situation to a halt at any time, if you’d merely had a few words with him.” To Nathan, this truth was key to it all. Even now, the memory of that night seemed to bring her some twisted joy. Once again, the edges of her lips curled slightly upward.

“It was a real-life drama, Signor Grant. I hope you will forgive me for letting it play out. I’m so used to the other kind, the make-believe. I admit, I found it all thrilling somehow. I didn’t expect anyone to get hurt, least of all Mr. Olivieri.”

“And now the bully is out,” said Abbas. “The savior is in.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. “Of course, we had to do some research on you, Mr. Grant, to know who we were getting. Army Rangers, CIA… Very impressive.”

“You understand, then, that security is not my area of expertise.”

Signorina Palermo removed her sunglasses. The way she eyed Nathan made him uneasy, as though he were just another plaything, a toy at her disposal. He tried to remain focused on the money. That was why he was here, right? It was a job, and he could leave any time, though twenty thousand euros per week would be a lot to give up. “So, when exactly do I start?” said Nathan.

“We will have my tailor take some measurements,” said Abbas. “After that, you can meet the rest of the staff. Filming will begin tomorrow morning. You will be provided with a schedule.”

“What’s this movie about, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“You could say it is a post-apocalyptic picture.” Abbas seemed pleased. “Set in the year 500 AD.”

“Adnan is our producer.” Palermo eyed her partner with affection.

“Did you know,” Abbas went on, “that the population of this city at the height of the empire was approximately one million souls?”

“I was not aware of that, no,” Nathan replied.

“Imagine, a million people living in Rome with none of the modern conveniences, no electricity, no garbage trucks, no refrigeration, to mention but a few. After it was sacked by the Visigoths in the fifth century, Rome was virtually abandoned. One million inhabitants dropped down to twenty thousand, and those who remained were starving, wracked by disease and without any source of clean water. A teeming, thriving city left to ruin.”

“And here I was expecting a lighthearted comedy,” said Nathan.

“It is a story of survival,” said Palermo.

“After the Fall,” said Abbas. “That is our title. An epic tale.” Another man entered the courtyard, this one with a tape measure draped around his neck. “Ah, here he is!” Abbas added. “My tailor, Giuseppi, is here to take care of you, Mr. Grant.”

“We will see you in the morning, seven o’clock,” said Palermo. “If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to contact Maria.”

“Thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He followed Giuseppi back inside. Apparently Nathan had been right about his wardrobe. It just didn’t cut it. In a drawing room upstairs, the tailor took his measurements. Nathan didn’t ask what they were for exactly, he’d find out soon enough. When Giuseppi was finished, he hurried off and Nathan was introduced to the rest of the staff by Hector, the butler. He met a few maids and the kitchen staff, plus two dour members of Abbas’ personal security, Omar and Malik, and one guard named Alphonse who was responsible for Palermo and would be Nathan’s partner. Lastly, Hector gave Nathan a tour of the residence.

The third floor contained several bedrooms, including a massive master suite with balconies overlooking the bustling piazza below, as well as a personal library. One floor below that was a long, narrow living room. On the ground floor were the kitchen and laundry facilities, as well as a large dining room. Nathan was struck by the number of ancient artifacts spread throughout the house, including both statues and mosaics. In the basement was a parking area for three cars, with a Mercedes and two Range Rovers. Off to one side was a row of stone columns and exposed foundations protected behind a Plexiglas wall. They must have dated back at least two thousand years. “The boss likes his artifacts, doesn’t he?” Nathan asked the butler.

“Mr. Abbas takes a great interest in history.”

“How did he get the permits to put a garage in here?”

“When Mr. Abbas wants something done, he gets it done. It is not for me to ask how.”

“I guess it’s all about priorities,” Nathan replied. Abbas cared plenty about history, unless it got in his way. It was money and status that mattered even more, but who was Nathan to point the finger? When it came down to it, money was the reason he was here. In Nathan’s case, however, he’d try to keep that from getting in the way of his principles.

Chapter Four

For the rest of the afternoon, Nathan sat outside with his laptop at one of the cafes on the piazza, enjoying a big plate of spaghetti carbonara and a Birra Moretti pale lager. He alternated between taking in the scene around him and searching for information about his employers. Plenty was available. Adnan Abbas was a multi-billionaire originally from the United Arab Emirates, whose fortune came from various interests in oil and gas, shipping and commodities. Aside from a pair of residences in Rome, the man owned homes in Tuscany, the French Alps, London and Dubai. He was known to travel the Mediterranean on a yacht during the summer months and had a fondness for skiing in the winter. He was admired for his philanthropy, including large donations to education and the arts. His connection to Isabella Palermo went back close to a decade, when he first took over producing her films. It wasn’t long afterwards that they were identified as a couple, despite a near thirty-year age gap. Aside from a few Hollywood projects, Palermo mostly stayed in Italy, where she and Abbas put out a mix of Italian and English-language movies.

It all seemed fairly innocuous, until Nathan came to an article translated from Italian that gave him pause. Bodyguard Found Decapitated under Ponte Sant’Angelo, it read. A bodyguard under the employ of Mr. Adnan Abbas of Rome was found decapitated early Thursday morning beneath the St. Angelo Bridge. Enzo Rossi, 27, was discovered by joggers at first light and appeared to have floated some distance down the Tiber before coming to rest along the riverbank. A spokesperson for Mr. Abbas stated that the billionaire industrialist is both saddened and appalled by this tragedy and is cooperating fully with the investigation. Police currently have no motives or suspects in the case.

Nathan leaned back in his chair. When were they going to tell him about that? The dateline was only two weeks old. It had literally just happened, yet not a peep about it from either Abbas or Palermo. Did they think he wouldn’t find out? Or that it didn’t matter? This was murder in the first degree at a level of brutality beyond any ordinary killing. Cutting a man’s head off was all about sending a message. As Nathan gazed around the square, he saw couples wandering hand in hand, tourists gathering in groups around their guides, and children chasing pigeons. He eyed his employer’s villa, on the opposite side of the piazza and down roughly forty meters. Everything about this job was starting to make him uneasy. He shifted his attention away, picturing the scene here thousands of years earlier, when this square was surrounded by a stadium built of stone, with chariots racing down the straightaway and thousands of screaming spectators in the stands. Those people had their daily concerns as well, their joys and sorrows, their petty grievances and their tragedies. What did it all amount to now? Nothing at all, not even a memory, just some stone foundations plowed aside to make way for a rich man’s parking garage. Someday, all of this would be forgotten, too. The best one could do was make the most of each day and appreciate their time on earth. Nathan finished his beer and flagged down a server to pay for his lunch. He had the rest of the afternoon off. The last time he’d been in Rome was years earlier. A walk around the city was in order, to regain his bearings. First up, he’d take a wander over to the St. Angelo Bridge.

Bright and early the following morning, Nathan was in the bathroom shaving when he heard a tap on the door. He wiped the last bits of shaving cream from his face, and then answered it wearing only a towel. In the hallway stood a bellman with a garment bag hanging from a cart.

“Good morning, sir. I have your suits,” said the bellman.

“That was fast.” Nathan stepped aside and the bellman wheeled them in.

“Shall I hang them in the closet?”

“No, why don’t you lay them out on the bed?”

“As you wish.” The bellman unzipped the bag and took out two suits before gently laying them side by side on the bed, one black and one charcoal gray. The garment bag he hung in the closet. Nathan picked up his wallet from the desk, fished out a five-euro note, and handed it to the man.

“Thank you, sir. I wish you a good day.” The bellman wheeled the cart out of the room and closed the door behind him.

Nathan lifted the black suit and took the jacket off the hanger. He slipped the jacket on over his shoulders and stood in front of a mirror. A perfect fit, of course. He took the garment off and hung both suits up before finishing his bathroom routine. How much did those two suits cost, hand-made overnight by a private Italian tailor? Nathan had no idea, but he certainly was getting that lesson in the lifestyles of the one percent.

Forty minutes later, Nathan sat in the front passenger seat of the Mercedes sedan as it pulled up the ramp and out of the villa’s underground parking garage. He wore his black suit over a white shirt, no tie. Hanging from a lanyard around his neck was a security badge with his name and photo on it, along with the name of the film, After the Fall. Driving the car was Alphonse, his partner on the security detail. In the back were De Luca and Palermo. The shoot would take place in the ruins of the emperor’s palace on Palatine Hill, not far away. Heading up the very first block, Nathan realized that he was in for a wild ride. Alphonse sped along the narrow road and weaved around groups of tourists, very nearly running several over. Nathan clutched at his arm rest. “Whoa, there, Alphonse, you in a hurry?” he said.

“It is the Italian way, Signor Grant,” said Palermo from the back seat. “You will adjust.”

“How many people have you taken out, hey buddy?” Nathan asked the driver. “Maybe you could get an emblem pasted to the door for each one. Old ladies count double.”

Alphonse declined to answer as they roared through an intersection and swung left. The car entered a busier avenue where they were met by the buzz of Vespa scooters zipping in either direction. Alphonse wound past the monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, an imposing hilltop edifice with white marble columns. Further along, Nathan recognized the ruins of the Forum, the ancient center of commerce for an empire, and behind that, the iconic Colosseum. Alphonse approached a gate leading onto the forum grounds, inching his way through a crowd of paparazzi who busily snapped photos of the car.

“Isabella, Isabella!” the photographers shouted. “Let us see your face! Give us a smile!”

Two uniformed officers of the carabinieri, the Italian national police, pushed the crowd back to clear the way. Alphonse stopped and rolled down his window to have a few words with them. Scanning the crowd, Nathan saw movie fans mixed in with the press, all hoping for a glimpse of the famous occupant in back. The paparazzi held massive zoom lenses attached to their SLR cameras. The fans were content to capture the action on their phones. One man stood out, not seeming to belong to either contingent. He held no camera, nor a phone. He wasn’t shouting, or waving, or smiling even. The man was tall and thin, with short brown hair, wearing jeans and a black leather motorcycle jacket. He was young, perhaps in his early twenties, but what stood out most was his grim expression. Who was he, Nathan wondered, just a random passerby? There wasn’t time to consider it further before one of the officers slid open the gate, allowing the car to pass.

Inside the grounds, Alphonse drove more carefully, winding up a hill until he came to a hive of activity, with production trucks parked in a row. Behind them were the remains of the ancient palace. Film crews hustled back and forth with gear and props. The Mercedes pulled into a parking space at the front. Cameras were set up on multiple stands nearby, along with lights and reflective screens. A clutch of movie extras in period costume stood in front of the ruins. Alphonse got out of the car and opened the door for Palermo. Nathan did the same for De Luca. So far this whole job seemed like a lark, if you didn’t count the dead body in the river. It was as though they were paying him to take a Roman holiday, and handsomely at that, but he knew that security was like insurance. Having it was important, but you hoped you never actually needed to use it.

A prodigious man in a gray suit hurried across to greet Palermo as she stepped out of the car. “There she is!” The man spoke English with a German accent. “How is my movie star this morning?” He greeted her with a kiss on each cheek.

“Buongiorno, Gunter,” she replied.

“Are you ready for a productive day, dear?”

“For you, always.”

“Excellent!” Gunter rubbed his hands together as he looked from Palermo to the others, a hint of anxiety on his face as he sized up Nathan and Alphonse, though he didn’t address them. “Let’s get you to wardrobe, shall we?” he said to his actress.

“Andiamo.”

“Mr. Grant, you and Alphonse will come with us,” said De Luca.

“Sure,” Nathan answered. “Wherever you need me.”

“Mr. Grant is the newest member of our security detail,” De Luca introduced him.

“American?” said Gunter.

“That’s right.”

“Welcome to Rome. I hope you’ll take care of our most valuable asset.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“Gunter is directing the film,” said Palermo. “He is a talented man. Aren’t you, Gunter?”

“With Isabella, my job is easy. Come now, right this way.” The director led them to the wardrobe truck, where Alphonse positioned himself outside the door and Nathan accompanied Palermo and De Luca inside. The actress was fitted with a worn cotton robe and a pair of sandals before moving on to the makeup truck, where she was seated in front of a mirror. A makeup artist set to work creating an appearance that was both beautiful and grimy at the same time, with a few streaks of grease across one cheek. Her perfectly combed hair was mussed up just enough to give her the look of a wild creature.

“See what they put me through?” Palermo eyed Nathan in the mirror. Something about her gaze unnerved him, the way she took him in. After a lifetime of twisting men to her will, Isabella Palermo knew exactly where her power lay. Nathan was anything but immune to such charms. He would have to adjust, to push these emotions aside.

When the makeup artist was finished, she took a Polaroid photo to recreate the look on subsequent days, for continuity. The actress moved on. In front of the palace, Nathan stood to one side with Alphonse and watched while they filmed the first scene, with Palermo’s co-star protecting his woman from a pack of ruffians. The rest of the afternoon played out in similar fashion, as they shot a few more scenes around the complex. At the end of the day, Nathan escorted Palermo and De Luca back to the car and they headed home, with Alphonse again behind the wheel. He drove forward slowly through the gate, past the police officers and a smaller crowd of fans and paparazzi that still loitered outside. Nathan searched for the man in the black leather motorcycle jacket, but didn’t spot him. As soon as the car passed through, Alphonse stepped on the gas and off they went, racing through Roman traffic as though he were trying to make a point. Nathan recalled a certain princess meeting her demise in just such circumstances. These moments in the car left him feeling that maybe the pay was not enough after all. “Try to take it easy, will you?” he said to Alphonse.

The driver peered sideways with unmasked disdain. “We are Italians. We do things the Italian way. If you no like, you maybe return to America.”

“Easy, boys,” said Palermo. “Let’s all get along, shall we? After all, it is Signor Grant’s first day. Give him some time.”

“Si, Signorina.” Alphonse glanced at his boss in the rear-view mirror, but no newcomer was going to tell him how to drive, especially not some American. Nathan held tightly to his door handle as they retraced their path toward the villa. He was relieved when, after a few blocks, traffic ground to a halt. Just past an intersection up ahead, Nathan saw the cause of the blockage. Lying on its side in the roadway was a bright red Ducati motorcycle. Beside it stood a woman in tight jeans and a red leather jacket. Her white helmet had a black spiderweb decal across one side. The woman was hollering at the driver of a car that seemed to have just knocked her over. Other drivers on either side of the blockage leaned on their horns and shouted in colorful Italian. The result was more fury, and choice words in response from the rider.

“What is going on up there?” said Palermo. “Can’t we go around, Alphonse?”

“Of course, Signorina, I will do my best.” Alphonse guided the car onto a narrow sidewalk and moved forward. They reached the intersection and he tried to navigate through to the left but was blocked by other cars, everyone honking their horns and yelling out their windows.

“Welcome to Italy, Mr. Grant,” said De Luca.

“I’ll clear a path,” said Nathan. He got out of the car and moved to the front. To the right was a dead-end alley with a white work truck parked at the far end. Nathan attempted to direct traffic the other way, down a small road to the left. Alphonse crept forward, bit by bit, further into the intersection. “That’s it, keep coming,” Nathan said, but as he looked back up the alley, the work truck jolted forward and then picked up speed as it bore down on Palermo’s Mercedes. It all happened too quickly to do anything but jump out of the way. The truck flew into the intersection and then, bang! Metal crushed metal as the bumper plowed into the side of the Mercedes, crumpling the doors and sending the car skidding sideways into another vehicle. It was so unexpected that Nathan was left stunned into inaction. The driver of the truck jumped out. Their eyes met for an instant. It was the same young man, tall and grim, wearing his black leather jacket. He didn’t pause, but instead ran to the Ducati, hoisted it up and hopped on. The woman climbed on the back and turned her head to take one last look at the scene. Her eyes were ringed by thick black highlighter, coming to a sharp point on either edge. It was the depths of these eyes, though, that displayed deep disdain for all they surveyed, a world not fit to have her in it. The man revved the throttle and they were off, zipping away through the backed-up cars and out of sight.

Nathan’s instinct pushed him to chase after them however he could, but a second, stronger instinct shifted his attention to the victims. The Mercedes was sandwiched between the work truck and another vehicle. Behind shattered windows, the occupants were surrounded by expended airbags and covered in glass. De Luca’s side of the car had taken the blow directly. Nathan leaned over the work truck’s hood to get a better look. De Luca was out cold, her white airbag speckled with blood. On the opposite side, Palermo was slumped over but moving. In the driver’s seat, groans came from Alphonse.

“Hang on!” Nathan called out before climbing behind the wheel of the work truck. He shifted into reverse and backed it up five feet. A small crowd of good Samaritans gathered around the Mercedes. Along with Nathan, it took three of them to wrench open the crumpled rear door and hoist De Luca out first. Nathan leaned back in to help Palermo next as he heard the wail of approaching sirens. A police car arrived, followed by an ambulance. Paramedics took over, shifting Nathan and the good Samaritans aside. De Luca was loaded onto a gurney, then into an ambulance. A path was cleared and the vehicle headed away while Nathan helped two officers disgorge Palermo, who seemed more stunned than injured. Alphonse was able to climb out through his front window without assistance. He pulled out his phone and called in support. A few minutes later, a silver Range Rover pulled up with Malik behind the wheel. Palermo and Alphonse got into the back. Nathan took the front passenger seat and they headed for the villa, this time with a police escort front and rear. All the while, Nathan’s mind churned. First the decapitated member of the security detail, and now this. What was going on? All he knew so far was that this job was turning out to be a lot more complicated than he’d expected. It seemed he’d have to earn his twenty thousand euros per week after all.

Chapter Five

The meeting took place the following morning in the villa’s grand salon, a room fit to entertain visiting royalty, or anyone else the owners wanted to impress. In this case, seated on plush couches were Palermo, Abbas, Raphael Costa, and two high-ranking police officers, Colonel Giordano of the Carabinieri and Inspector Lombardi of the local Polizia Municipale. Standing behind the couches was the security team of Alphonse, Malik, and Nathan Grant.

“It is our opinion that your motion picture project should be immediately placed on hold until a full investigation can be conducted,” said Lombardi.

“Impossible!” Abbas replied. “Do you have any idea what that would cost us? We have crew hired, schedules arranged, permits approved! We cannot simply stop shooting while you attempt to investigate!”

“But, Signor Abbas,” said Giordano. “Our concern is for the safety of all involved. Until we understand the source of the threat, we can make no guarantees regarding the security of Signorina Palermo.”

“Life comes with no guarantees,” replied Abbas.

“Perhaps we should ask the signorina her opinion?” said Lombardi.

All eyes turned to Palermo, who appeared uneasy for the first time since Nathan had met her. Gone was the usual air of confidence. In the aftermath of this incident, she was shaken. Her eyes went from Abbas, to the officers, to her private security detail, finally coming to rest on Costa. “What do you think, Raphael?”

“It is entirely up to you, my dear. I will understand if you decide to pull out. Say the word and I will begin making calls to the rest of our investors. Nobody will blame you.”

“We will continue on schedule,” said Palermo. “Whoever committed this atrocious attack was trying to intimidate me. I will not be intimidated.”

“Of course, we will expect police escorts, whenever Isabella travels to the set,” said Abbas. “You must understand how poorly this reflects on our city when something like this is allowed to occur in broad daylight.”

The officers looked to one another, neither one wanting to commit their department to such a responsibility. “I think we can reach an agreement,” said Giordano. “In the meantime, apprehending the perpetrators is our highest priority.”

“As it should be,” said Costa.

“Do you have any indications of a motive?” Nathan asked.

“A motive?” said Palermo. “The man was a lunatic! Perhaps he dislikes my films.”

“I’m sure plenty of people don’t like your movies, but they don’t all try to run you over with a truck.”

“Plenty of people?” Palermo was incredulous.

“Look…” said Nathan, “if your attackers were out to make some sort of a statement, what was the statement?”

“These are all good questions,” said Lombardi. “Questions that my colleagues and I will undoubtedly uncover.”

“Does Signorina Palermo have any known enemies?” Nathan went on.

“Investigating the crime is not your responsibility,” said the officer. “That is ours.”

“My job is to keep her safe. Knowing what I’m up against would make that a lot easier. What about you, Abbas? Any chance this statement was directed at you?”

“Highly unlikely,” said Abbas. “If someone had a score to settle with me, they’d have come after me, not Isabella.”

“Do you have any theories?”

“It was the act of a madman. I will leave it to the police to apprehend him, but in the meantime, it is your responsibility to make sure it does not happen again.”

“Yes. Of course.”

When the meeting wrapped up, Nathan didn’t have much new information to go on. They had no ID on the attacker or his accomplice, no motive, no forensics. The motorcycle had yet to be recovered, and the work truck was stolen one day before the attack. Super glue on the perpetrators’ fingertips had masked any prints. Basically, it was all a big fat nothing burger. With Palermo safely ensconced in the villa, two policemen outside, and a few of Abbas’ guards inside, Nathan was cut loose for the day. Filming would resume the following morning. Nathan headed back to his hotel to change his fancy suit for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. At a cafe on the corner, he sat at an outdoor table and ordered a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, then made some calls to check on the status of Signorina De Luca, who was being held at the Santo Spirito hospital for observation. While he waited for his coffee, Nathan did his best to put the pieces together, or at least tease out some connections that might make sense, but he needed more information. That was where De Luca would come in.  If anybody knew the villa’s inside secrets, it was her. First, though, Nathan had a morning ritual to attend to.

“Would you like anything else?” asked the server as she brought his order to the table.

“This will do just fine, thanks.” Nathan inhaled the freshly-baked aroma of the croissant and took a bite of the flaky goodness, then followed it up with a sip of coffee. Dare he say it? This was even better than he made at home. There certainly were upsides to taking a job in Italy, if he managed to survive it.

Thirty-five minutes later, Nathan was checking in at the front desk of the Santo Spirito hospital, a few blocks from the Vatican. A receptionist quizzed him about his association with Signorina De Luca.

“She’s a colleague. I’m checking in to make sure she’s okay.”

“I see,” the receptionist answered.

“I’ll make it quick.”

“Name and signature.” She slid a pen across the top of a visitor log.

Nathan filled out an entry in the log and was given an adhesive badge, which he stuck on the front of his jacket.

“Third floor. Elevator is down the hall.”

“Thank you.” Nathan stopped off at a hospital gift shop on the ground floor to purchase a small bouquet of flowers in a vase. This hospital was exceedingly old compared to what he was used to back in the States. It could have used a major renovation, though at least they kept it clean. Upstairs, he found De Luca’s room and knocked lightly on the door. She was reclining in bed, with her head and face heavily bandaged. “Hello, Maria,” Nathan said as he walked in. “How are you feeling?”

De Luca looked from Nathan to the flowers and back with wide eyes surrounded by white gauze. “What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in.”

“Did Isabella send you?”

“Yes,” Nathan lied. “She’s very concerned about you.”

De Luca took a moment to process this information, trying to decide if it were true or not.

“She sent these. Is there somewhere you’d like them?”

“By the window.”

Nathan placed the vase on a windowsill and then nodded to a chair beside the bed. “Do you mind if I sit?”

“Of course not.”

De Luca wasn’t particularly talkative, but Nathan didn’t blame her. “What’s the news, they’re holding you another day?” he said.

“Yes.”

“No broken bones? Nothing serious?”

De Luca’s eyes welled up with tears. “You would like to see my chart?” she said in an accusatory tone.

Nathan was stung by this response. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right, that’s all.”

“All right? Is that what you think? No, I am not all right.”

“I understand, it was traumatic experience.”

“Is that what you think, Mr. Grant? That you understand?”

Nathan held both hands up. This was not going well. “Look, I’m doing the best I can here. If there’s something more you’d like to share, I would love to hear it.”

“Everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve dreamed of, it is over! All of it! Do you have any idea what I have sacrificed? What I have given up? And for what?” The tears spilled out, rolling down to soak into the gauze pads on her cheeks.

“What’s over?” Nathan pressed.

“My career!”

“I’m sorry…” Nathan certainly was confused. “I’m sure you’ll recover. Good as new in no time.”

“Do you think I debase myself to these people because I enjoy it? Because I earn a fair wage? I was given promises, Mr. Grant. I was paying my dues. Look at my face! The scars underneath these bandages will remain, forever! My life, my dreams, they are ruined! And does she even have the courtesy to come see me? Does she call on the phone? No, not a word! She sends her American to appease me with a cheap bouquet of flowers.”

“I’m sorry, I think you’ve lost me.”

“I was going to be an actress, Mr. Grant! Do you have any idea of the power in the hands of a man like Adnan Abbas? Look what he did for Isabella! For me, that dream has died. Everything I lived for, it is gone, stolen away.”

“Doctors today, they work miracles. I’m sure Abbas will spare no expense.”

“If you believe that, you are a bigger fool than even I took you for.”

“Don’t you want to know who was responsible, at least? To find out who attacked you?”

“It was not me they were after.”

“We can still seek justice.”

“The police have asked their questions. I have nothing more to say about it. What else do you want from me?”

“Answers, Maria. I want answers.”

De Luca’s expression darkened further. “You have done your duty, Mr. Grant. You have delivered your flowers. You may go.”

“Who might hold a grudge against her, do you think? Anyone?”

“Against the signorina? I might hold one. Does that make me a suspect?”

Nathan was getting nowhere. Maybe it was time to shift his tactics. “What about the bodyguard, Enzo Rossi? What can you tell me about that?”

“If you don’t mind, I would like to get some rest. Thank you for the flowers, but please, it is time that you showed yourself out.”

Nathan sat where he was, unwilling to give up so easily. In the end, though, he couldn’t force her cooperation. The best he could hope for was to keep their lines of communication open. If he pushed too hard, he’d likely lose her for good. If he backed down graciously, in time she might share some crucial nugget. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” Nathan stood to leave. “If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call me. Even if it’s just someone to talk with.”

“If I want to talk, it certainly won’t be with you.”

“Goodbye, Maria, I hope you get your rest.” Nathan walked out of the room and down the hall. He hadn’t learned much, though his picture of the personal dynamics between De Luca and her employers was filling out. For now, Nathan needed a more willing source of information. Whatever the police might know, they weren’t sharing either. There would have been surveillance video of the pair somewhere, plus any number of additional clues, but it didn’t seem that Nathan was privy to any of that. He reminded himself that he was here in Rome for a paycheck, that was all, and yet so far he wasn’t doing a very good job at protecting Isabella Palermo.

Nathan exited the hospital on a balmy summer day and headed back toward his hotel on foot. It was only fifteen minutes away and the fresh air would do him good, to help clear his mind. By Rome’s standards, the city felt unusually peaceful. He crossed the Tiber on an old stone bridge, the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele, and continued into the city center. He’d only gone a few blocks further when he was hit with a familiar sensation. This was something he’d been attuned to during his days as a CIA operative, and while he hadn’t experienced it in quite a long time, the feeling was unmistakable. He was being followed. The signs were registered by his subconscious, and through training and attention, filtered out from the rest of the noise. He knew better than to turn right around. If somebody was back there, he couldn’t risk tipping them off. Instead, he kept on straight ahead until he came to a sidewalk cafe on the next corner. Nathan took a seat with his back to the establishment, offering a full view up and down the street in both directions. He lifted a menu from the table and perused it, all the while sneaking glimpses at the passers-by. None of them appeared suspicious, just the typical mix of tourists and local Italians going about their business. He saw no sign of the man from the day before, or his female accomplice. A few cars went past on the road, and some scooters, but nobody stopped or slowed down. Perhaps he was merely developing a sense of paranoia. The decapitation of a predecessor could have that effect on a person.

“Bongiorno,” said a server. “Would you like to order?”

“Yeah, sure,” said Nathan. “Espresso, thanks.”

“Can I entice you with some lunch? A cake, perhaps?”

“Just the coffee, thank you.”

“Right away, sir.”

Nathan handed the server the menu and then went back to scanning his surroundings. Sitting in a doorway across the street was a disheveled homeless man with a cup placed on the sidewalk in front of him. An older couple walked past, with the woman clutching her purse tightly to her side. A short distance behind came a younger woman dressed in khaki pants and a white blouse. Passing the homeless man, she took some money from a pocket and leaned down to drop it in the cup. As she did so, the woman turned her head to cast a glance across the street, directly at Nathan Grant. Their eyes met and a sense of panic seemed to shoot through her. The woman rose back up and continued on her way. Nathan stood to follow, pulling a five-euro bill from his wallet and dropping it on the table before he hurried up the sidewalk, on the opposite side of the street and slightly behind his quarry. In a flash, the woman had gone from following to being followed, and she knew it. Reaching the next intersection, she turned right, heading away at a rapid clip. Nathan picked up the pace as he crossed the street in pursuit, both of them nearly jogging at this point. The woman weaved through a tour group, jostling people out of her way as she went. At the next corner, she turned left. Nathan zigged and zagged around the tourists and reached the corner, where he spotted her forty meters ahead and running full steam. He bolted after her, though he was unclear what he would do if he caught up. He’d figure that out when the time came. For the moment, he turned on the afterburners.

The next intersection was a busier thoroughfare, and instead of trying to cross it, the woman made another left. It only took Nathan five seconds to reach this avenue himself, but when he came around the corner, the woman was no longer in sight. A large piazza stretched out to his left, fronted by a cathedral complex, with five sets of doors on the front, evenly spaced and roughly ten meters apart. The first set was closed and locked. The second set opened into a library, the Biblioteca Vallicelliana. The next three sets of doors led into the cathedral itself. Like the contestant in a game show, he’d have to choose a door. If he got it right, the woman would have little chance of escaping him. If he chose wrong, she’d most certainly get away. Most likely, she’d have entered the first open door she came to. Nathan took one last look around and then entered the library. Inside, a librarian sat behind a desk near the door. Beyond her was a reading room, with bookshelves lining the walls and desks on either side. “Did a woman just come in here?” Nathan asked.

“Mi scusi?” The librarian looked up.

Nathan moved past to a middle-aged priest at one of the desks. “A young woman, did you see her come in?”

The priest stared up at Nathan in silence, trying to figure out what to make of him.

“Never mind.” Nathan continued further inside and up a stairway to the second floor. Here he found more book stacks, desks, and a map room with a collection of ancient globes. No sign of the woman. He continued to the top floor. This level had an administrative office and a conference room, both of which were empty. Nathan looked under the desks and behind a set of cabinets. A window in the office looked over a courtyard, three stories below. No escape through there. He traversed a smaller reading room toward the front window, but Nathan already had a sinking feeling that he’d made the wrong choice. A window overlooked the piazza below. To his left, a crowd of parishioners exited the cathedral. In the middle of the group, he spotted her, calmly crossing to the avenue where a city bus pulled up and the woman climbed aboard. The door swung shut and the bus pulled away. Nathan had no evidence that she’d actually been following him at all, aside from what his instincts told him. If she was, he had no idea why or for whom. It was all just another piece in an increasingly intricate puzzle.

Back at his hotel, Nathan logged onto his bank account to see if the first transfer from Abbas had gone through. There it was, all twenty thousand euros. Why did it feel like he was selling his soul for this money? It was hard to escape the suspicion that he was just a sucker, and that somehow the whole thing was a setup. One way or another, he felt as though he were being played. The question was, what would he do about it? He could quit and go home, or he could stick it out and make the best of things. If he quit now, he’d need to return the twenty grand. Abbas might be a shady character, but they’d had an agreement. That money was for security services and so far Nathan hadn’t even lasted two days. Besides, Nathan Grant was not a quitter. He was in this thing, whatever it was, and he would see it through, both out of principle and curiosity. Nathan was no private detective, he wasn’t even a proper security guard, but he was smart, capable, and determined to get to the bottom of whatever was going on here.

The following morning, Nathan was back at the villa before dawn for coffee and eggs, and another planning session, this time in the kitchen. Joining the breakfast was a representative from the Ministry of Cultural Heritage, a man by the name of Tommaso Cardona. The day’s scenes would be shot inside the Colosseum, and the ministry was particularly concerned that any further attacks against Isabella Palermo could result in damage to this historical treasure. Security surrounding the set was to be stepped up significantly, along with a police escort to and from the set for Palermo. Cardona and an archaeologist from the ministry would be on hand at all times to oversee the shoot.

“If at any time the Ministry determines that the site is under threat, permits to film on the premises will be pulled immediately. Canceled. Understand?” said Cardona.

Adnan Abbas stepped into the kitchen wearing a bathrobe and slippers. “Good morning, gentlemen!” he said. “Tell me, what you will do today to protect our dear Isabella?”

“Signor Cardona was just explaining that he might cancel our permits,” said Alphonse.

“Is that so?” Abbas clapped Cardona on the back. “I am confident that whatever further requirements you may have, we will be able to meet them.”

“It would help if we knew more about the nature of the threat,” said Nathan.

“Isabella has great confidence in you, Mr. Grant. Let us hope it is not unfounded.” Abbas turned his attention to a member of his personal staff. “We will have our coffee in the drawing room this morning, Beatrice. An omelet for me, and Isabella will have muesli with berries and yogurt.”

“Yes, Mr. Abbas,” said Beatrice.

Hector poked his head into the room to make an announcement. “Signorina Daniela Sorrento has arrived.”

“Yes,” said Cardona. “My archaeologist. Show her in, please.”

Hector backed out for a brief moment and then escorted the new arrival into the kitchen. As soon as she entered the room, the woman froze for a brief second, locking eyes with Nathan Grant. He alone seemed to notice her hesitation. After all, Nathan was the only one she’d been tailing through the city just the day before.

“Welcome, Signorina Sorrento. Please, have a seat,” said Alphonse. The rest of them made room for her at the table, where she took the chair directly beside Cardona and did all she could to avoid looking any more at Nathan Grant. Just when he thought this thing couldn’t get any stranger, here they were. He kept his gaze fixed on her, tilting his head slightly sideways in an effort to unnerve her. As soon as Nathan could get this woman alone, she’d better provide some answers.

Chapter Six

Nathan rode in the back seat of the Range Rover beside Isabella Palermo, with Alphonse again behind the wheel. This time his driving was kept in check by the police escort, with one motorcycle in front and one behind, sirens blaring.

“I spoke with Maria this morning,” said Palermo. “She thanked me for the flowers.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Signorina De Luca is like family. I care very deeply for her.”

“Of course.”

“I do not know what I will do while she’s gone.”

“Is she coming back?”

“What do you mean, is she coming back? Why would she not come back?”

“I don’t know,” said Nathan. “That’s between the two of you. When were you going to tell me about Enzo Rossi?”

This question caught Isabella Palermo completely off guard. She shifted her attention out the window without responding.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Nathan added.

Isabella Palermo turned back to Nathan with anger in her eyes. She didn’t appreciate being challenged, especially by an employee. “What happened to Enzo was a terrible tragedy,” she said. “That does not mean we were attempting to hide anything from you, Signor Grant.”

“It seems to be a material piece of information. You bring me on as a bodyguard without telling me that a previous man had his head chopped off? I would think something like that might have come up during the interview.”

“Are you threatening to leave us?”

“I don’t go for threats. If I decide to quit, I’ll quit.”

“What do you want then, more money, is that it?”

“No, but I expect more transparency. I don’t like being kept in the dark.”

“Enzo was a complicated man. What happened to him had nothing to do with me, or with Adnan.”

“What did it have to do with?”

Out the window, the Colosseum loomed before them. The car pulled through a gate and into another fenced area, filled with the film’s usual collection of production trucks.

“Mr. Rossi was previously employed by a dangerous man. Adnan wanted to help Enzo, to give him a new start in life. In the end, his past proved impossible to escape. I know nothing more than that.”

The Range Rover pulled to a stop and Alphonse climbed out, then opened the door for Signorina Palermo. She took one last look at Nathan, as if to convey that this case was closed, then got out of the car, where a few members of the film crew stood waiting. Nathan climbed out after her, feeling somehow chastened. It hadn’t been an argument, per se. He hadn’t said anything to regret, though all the same it felt as though he’d come very near to crossing a line. That wouldn’t stop him from continuing to seek clarity, no matter what his boss might think.

A small compact Ford pulled in behind the Range Rover, and Tommaso Cardona and his archaeologist, Daniela Sorrento, got out. The pair of them headed for the set while Nathan followed Palermo into the wardrobe trailer. A member of the crew sorted through rows of costumes and pulled out a faded orange robe. “Here we go,” said the woman as she hung it on a stand, and then swept open one of the changing-room curtains. Instead of stepping inside, Palermo stood where she was.

“Somebody assist me, please,” the actress said.

“Of course.” The crew member shifted around to Palermo’s back and unzipped her dress. Palermo reached up a hand and slid off her left shoulder strap, then her right, and shimmied out of the dress, allowing it to drop to the floor at her feet. There she stood for all to see in a pair of skimpy lace panties and matching bra. Alphonse cast his eyes to the floor, but Nathan didn’t look away. Sex was Palermo’s power and she knew how to wield it. Nathan’s blood pressure soared at the sight of her perfect figure, but he couldn’t let on. That would mean allowing her to win.

“Signorina Palermo, we will need to remove your bra,” said the crew member.

This time the actress did not ask for assistance. She reached around behind her back and unclipped the bra, slipped it off her shoulders, and held it out with one hand before dropping it to the ground, then fixed her gaze directly on Nathan. In the end, it was all too much to take. “You got things in here?” he said to Alphonse. “I’m going to walk the set, take a look around.”

“Si, si.” Alphonse gave a quick nod. Nathan took one last glance at the actress, unwilling to directly concede defeat, but then he beat a hasty retreat. What was her game, he asked himself on the way out? He couldn’t begin to fathom it.

Outside, the site bustled with activity as crew members moved lights and equipment from the production trucks and carted them onto the set. Extras dressed in robes and togas were escorted from another wardrobe trailer to a waiting area inside a large tent. Caterers set up tables and chairs for the crew, with hot coffee and snacks. Nathan followed a line of electrical cables through a stone arch and up some stairs, emerging in the Colosseum’s interior, where he found the director, Gunter, overseeing camera placements. The shot would take place along a walkway ringing the arena. It was here that he spotted the archaeologist, Daniela Sorrento, inspecting the set. Nathan sat on some stairs to watch. One leg of a tripod appeared to concern her, and she called in a member of the crew to place a sheet of plywood beneath it, to protect the stone walkway from damage. Why had this archaeologist followed him through the streets of Rome? While Nathan pondered this question, a group of background actors was brought onto the set and placed in position. An assistant director gave instructions for where to walk and what to do during the scene. Camera operators, grips, and sound engineers readied themselves before the principal actors were called. Last of all, Palermo was escorted in wearing her orange robe, and with hair and makeup just so. The director exchanged some words with her before moving behind the camera. With everything ready to his satisfaction, he cried out “Azione!” and the scene sprang to life. Extras wandered in the background while Palermo and her male lead launched into a passionate discussion that Nathan couldn’t understand. What interested him more was Daniela Sorrento retreating through one of the stone arches and down the stairs. He hopped to his feet and followed.

Nathan slowed his pace at the bottom of the stairs, then casually wandered over to the catering table, where he got a cup of coffee and a pastry. He didn’t see Sorrento anywhere, so he took a few sips of coffee, one bite of the pastry, and then dropped the remains of both in a garbage bin before moving on. He finally spotted her a short distance ahead, examining the equipment trucks. Nathan slid from view behind the cab of a catering van, but was able to sneak a peek at her through the vehicle’s front windows. Sorrento reached up to the rear door of a truck and flipped up the latch, then opened the door to peer inside. After a moment, she scrambled up into the truck altogether and disappeared. Everything about this was suspicious. Two members of the crew approached, picking up their pace when they noticed that the truck door was wide open.

“Cosa fai?!” one man shouted. “What are you doing?”

“Mi dispiace!” came Sorrento’s voice. “I’m sorry!”

The man jumped up into the back, shouting and waving his hands in the air as only an Italian could. Sorrento appeared once more, attempting to defend herself, but it wasn’t going well. Nathan moved out from his hiding place. “Hey, hey!” He lifted the security badge that hung around his neck. “What’s going on here?!”

“Non so cosa stia andando qui!” said the first man.

“English. Please!” said Nathan.

“We found this woman in our truck,” said the second man. “We don’t know who she is!”

“Her name is Daniela Sorrento, she is a government inspector! Signorina Sorrento has full access to this production and shall be treated with complete respect!”

The faces of both of the men fell. “How were we to know?” said the second man. “Nobody told us nothing!”

“I’m telling you,” said Nathan. He offered a hand to Signorina Sorrento and helped her back down to the ground.

“Thank you,” she said, chagrined.

“I’ll escort you back to the set.”

Sorrento lifted her chin in the air as she looked at the two crew members. “Carry on,” she said, then walked away with Nathan by her side.

“Did you find anything interesting?” he asked.

Sorrento didn’t answer.

“Protecting these national treasures is a big responsibility,” Nathan added.

“Yes, it is.”

“What were you looking for?”

Again, the archaeologist was mum.

“It’s a national secret, or what?” Nathan pressed.

“That’s not your concern,” she finally replied.

“I see.” The two of them made their way up the stairs and into the arena. A production assistant blocked their path, holding up a hand and placing a finger to her lips. Nathan and Sorrento stood waiting while a scene played out. When the director called “cut,” Nathan leaned toward the archaeologist. “Perhaps you can explain why you were following me yesterday?”

Sorrento’s eyes popped wide. “I believe, sir, that you were the one who was following me!”

The production assistant stepped aside. “You can pass,” she said.

Sorrento hurried ahead onto the set.  This woman knew a whole lot more than she was letting on. If Nathan was to have any hope of unraveling it all, somebody would have to start opening up to him. The question was, how could he get her to talk? So far, he was having no luck in that department with anybody involved, but this was a quest from which he would not be deterred.

Chapter Seven

Back at the villa that evening, Nathan did a quick check of the premises, making sure all the doors and windows were secure. He stopped in at the security office, where Malik manned a bank of closed-circuit video monitors. “How are things looking?” Nathan asked.

From behind his desk, Malik was busy wolfing down a bowl of pasta Marinara. He gave Nathan a shrug. On the monitors were views from outside the front door, the back alley, and the garage inside and out. Several more cameras were located inside the house, on the ground floor and in the kitchen, but none in the private quarters upstairs. On one screen, Adnan Abbas and Isabella Palermo appeared walking down the grand staircase. They shifted to another screen as the pair entered the dining room and took their places at the table. “You want to eat?” said Malik. “Speak to Gloria, in the kitchen. She will feed you.”

“Thanks.” Nathan followed his colleague’s advice, retreating to the kitchen to put in his order. While he waited for his pasta in the staff dining room, he shot off a text to Signorina De Luca. Have they released you? he wrote.

Yes, De Luca replied.

How are you feeling?

I am home, it is something.

Can I come by to see you?

That is not necessary.

I would like to.

I do not need your flowers or your sympathy.

Anything else you do need?

My face.

Nathan’s pasta arrived, along with a sparkling water with lime. He was getting as far with De Luca as he had with Signorina Sorrento, which was nowhere. At least he might as well eat. Nathan dug into the pasta. Then he heard another ding on his phone.

Aperol Spritz might be nice.

Give me an address and twenty minutes.

Nathan polished off his dinner while he waited for a response. When the address came through, he headed through the villa and out the front door, giving a wave to the security camera as he went. He found the nearest liquor store and picked up a bottle of Aperol, another of Prosecco, and some sparkling mineral water. De Luca’s apartment wasn’t far, and he rang her bell a few minutes ahead of schedule.

“Come up, third floor,” she called through an intercom, and then buzzed him inside.

The building was old and run down, but it had character. An elevator ran up through a steel cage on one side of the courtyard, and Nathan pushed open the door to enter the car. He pressed the button for number three, hoping this rickety contraption had at least one more ride in its lifespan. With a jolt and a whir, he was whisked to the third floor, where he exited the car onto a walkway. Of the four separate apartment doors, one was open a crack, so he tapped on it with his knuckles and then poked his head inside. “Maria?” he called out.

“Yes,” she replied. “Come in.”

Nathan entered the apartment and shut the door behind him before moving into the living room, where De Luca sat on a couch watching television, wrapped in a blanket, with bandages still covering much of her face. She flipped the TV off and placed the remote on a coffee table.

“They said I shouldn’t mix alcohol and pain killers, but what do they know?” said De Luca.

Nathan wasn’t about to argue, he’d long found that alcohol was of great help in getting sources to talk. A glass or two of Aperol Spritz might just do the trick. “Where should I put this?” He held out the bag.

“Here on the table. You are joining me?”

“For drinks, sure. I’ll pass on the painkillers.”

“Glasses are in the kitchen. Ice in the freezer.”

Nathan pulled out the bottles and set them on the table, then went into the kitchen where he tossed the empty bag in the trash and poked around in the cupboards until he found two large wine glasses. He took a bowl of ice cubes from the freezer, placed several cubes in each glass, then took the glasses and extra ice to the living room.

De Luca reached for the bottle of Aperol and twisted off the top while Nathan popped the cork from the Prosecco. Between them they mixed two cocktails and held them up to toast. “What are we drinking to?” she asked.

“That’s up to you.”

“All right, then. To freedom.”

“Sure.” They each took a drink. “I give you credit for hanging with that job as long as you did.”

“You have no idea.”

“Signorina Palermo seems to think you’ll be coming back, once your injuries have healed.”

“No, my dreams may have died, but I have my life back. My dignity. It is something.”

“What will you do with yourself?”

“Survive, however I can.” De Luca downed another swig of her spritzer.

“I’m sorry they treated you so poorly,” said Nathan. “I had no idea.”

De Luca grunted in response.

“You’d think they might be more careful.”

“Careful?” De Luca raised an eyebrow.

“You must know all of their secrets. If they wanted those details kept quiet, you’d think they’d have shown you more respect.”

“I’m not the type to betray anyone, not even them.”

“What about that man who attacked us? Had you ever seen him before?”

“What man? One moment we were driving and then my life blew apart. I saw nothing. I remember nothing.”

“You worked with Enzo Rossi,” Nathan continued. “Did you know him well?”

“Not well. Nobody knew this man well.”

“His murder must have come as a shock.”

“Enzo’s past caught up with him, that’s all.”

“That’s what Isabella said.”

“You are worried that you might be next?”

“Maybe I ought to be.”

“And I thought you came to see me purely out of sympathy.”

“Both things can be true at the same time. Don’t you want to know what’s going on here?”

De Luca took another long drink and then sat back without a reply.

“Tell me more about Rossi,” Nathan pressed.

“He was a mobster, that’s all. He never said much to me.”

“You don’t think that his death had anything to do with what happened yesterday?”

“What do I look like, a detective?”

“You can still have an opinion.”

De Luca placed her half-empty glass on a coffee table. 

“Can you think of anyone who might want to harm Isabella Palermo?” he asked.

“Not that way.”

“What about Abbas?”

“Mr. Abbas? No, not Isabella.”

“Someone else, then?” Nathan added another ice cube to her glass and then refilled it with a healthy measure of Prosecco, Aperol, and just a splash of water. “Go ahead, I’ve got nowhere else to be.”

By the time De Luca was finished, Nathan had an entirely new perspective on the situation. What she’d told him was deeply disturbing. It took some additional prying, and commiserating, and a few more refills, but eventually the dark curtains began to part. As a high-profile film producer, Adnan Abbas held considerable sway over impressionable young women. In the year and a half that she’d worked for Isabella Palermo, Maria De Luca never saw signs of misconduct that would hold up in a court of law, but there were certainly times when she was forced to ignore the obvious if she wanted to keep her job, and food on her plate, and a roof over her head. She learned to look the other way as girls were spirited in and out of the villa at all hours.

“One encounter in particular haunted me,” De Luca had told him. “Late one night I ran into Omar, bringing a girl through the garage. She was young. Very young. Thirteen years old, perhaps. I saw fear, terror. This girl, her eyes pleaded with me, for salvation. I turned away. I will never forgive myself. Never.”

“If you knew about it,” Nathan had said, “Signorina Palermo must have known, too.”

“You don’t betray a man like Adnan Abbas. At best, he will ruin you. At worst...”

“What? Rossi? You said that was the mob.”

De Luca’s eyes glassed over. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It is dangerous to ask such questions, that much even I can understand.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair as he tried to connect all of the dots, but he still wasn’t having much luck. “What do you know about an archaeologist overseeing the shoot, Signorina Sorrento?”

“I have met nobody named Sorrento.”

“How about Cardona?”

“No.”

“All right. Tell me one last thing and then I will go. Why did Palermo hire me? It makes no sense to bring in an outsider, not when they have so many secrets.”

At this question, De Luca was able to laugh. “Why, Mr. Grant?”

“Do you know?”

“She liked your butt!”

Nathan sat up straight. “You can’t be serious.”

“Adnan is allowed his vices, and Isabella hers. That is their agreement.”

“What about me? Whoever said I agree?”

“Every man wants Isabella Palermo. It is the way of the world.”

Nathan had no quick answer to this one. Isabella Palermo was quite possibly the most beautiful woman he’d ever encountered, but he wanted no part of any personal drama. It might require resolve on his part, but if and when the time came, he planned to summon it. “When was she planning to convey this information?”

“When the time is right.”

“Huh. That’s a lot of money to pay for a plaything.”

“To them, it is nothing.”

“And I thought my combat skills won me the job.”

“To Isabella, that is merely a bonus.”

“Did the same go for Enzo Rossi?”

“No. He worked for Adnan, not Isabella.”

“What about Olivieri?”

“She was tired of him, ready for fresh meat. Then she spotted you.”

“I see. Thanks for the heads up, I guess.” The prospect of it all made Nathan uneasy, to the point that he was ready to change the subject. “What about you? What will you do now?”

“Leave Rome and never come back. If I am lucky, they will forget about me. If I were you, I would do the same.”

“I appreciate that.” Nathan knew this was good advice, but he also knew he wouldn’t take it. He wasn’t the type to run from a problem. Sinister goings-on were at play here, and if he stuck it out, he might just blow the whole thing up. For now, he didn’t actually have anywhere to be, so he settled in on the couch to keep De Luca company. No more questions, they set all of that aside and she put on a movie, this one a light American comedy that Nathan had seen before. It was approaching midnight when he left De Luca’s apartment and wandered back toward his hotel, passing through the Piazza Navona on the way. The Abbas villa was mostly dark at this hour, with only a few lights on downstairs. His gaze paused on the upstairs bedroom. What terrors had occurred in that very room, where young women had their innocence stolen away? Nathan was faced with his own moral dilemma. He ought to go to the police about this himself, but what would he tell them? That he’d heard second-hand rumors that Adnan Abbas was a pedophile? Nathan had no direct evidence to support such a claim. The best he could hope for was to uncover some, from the inside. As he exited the piazza and headed up the street, his thoughts turned back to Daniela Sorrento. She was a wild card that he still didn’t understand. What, if anything, did the archaeologist have to do with this? So far, Nathan had no idea, but it was one more angle he was determined to explore. The sooner he unwound these tangled threads, the sooner he could head home to France, and with his conscience clear.

Chapter Eight

The streets were quiet as Nathan walked the rest of the way back to his hotel, with the shops and restaurants closed up for the night. He was ready for a little shut-eye himself, it would be another early morning with Palermo, yet he knew he was unlikely to fall asleep easily. He had too much on his mind, too many disparate details to work out. Nathan made a mental note of the puzzle pieces he was trying to fit together. Who was the man that had crashed into their car, and why? What, if anything, did that have to do with the murder of Enzo Rossi? Why was a government archaeologist following him around Rome? What did any of it have to do with the alleged sexual deviance of Adnan Abbas? Last but certainly not least, what was Nathan going to do if Isabella Palermo came on to him? One thing was for sure, retirement was a lot less dull than he’d expected. If Nathan couldn’t sort these things out by the time the film shoot wrapped up, he’d pass along whatever information he could to the carabinieri and move on with his life.

Nathan turned onto his block. A black Alfa Romeo sedan was idling in front of his hotel with a driver behind the wheel. A second man in a long, dark overcoat stood on the sidewalk smoking a cigarette. He was a burly fellow, the type that often made a living pushing other people around. When he saw Nathan coming, he said a few words to his partner in the car and then dropped his cigarette in the gutter. These men were here for Nathan, and likely armed. His best chance at escape would be to run while he still had half a block head start. All the same, they knew who he was, where he was staying, and undoubtedly who he worked for. If they didn’t catch up with him this time, they were bound to eventually. He might as well face this problem head on, too. The driver got out of the car and came around to the sidewalk. They could have been cops, but Nathan doubted it. The Alfa Romeo was definitely not government issue.

“What do you want?” Nathan spoke first.

“Our boss has questions,” said the man in the overcoat. “Get in the car.”

The driver opened the rear passenger door and motioned with one hand.

“Sorry, fellas, I’ve had a long day. How about I take a rain check?”

“This is not a request,” said the driver.

“Who is your boss?”

“Come along,” said the man in the overcoat. “You will find out.”

“Sure.” Nathan bought some time as he continued forward a few more steps. “We’ll go for a ride.”

The man in the overcoat puffed up his chest as Nathan went past, emanating the tough-guy persona, but what came next caught him by surprise. Nathan wound up and swung his right arm, connecting a karate chop to the man’s windpipe. The thug staggered backward, stunned and breathless. Nathan went for the driver next, grabbing him by the jacket and swinging him back and then forward, cracking his skull against the side of the car. The man collapsed to the sidewalk, out cold. Nathan shifted back toward the first man, lifting one foot in the air and cocking his leg before thrusting a sideways kick, connecting his heel with the man’s chest. It wasn’t enough to take him down. This guy was solid. Nathan would have to play dirty. He took another swing with his foot, kicking up between the legs. This blow hit home and the man doubled over. Nathan used a fist to finish him off, punching him in the side of the face and dropping him to the ground beside his partner.

A few pedestrians wandered up the block, but quickly averted their eyes and hurried away in the opposite direction. What had just gone down was not a good look, but it was all in self-defense. What concerned Nathan more was that these guys would wake up at any moment. Once they’d regained their wits, they were going to be pissed. He quickly patted down the driver, removing a wallet from one pocket and a phone and key fob from another. He placed them on the roof of the car and moved to the other man, who was starting to come to already, moaning and moving his legs. This man also had a wallet in his pocket, and a phone, as well as a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. These, too, went on top of the car. Continuing his pat-down of the big guy, Nathan discovered a sidearm under his jacket, strapped at the small of his back. Nathan unsnapped a holster and pulled out a Beretta M9 semi-automatic pistol. This was a weapon he was intimately familiar with from his Army days. He released the magazine and checked to find that the gun was fully loaded, of course. After sliding the magazine back in, he made sure the safety was on and stuffed the empty weapon into his own waistband at the back. 

Nathan checked the driver’s wallet, pulling out a credit card and his ID. The name on both was Hamza Fitoussi. Under the light of an overhead streetlamp, Nathan was pretty sure the photo matched the man. He went through the big man’s wallet next. This fellow went by the name of Aldo Bianchi. Both IDs went into one of Nathan’s pockets. The wallets he tossed onto the sidewalk. From some distance came the wail of sirens, moving ever closer. The police were on their way. Nathan pocketed the phones and then moved toward the hotel, just as Aldo Bianchi was attempting to sit up.

Inside the lobby, the desk clerk stood at the front window where he’d had a ringside view of the whole episode. He stammered a bit without speaking any intelligible words. Nathan continued past him and took the stairs to his floor. Upon entering his room, he moved straight to the window overlooking the street. Aldo Bianchi was standing with one hand on the car to steady himself. Hamza Fitoussi struggled to his feet and stumbled with one hand to his head. Two police cars raced up the street, lights flashing. The cars skidded to a stop and four officers got out, two from each car. Nathan was beginning to enjoy this, for what it was worth. The officers converged on Bianchi and Fitoussi, as Bianchi waved his arms and pointed toward Nathan in the window. Whatever he was trying to tell them, the cops weren’t buying it. Instead, they shouted commands that went largely unheeded. Bianchi lifted his wallet from the sidewalk and flipped it open to search for his ID. When he realized it was missing, he raged in anger. Nathan would need to start explaining some things soon enough, he knew. Two of the officers held Bianchi back while the other pair entered the hotel. It only took ten seconds before they were knocking on his door. Nathan put the men’s IDs into a desk drawer along with their phones, slid it shut, and went to answer it. The two uniformed officers stood in the hallway with the hotel clerk behind them. “Buona sera, Signor,” said one of the officers. “We are sorry to disturb you, but we are investigating an incident.”

“What is that?” said Nathan.

“The two men on the street outside, perhaps you have seen them?”

“Yes, I saw them.”

“They are under the impression that you have in your possession of a few of their belongings.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“These gentlemen insist.”

“They are missing their identification documents,” said the other officer. “And their mobile phones.”

“The gentlemen are mistaken if they think I know anything about that.”

“I see.” To these officers, this entire call was just a pain in the ass. Nathan didn’t know how the laws worked in Italy, but without probable cause, they most likely had no right to search his room. “Do you mind if we come in?” said the officer.

“Yes, I mind,” Nathan replied.

“Why do you mind?” said the second officer.

“It’s past my bedtime. I’m trying to sleep.”

The officers looked at each other and then shrugged before turning back to Nathan. “We are sorry to have bothered you at such a late hour.”

“You have a good evening.” Nathan closed the door. He knew that as soon as the officers left, he’d be visited by Bianchi and Fitoussi, but this time Nathan had a 9mm Beretta at his disposal. He moved back to the window to view the action on the street. Bianchi was still apoplectic, but the officers did their best to ignore him as they talked over the situation. From inside Nathan’s room came the ringing of an unfamiliar phone. He opened the desk drawer and took out one of the pair. The caller ID said Capo. Nathan knew from watching old gangster movies, this meant boss. Maybe a mob boss, maybe not. The only thing to do was answer it and find out. Nathan pushed the green button. “Ciao,” he said.

On the other end came a pause before a deep, male voice answered. “Chi è questo?”

“I’m sorry, do you speak English?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“You go first.”

“Where is Bianchi?”

Nathan looked back out the window, where the man was still busting a gut at the officers. “He’s otherwise disposed.”

“Put Bianchi on the line.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. Maybe you can tell me a few things. Why did you send him after me? What do you want?”

“Signor Grant…”

“Very good. Your turn now, who is this?”

“Signor Grant, you are trying my patience.”

“How do you think I feel about it? I have to work in the morning.” On the street below, the officers got back into their patrol cars, switched off the flashing lights, and drove away. Bianchi looked back up at Nathan with fire in his eyes. This was about to get ugly all over again. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Nathan hung up the phone and put it and the other one in his pocket, then hurried out into the hallway, where he shut the door behind him and moved up the stairs to the next floor. It took only a few more seconds before the two men were kicking at his door. Nathan heard the lock splinter. He counted to five and descended, gun pointed straight ahead as he passed his room, where the lock hung askew from the door. Neither man was in sight, but he heard them inside, searching his room. Nathan continued down the last flight of stairs and out. He hoped they didn’t damage his new suits, but for now, he’d trade them for the Alfa, which sat still idling at the curb. The key fob was on the roof where he’d left it, so Nathan palmed that and then got in the car on the driver’s side. He placed the fob and the gun on the passenger seat. Bianchi and Fitoussi charged back out the front door of the hotel, but they were a few seconds too late. Nathan stepped on the gas and took off, flying away up the street. He had to admit to himself, maybe it was wrong to feel this way about it, but here in Rome he was starting to have a pretty good time.

Chapter Nine

Of course they could track Nathan’s location. A car like this would have a theft-prevention system standard. Somebody, somewhere, could log on to watch the car’s location in real-time, and possibly even trip a setting to disable it. That might take them some time, though. Bianchi and Fitoussi couldn’t do any of that without their phones, and Nathan had their phones. Of course, once they got in touch with their capo, he could track the car and the phones both. Nathan didn’t plan to hang onto either for long. Instead of waiting around for them to come after him, he would flip the script.

Driving through the streets of Rome, Nathan kept it slow and easy. The last thing he needed was to draw undue attention to himself. Even after having spent a fair bit of time in Rome, the streets of this city were a maze to him, but he was able to weave his way in a northeasterly direction until he came to the sprawling park known as the Villa Borghese. He continued along a main thoroughfare, through a roundabout, and finally arrived at an art museum, the Museo Carlo Bilotti. The entire park was deserted at this time of night, and Nathan pulled into a small parking lot and turned off the lights. He used the dashboard screen to open the Alfa’s navigation system, connected by Bluetooth to Fitoussi’s phone on the passenger seat. “Drive to Capo.” He spoke the words but nothing happened. “Drive… To… Capo,” he tried more slowly.

“Vuoi chiamare Capo?” came the electronic response.

“No. Cancel,” said Nathan. He didn’t want to call Capo. “Indicazioni per Capo,” he asked for directions instead, and this time the screen flashed a map with the route to the destination marked in blue.

“Girare a destra e proseguire per 800 metri,” the voice instructed him to make a right turn.

Nathan wasn’t about to drive there in this Alfa, they’d see him coming. Instead, he took out his own phone and opened the camera, then held it up to the screen and snapped a photo. The boss didn’t live far. His house was in the Pinciano neighborhood. Nathan could walk it in ten minutes. He closed down the navigation app and shut off the engine. He’d leave everything behind except for the Beretta. This he lifted from the seat before climbing from the car. Once more, he slid the gun into his waistband and then took off on foot. If the boss was a mobster, his security would be second to none. Nathan’s quest was foolhardy, but he was up for a challenge.

It was a pleasant night as Nathan walked along the empty road, comfortably warm and with a sliver of the moon overhead. The buzzing of cicadas rang in his ears. He was used to pushing limits, and putting himself in harm’s way. That was the life he’d chosen, first with the Army Rangers and then with the CIA. He was supposed to be putting all of that behind him when he retired a few years back. Why was it that he kept taking chances like this, playing his own version of Russian roulette? One of these days his luck would run out. Maybe this day. It made him appreciate the now, this lovely summer night in Rome, with all of his senses heightened. Enjoying the thrill of the game was a dangerous thing in a game like this one. He was walking into a situation any sane person would avoid. One thing he’d learned in his Army days, however, was that when you had your enemy on their heels, that was the time to push your advantage. The last thing this capo would expect was for Nathan to come after him. If anything, Nathan was a pragmatist. He did what needed to be done, and with some luck he’d catch the man off-guard. He’d have preferred better gear, maybe an M-16 and full armor. Better yet, a squad of Rangers by his side, but Nathan would make do. At the very least he would scope out where this man lived, to get some sense of him. At best, Nathan would get some answers, and maybe exact a little payback in the process.

Exiting the park on the northern side, Nathan crossed into a neighborhood of middle-class apartment buildings. He continued up the Via di Villa Sacchetti under streetlamps, passing stately villas, until he came to the house in question. It was three stories high with walls of fading orange stucco. The home had balconies on the upper floors and a rooftop garden. It sat behind a ten-foot high brick wall, but with decorative insets that would make it fairly easy to scale. Nathan didn’t see any obvious security other than a camera mounted beside the front gate. One window was alight on the first floor and another on the second. The rest of the house was dark. He kept walking, past the gate and another twenty meters up, before crossing to the other side of the road. He started down a side street until he was hidden from view by the garden wall of an opposing villa. From here he was able to peek around the corner to further scope out il capo’s house. If this was a mob boss, there should have been a higher wall, with smooth sides and maybe some barbed wire on top, or at least embedded shards of broken glass. There ought to have been more cameras in evidence. In fact, if this capo was worth his salt, his house wouldn’t be visible from the street at all. Nathan reminded himself that capo meant boss, not necessarily mob boss, and so far he didn’t know who this guy was at all, not even a name. He looked left and right to make sure nobody was watching, no pedestrians out walking their dogs late at night. All was quiet. This was going to be all about speed, catching whoever was in this house by surprise if he could. It was time to move. He set off across the street, reaching the brick wall in a few quick strides. It was divided by brick pillars, every four meters or so down the line. Nathan positioned himself beside one of them. Three feet off the ground, a narrow lip ran parallel to the sidewalk. Pressing a hand against the side of the pillar for leverage, he put his right foot on the lip and was able to scoot himself up. From here he reached higher and put both of his hands over the upper edge of the wall itself. It was almost too easy. Nathan pulled himself up until he was prone on top of the wall, then spun around and lowered himself over the other side before dropping soundlessly into the yard. Again, any proper mob boss would have had an alarm system, or a vicious guard dog. Even your average homeowner would have an outdoor light on a motion sensor, but there seemed to be none of that here. Nathan pulled the Beretta and moved across a small patio to a side door. Through darkened panes of glass was a long hallway, mostly dark but for a single beam of light at the far end. He reached out one hand and tried the door. Locked. No surprise there. If he’d had the proper tools he would have tried picking the lock, but he didn’t. He could kick it in with his heel, but that would create a ruckus. Instead, he went to a patio chair and lifted a thin cushion before bringing it back. He held the cushion up over a pane of glass to muffle the noise, then took his Beretta by the barrel and swung it in a sharp, quick motion at the pillow. The pane behind it shattered and the broken glass dropped to the floor. Nathan tossed the cushion aside and stood stock-still for a moment. No alarm sounded. No additional interior lights flipped on, as far as he could see. If anybody was inside, they hadn’t seemed to notice. Nathan put a hand through the broken glass and reached around to flip the latch and then turn the door handle. The door swung open. Stepping over the broken shards, he moved inside.

To Nathan’s immediate right was an interior door, and he pushed this open and peered in. It was a small bathroom, dark and empty. Continuing on up the hallway, he heard music. To his left was a large opening with arched columns leading to an interior garden terrace, with potted palms and a glass roof. To his right was a lit stairway, leading both up and down. Nathan opted to check the basement first. Down he went, sweeping around a corner and ready for any threat. All was still quiet when he reached the bottom to find himself in a large storage room. Boxes and crates were stacked on one side near a freight elevator. Nathan pushed aside a loose lid to peer inside. What were these guys dealing in? Weapons? Drugs? Counterfeit money? Digging through foam packing material, he uncovered a large, clay urn. From the state of the decorative pigment, it appeared to be quite old. Nathan moved to another crate. This one held the statue of a boy, carved in marble.

Beside the elevator was an office. A desk inside was covered in computer monitors, lit with live feeds from a series of security cameras. Nathan saw the street out front, quiet and dark, as well as the backyard, and the hallway he’d just come down. In a living room, a man sat on a couch watching television while a woman stood nearby, having a few words with him before she walked out. In a kitchen was the man who probably ought to be manning this desk right now. Instead, he was seated at a table devouring a late dinner. The man had dark, curly hair and large muscles bulging under a tight yellow T-shirt. Nearby, a woman in an apron washed cooking pots in a sink.

Whatever ended up going down here, Nathan wanted no visual record of it. Against the office wall was a desktop computer plugged into an outlet strip. Nathan reached down and yanked out the plug. All of the monitors on the desk went dark.

Retracing his steps, Nathan climbed the staircase back to the first floor. He had to find his way to the kitchen before the security guard returned to his post. A doorway at the end of the hall opened into a more formal dining room with a long table in the center and cupboards along the walls. Through a swinging door to the left, Nathan heard voices. The kitchen. He moved to this door and held his gun in his right hand, pointed upward. He placed his left hand on the door. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He’d have one chance to surprise them. As an intruder in this home, there was no self-defense plea, he was risking the rest of his life in jail, or worse. He inhaled deeply, then barged through.

In the kitchen, the guard stood near the sink with his empty plate. The woman’s hand was held out to receive it. Both were stunned. “Don’t move,” Nathan said, pointing the Beretta first at one, then the other and back. “Put the plate down and raise your hands.”

The man did as instructed, placing his dish on a counter beside the sink and slowly lifting his arms.

“You, too,” Nathan said to the woman. “Up.” She followed suit. Nathan motioned to the man. “Turn around and put your hands on the counter. Slowly.”

The man’s face burned red with anger. He looked at the gun again, then did as he was told. Nathan kicked at the man’s legs to spread them wide and began to pat him down with one hand, all the while holding the pistol at the back of the man’s head. The security guard’s gaze moved down the counter to a knife rack. “Don’t even think about it,” said Nathan, his fingers coming to rest on a holstered pistol under the man’s shirt. Nathan removed it from the holster and then unclipped the magazine and let it drop onto the counter. He emptied a last round from the chamber before tossing the gun into a nearby trash can. On one side of the kitchen was a walk-in pantry with the door open. Inside were shelves stacked with jars, packages of pasta, cans of soup and boxes of tea. “In there.” Nathan stepped back and motioned again with his gun.

The woman went first, into the pantry with her hands in the air. The man was next. As he passed through the doorway, he took his chance, grabbing a can of tomato sauce from a shelf and spinning around to throw it. Nathan shifted to his right and the can sailed past, but in an instant the man was on him, tackling Nathan backward where he landed with a thud on the kitchen floor. The man held Nathan’s wrist with one hand, pinning the pistol to the ground. He pressed his opposite forearm across Nathan’s neck, cutting off all oxygen. The man’s face was inches away and fury raged in his eyes, his lips parted, teeth grit tightly with determination. Nathan wasn’t going to go out like this, strangled to death on the kitchen floor of some mid-level mobster. He couldn’t let that happen, but this guy was tough. Nathan flashed back to his teenage years, on the high school wrestling team. This time there was no tapping out, only passing out. The light began to dim in his peripheral vision. He had only a few precious seconds left. Over the man’s left shoulder, the woman stumbled past, desperately trying to flee from the pantry. It was Nathan’s last, best chance. He lunged to the left, rolling the guard over by sheer force of will and knocking them both into the woman’s shins, toppling her onto them. The cook’s body landed squarely on the man’s back. It was enough. Nathan got one precious breath of oxygen, then headbutted the man in the face, once, then twice before scrambling free and leaping to his feet with the Beretta in hand. Before him lay the woman on one side and the man on the other, blood pouring from his nose. Nathan sucked in a few more deep breaths and took one step further back. “Into the pantry,” he said. “No more games.”

“You will pay for this,” said the man. “We will hunt you down.”

“Just get into the pantry, will you?” Nathan replied. This time, the pair complied, dragging themselves to their feet and then backing in. “All I want is a conversation with your boss. That’s it. Stay here until I’m gone and nobody has to get hurt.” Nathan stepped forward and swung the door closed. He had them inside, but now he’d need to keep them there. Beside the pantry door was a full-sized, stainless-steel refrigerator. He went to the far side, put down his gun and placed both hands on the fridge. He managed to tip it up, up, up, and then over, where it came down with a crash onto the counter, landing at an angle and blocking the pantry door. This thing was heavy, it might just hold them. Nathan would have to take his chances. He picked up the extra magazine and round from the counter and put them in his pocket, then retrieved his Beretta and made his way out of the kitchen and back to the stairs.

The living room was likely on the second floor, where he’d seen the light on from outside. The music had stopped, but as he climbed the stairs, Nathan made out what sounded like a soccer match, with commentators giving a play-by-play in Italian. At the top of the stairs, he came to another hallway. Halfway down, through an open door, came a rising chorus of cheers. This was followed by a man’s voice shouting profanities.

Reaching the door, Nathan poked his head around the frame to see the living room, with an enormous television showing the game. Seated on a couch with his back to Nathan was the man of the house, facing the other way. Il capo, apparently. Nathan crept forward and pointed his gun at the back of the man’s head. “Do not make any sudden movements,” he said.

This directive went unheeded as the man spun his head around. Only when he saw Nathan and the Beretta did he freeze. “What do you want?”

“Answers. Where is your wife?”

“None of your fucking business.”

Nathan moved back to the door and closed it behind him, then turned a latch to lock them both inside. Next, he came around to the front of the couch, lifted a remote from a coffee table, and switched off the television. “Who are you?”

“You’re in my fucking house and you ask me who I am? Who the fuck are you?!”

“You ought to know the answer to that. You’re the one who sent the goons after me.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He definitely didn’t look like a typical mob boss. He talked tough, though it seemed to go against character. This man was relatively small and skinny. He wasn’t wearing a fancy watch, or gold chains, or the designer clothes one might expect. Instead, his clothes were off-the-shelf khaki pants and a white shirt. On the coffee table was a fresh cigar, pre-cut and ready to smoke, plus a golden lighter. The man eyed them both. “Do you mind?”

“Go ahead.”

The man lifted the cigar and stuck it in his mouth. His hands shook as he flicked his lighter and then inhaled, causing the tip of the cigar to glow bright orange. “You gonna kill me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?” The man took a puff and placed the lighter back on the table.

“On how forthcoming you are. Let’s start with an easy one. What’s your name?”

The man blew another puff of smoke from one corner of his mouth. “None of your fucking business.”

Nathan was tempted to shoot him right then and there, but he didn’t particularly want to face a murder rap. It would be far too easy for the local police to pin this on him. Instead, he shifted the gun to his left hand, then took his right and made a fist before winding his arm back and following through, punching the guy square in the jaw, sending the cigar flying and knocking the man off the couch. He tried to crawl away, but Nathan kicked out his left knee, dropping him flat to the floor, then placed the heel of his foot square on the man’s back. Nathan leaned down and pointed the barrel of the gun at the man’s head once more. “You don’t think I have the fortitude to follow through? Do you want to push your luck?”

The man didn’t answer this question. He was too panicked to speak.

“Nice and easy, now,” Nathan went on. “What is your name?”

“Giu...Giu… Giuseppi,” he managed.

“That’s a start. Giuseppi what?”

“Ro… Ro… Romano.”

“All right, we’re getting somewhere, Giuseppi Romano. Why did you send the goons after me?”

“I, I…” Romano began to cough.

Nathan pressed his heel down harder on Romano’s back. “Why, Giuseppi?”

“To talk, that’s all! I wanted to talk!”

“Did you think about maybe calling me on the phone, like a normal person?”

Romano was too stunned to come up with an answer to this one. Nathan removed his foot and took a step back.

“Sit up,” Nathan commanded.

Romano sat up and looked to the closed door.

“Nobody is coming to save you, Giuseppi. You wanted to talk, so go ahead. Talk.”

“Not me. You.”

“What about? What is it that you’re so desperate to know?”

“I want to know where are they! Tell me that!”

“Where are who? This isn’t helping.”

“Don’t play games with me. You want to shoot me? Go ahead!”

“I don’t want to shoot anybody, Giuseppi. Who are you looking for?”

“Not who, what!”

“Okay. What are you looking for, then?”

“Artifacts! Of course!”

“Artifacts?”

“You cannot be this stupid.”

“Apparently, I can. I only just started this gig a few days ago, give me a break!”

“Ancient Egyptian artifacts. That is what I seek.”

“Egyptian? What the hell am I supposed to know about that? The last time I checked we were in Rome.”

“Any information you could share would be very valuable to me. We could help each other.”

“I don’t need your help.”

“By help, of course, I mean money.”

“I don’t need your money.”

“You have not heard my offer.”

“Who are you, Mr. Romano? What’s your angle here?”

“All I am asking for is information,” Romano replied.

“You’re asking the wrong guy.” Nathan squatted back down and held the gun forward, pressing the barrel against Romano’s forehead. “If you pull another stunt like you did today, next time you’re going to pay. Do you understand?”

Romano didn’t say a word, but Nathan was pretty sure he understood. Outside the door, a pair of heavy boots clambered up the hallway. The knob turned and then the door shook as a man pounded on it, trying to break in. It wouldn’t take him long. Nathan hadn’t learned a whole lot, but hopefully he’d made an impression. He moved to the nearest window and slid it open. Outside, a drainpipe ran down the side of the house to the garden below. Nathan put the Beretta back in his waistband and climbed onto the sill just as the security guard burst through the door and into the room. With both hands on the drainpipe, Nathan launched himself out and slid to the ground, where he landed on both feet and then hurried to the garden wall. It took him only a few seconds to get up and over. Pausing to look back, he saw the security guard in the window. Romano joined him. Nathan turned away and walked off at a casual pace, trying to make sense of this new information. At some point, if he kept at it, all of this would make sense. He had to tell himself so in any case. For the time being, he didn’t seem to be getting a whole lot closer.

Chapter Ten

The first thing Nathan did when he got back to his room was to search online for Giuseppi Romano. The man was not hard to find. He wasn’t a mobster, he was a bureaucrat; a government minister who could afford a villa in the Pinciano neighborhood, complete with a private security detail. Romano headed the Ministry of Cultural Heritage. Given the crates stored in his basement, it seemed that he had a lucrative side hustle in misappropriated antiquities. Not only Roman, it seemed, but Egyptian as well.

Nathan shut his laptop. It was late. He needed sleep. He put the Beretta into a drawer in a bedside table, slid it closed and went into the bathroom where he took a blissfully warm shower. Ten minutes later, he was tucked into bed, deep in slumber.

The following morning, Nathan’s alarm jolted him awake before dawn. He shut it off and checked the time. He’d managed a solid six hours. After dragging himself out of bed and getting dressed, he made it downstairs to the dining room just as a server was setting up the breakfast buffet. “Buongiorno,” said Nathan.

“Buongiorno, Signor.”

“Could I have a cappuccino, please?”

“Of course.”

The server moved through a swinging door and into the kitchen, while Nathan picked up a plate and began to fill it with scrambled eggs, freshly-baked rolls, cut fruit, and a few small pastries. He found a seat by a window overlooking an inner courtyard. Outside, the first light of dawn showed in the sky above. What would this day bring him? A few answers might be nice. He tucked into his breakfast, wolfing down some of the eggs and then opening a roll to spread a little butter and a little jam on it before taking a bite. This was likely the only quiet time he’d have all day, and he intended to enjoy it. His thoughts turned to his old friend and sometime partner, Natalia Nicolaeva. The last he’d seen her, she was about to start training as an operative with Britain’s MI6. He wondered how things were going for her. Given Natalia’s capabilities, she was probably the one teaching them a thing or two, or at the very least holding her own. He checked his phone for the time. In London it was not quite six o’clock. He couldn’t help but fire off a quick message.

Hello, Natalia, just thinking about you, I hope everything is going well. He hit send just as the server arrived with his cappuccino. “Thank you,” he said as the man placed it on the table.

“Enjoy,” the server replied and then returned to the kitchen. Nathan was taking his first sip when an answer to his message came through. He put his cup back down and checked it.

Nice to hear from you, Nathan. All good here, they haven’t made me quit yet.

I wish them luck in trying. Sorry if I woke you.

Where are you?

Rome.

Business or pleasure?

A little of each, I guess.

Nathan was sampling a light and heavenly pastry when his phone began to ring. She was calling. He licked a bit of buttery crust off his lower lip and answered. “Good morning.”

“I thought it might be nice to hear your voice. Is this a bad time?”

“Never. I’m sitting alone in a hotel dining room, enjoying a quiet breakfast. How’s your training?”

“You know I can’t talk about that.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m surviving.”

“Good.” Nathan understood from experience that any conversation on her phone would be carefully scrutinized by signals intelligence. They couldn’t take any chances on a new recruit, despite intensive background checks. Life under such a microscope was part of the reason Nathan had retired from the espionage game himself.

“How about you? Are you keeping busy?”

“You know me.”

“Uh, oh. What are you up to now?”

“The usual.”

“You were planning to settle down, you said. The easy life, in your little village.”

“I’ve tried. I can’t seem to make it stick. Sometimes I worry that I like this life too much.”

Natalia was quiet on the other end. Whatever she might think about that, there was no telling Nathan Grant what to do. That much she understood.

Nathan laughed. “You’re about the only one I can even talk to about this stuff. What does that say?”

“It is a lonely life. Even more so, I’d imagine, when you’re on the outside.”

“Don’t think I’m going back to the job. I’m done with that.”

“Maybe you could see someone, to help you work through these things. You know, talk to a professional.”

“What, are you telling me I should go to a shrink?”

“It might help, Nathan, to come to terms with your impulses.”

“What would I even tell them? That I have a passion for guns, and shooting bad people, and punching them in the face?”

“I’ll leave that to you. I can’t be the one, though. I wish I could.”

“That’s not why I called.” A young couple entered the dining room dressed for a day of sightseeing and made their way to the buffet. “Look, I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s never a bother, Nathan.”

“Good luck with the rest of your training. I know you’re going to make me proud.”

“I am doing my best.”

“I’m proud already. Take care, Natalia.”

“Goodbye, Nathan.”

Nathan hung up the phone. A deep sense of melancholy settled over him. It wasn’t anything he could easily define. Something was missing in his life, but he didn’t understand quite what. Did this emotion stem from loneliness, or was there more to it? Perhaps all of this chasing after bad guys and throwing himself in harm’s way was just an attempt to escape the truth of it. Sitting at home alone in his workshop meant time lost in his own thoughts, with no escape. Out here in the field on another adventure, the pressing nature of staying alive for another day provided a great distraction. He didn’t have to think about his personal issues, and mostly avoided them, yet what did it say that even in this one quiet moment, his first instinct was to contact Natalia? He took another bite of a flaky chocolate croissant and washed it down with a sip of cappuccino. He’d thought he took this job for the money. That’s what he’d told himself at the time, but he was starting to consider that there might be something deeper at play. If he couldn’t learn to accept and appreciate a life on his own, any sense of peace would forever elude him. Nathan thought back to his deceased wife, Jenna, and the joy that had radiated from her very soul. Her memory was never far away, he carried it around wherever he went. Nobody could ever replace Jenna, that was the cold, hard truth. All that Nathan could do was try to make the most of each day, however long they kept coming. And when it was finally all over? Nobody would particularly miss him. In an odd way, he found solace in that fact.

The film shoot that day was scheduled to take place at Villa Adriana, known in English as Hadrian’s Villa, a sprawling complex of ruins 40 km outside the city. Nathan hadn’t heard much about the place previously, but as the car pulled onto the set, he got a sense for the enormity of it, with crumbling stone buildings laid out across a vast area. Emperor Hadrian clearly knew how to live. Alphonse pulled the car past a pair of police officers, and then along a road lined with the usual production trucks and trailers. Nathan was in the front passenger seat. In back was Isabella Palermo and her new assistant, Claudia, another eager young woman who had replaced De Luca on short notice. The car pulled to a stop and Nathan climbed out, then opened the rear door for his boss. Palermo emerged and was immediately surrounded by production crew, who escorted her toward the wardrobe trailer, chattering away in Italian as they went. Nathan followed along, but he had no interest in accompanying the actress inside. The last thing he wanted was to see his boss in the buff again. That was a temptation he just didn’t need. Nathan waited outside as she and her crew went in to prepare. Alphonse parked the car and then came to Nathan’s side. It seemed that he wasn’t keen to go in, either.

After twenty-minutes or so, Isabella Palermo emerged dressed in her ragged robe and was escorted to the makeup trailer, where Nathan and Alphonse again waited outside the door. “Tell me, Alphonse,” Nathan tried to strike up a conversation, “have you worked long for Signorina Palermo?”

Alphonse shifted from one foot to the other and back. Even this simple question seemed outside his comfort level. “Longer than you have.”

“How much longer? Months, years?”

“Why you care?”

“Just trying to make small talk, that’s all.”

Alphonse looked at Nathan sideways.

“You know...” said Nathan. “To pass the time.”

“The time, it will pass. Talk or no talk.”

“You’re a tough crowd, Alphonse.”

Alphonse shoved both hands into his pockets and stared straight ahead.

Nathan gave up. “I’m going to walk the set. You have everything under control?”

“Of course.”

Nathan gave him a nod and then walked off, past the production trucks, and catering, and more trailers. He came to a large circular pond, ringed on one side by a multi-story stone ruin with marble columns in front. Cameras were arranged to one side, with lights and reflective screens. Close to the pond, crew members were setting up a track along the ground for a dolly. Overseeing them was Daniela Sorrento. Nathan stood aside and watched. He couldn’t decipher the Italian she was speaking, but gathered that her concern was for the ancient brickwork underneath. Sorrento waved her hands in the air, gesticulating as she made a point. The crew members nodded in appeasement before one of them called to a colleague. Sheets of plywood were quickly produced. This satisfied Sorrento, and she stood by as they were arranged on the bricks, with the track set up on top. Nathan eased up beside her. Turning to see him there, Sorrento recoiled but tried to hide it.

“Attento lì, attento!” she said to the crew.

“Good morning, Signorina,” said Nathan.

At this, she was forced to acknowledge his presence. “Good morning, Signor Grant.”

“I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

“About what?”

“Ancient Egyptian artifacts.”

Daniela Sorrento’s hands dropped to her sides. She faced Nathan directly, as though the rest of the world had ceased to exist. Her face went pale. “Why are you asking that?”

“I heard some might be missing.”

Sorrento took a quick look left and then right, as if to see who else might be listening, but she said nothing more.

“Is that why you followed me? You’re looking for them, too?”

“Who told you about that?”

“Your boss.”

“Tommaso?”

“No, not Cardona. The minister! Romano!”

Sorrento’s jaw dropped with incredulity. “Giuseppi Romano?”

“Look, is there someplace we can talk?”

“Scusa!” said a crew member, moving past with a heavy sandbag in his arms. Nathan and Sorrento moved a few steps back and out of the way.

“Look, Signorina, you don’t trust me,” said Nathan. “I get that much. I don’t trust you much either. The bottom line, though, is that I’m looking for answers and you seem to be looking for a few yourself. Perhaps it is possible that we can actually help each other. I’m willing to try if you are.”

Sorrento considered this offer with a mix of fear and skepticism on her face. “Why should I tell you anything at all?”

“Are you hiding something?”

“From you, perhaps.”

Nathan took a quick look around next as the crew continued to set up the shoot around them. “Come on, Signorina, let’s find someplace a little more private to continue this conversation.”

Sorrento hesitated at the prospect of being alone with Nathan Grant, but her curiosity overruled her anxiety. “Fine. We will talk.” She started off across the garden. Nathan followed after. Sorrento led them through a crumbling arch and around a section of the former palace to the opposite side of the building, where they found some quiet among the ruins. “You first.” She turned to face him. “Tell me something useful. What do you know about these artifacts you speak of? Have you seen them? Do you know where they are?”

“Unfortunately, I don’t know the first thing about them.”

“What help are you, then?”

“I do know that they are of great interest to the minister.”

“Of course. Why not?”

“Was he the one who ordered you to spy on me?”

“No.”

“Who, then?”

This question made Sorrento clam up entirely. She wasn’t ready to admit a thing.

“Did you know that the minister has a little side hustle selling antiquities on the black market?”

“Romano? No! Never.”

“I was in his villa last night. He’s got an entire basement full of statues, vases, you name it.”

“Why were you there?”

“To have a conversation. You could say I was summoned by Bianchi and Fitoussi. Heard of them?”

“No.”

“It doesn’t matter. The bottom line is that Romano expressed an interest in finding some missing artifacts. Egyptian artifacts. That’s all I know. What can you tell me about it?”

Sorrento peered back along the path, as though considering whether to bolt.

“Why were you searching the production truck the other day?” Nathan pressed.

“It is my job.”

“Come on, Daniela. I’m trying to be straight with you. Is it too much to ask for you to do the same?”

A nearby tree cast shade on the gravel path. Beneath it was a wooden bench. Sorrento sat down and Nathan took the place beside her.

“How do I know you are not involved?” she asked.

“In what?”

“How could you not be? You work for them!”

“I’m working for Isabella Palermo.”

“Exactly. And Adnan Abbas.”

“I only arrived a few days ago. I don’t know anything about anything.”

“Why did they hire you, then?”

“Apparently because I have a nice butt.”

Sorrento attempted to process this one.

“Look, Daniela… Can I call you Daniela?”

Sorrento didn’t answer.

“Whatever scheme is unfolding here, I’m not a part of it. I was hired to protect Palermo, that’s all. Admittedly, I’m not doing the best job of it, but it would help me a whole lot if I knew what was going on. What were you looking for in the back of the production truck?”

Sorrento’s body went rigid. “Nothing.”

“It had to be something. You climbed all the way up inside there. Why can’t anybody around here just level with me?”

“Trust is a commodity that is earned. You have not earned mine.”

“What do I need to do to earn it, then?”

“When the time comes, you will know.”

“I’m only here until the film wraps, or I quit in frustration, whichever comes first. I’m beginning to think it will be the latter.”

“You have made your point. If there is anything that I feel I should share with you, I will let you know, but that time is not now. Good day, Signor Grant.” With that, Sorrento stood and walked off, leaving Nathan alone on the bench. After a career in espionage, he was used to people keeping their secrets. It was his job then to pry them loose, by whatever means possible. In this case, he hardly knew where to start. All he did know was that his bosses were sexual predators, each in their own way. One man was found dead in the river with his head chopped off, and another had attacked Palermo’s vehicle and gotten away with it, so far. The Minister for Cultural Heritage and his goons were desperately searching for some Egyptian artifacts. As for tying these disparate elements together, Nathan was having very little luck.

Chapter Eleven

Back at the villa that evening, Nathan did a sweep of the premises and then took advantage of the kitchen privileges, where the cook prepared him a dinner of Veal Parmigiana, served with a glass of red wine. He shared a table with Hector, as both men dug into their meals.

“How are you finding everything so far?” the butler asked. “Settling in all right?”

“I won’t be here long enough to settle in, but thanks for asking.”

“Of course. If you need anything, you will please let me know?”

“Sure.” Nathan cut into his veal and took a bite. He wasn’t surprised by how divine it tasted, but he savored it nonetheless. This was what an unlimited budget could get you every single day, when you could afford one of the best chefs in Italy to do your private cooking. Nathan would try not to get used to it. “I haven’t seen the gentleman of the house today. Is he here?” he asked.

“Signor Abbas is away on business. He will return tomorrow evening.”

“No wonder it’s quiet.”

“Signorina Palermo will dine in her quarters this evening.”

“Thanks for the heads up.” Nathan’s job was to protect her on set and in public. With Palermo safely ensconced in the villa for the night, he could count on the in-house security team to keep an eye on things here. That would give him time to stretch his legs with a walk around the city. Nathan finished his dinner and handed his dishes to a member of the kitchen staff.

“Good evening, Hector, I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said to the butler.

“Good evening to you.”

Nathan exited the kitchen and headed up the stairs. He would inform Palermo that he was leaving, in case she needed him for anything. Well, not anything. As he moved down the hallway toward her room, a sense of unease swirled within him. Perhaps this was how all those women felt, throughout human history, when it came to dealing with a lascivious boss. Nathan certainly didn’t like it. In fact, so far he’d avoided being alone with her altogether. This would be the first time, and with her husband out of town no less. Perhaps De Luca’s comments were mere hyperbole, but then, was Nathan Grant afraid he couldn’t handle himself around his boss? And if that was the case, what exactly was he afraid of? The whole thing was ridiculous. He would stop in and tell her he was leaving, that’s all. How hard did that have to be? At her door, Nathan gave a light knock. “Signorina?” he said.

“Accedere!” Palermo’s voice called out. “Enter!”

Nathan turned the knob and opened the door just enough to lean his head into the room. To his relief, Palermo was not alone after all. The actress sat at a table eating her dinner while a servant hovered nearby. Isabella Palermo wore a white cotton robe. Her makeup was removed. Her hair was tied back. This was the first time Nathan had seen her dressed so casually, just a woman hanging out at home, not all done up in a quest for glamour and attention. Granted, she was still spectacularly gorgeous even in her natural state, there was no doubt about that.

“Ah, Signor Grant,” she said. “Come in, please.”

Nathan eased further into the room. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m leaving for the day, unless you need me for anything.”

“Don’t be shy.” She motioned him forward. “Come in, come in.” Palermo lifted a flute of Prosecco, eyeing him with an air of seduction. “Why don’t you join me?”

“I’ve already had my dinner, thanks.”

“Please. Sit down. I hate to drink alone.”

Every fiber of Nathan’s being longed to turn and flee before things got complicated, but he wasn’t about to quit this job over a glass of Prosecco. Besides, they had a chaperon of sorts. Nathan closed the door behind him and took a seat at the table.

“Would you mind, Lourdes? The gentleman will have some wine,” said Palermo.

“Of course, Signorina.” The servant went to a cupboard and took out an extra flute before placing it on the table and lifting the Prosecco bottle from a cooler. She filled Nathan’s glass and put the bottle back on ice.

“Would you like something else?” Palermo said to Nathan. “Dessert, perhaps? I’m told we have a lovely strawberry cake downstairs.”

“No, thanks, the wine is fine.”

“As you wish.”

Palermo put her glass down and used her utensils to cut into her own Veal Parmigiana, eating in silence while she continued passing glances at Nathan, who sipped at his sparkling wine without a word. Palermo finished her meal, placed her utensils on the plate and pushed it away. On cue, Lourdes came forward and lifted the empty dish from the table.

“Dessert, Signorina?” said Lourdes. “Coffee?”

“No, thank you. That will be all. You can leave us.”

“Yes, Signorina.” Lourdes gave a slight nod and then backed away before turning and leaving the room, closing the door once again as she went. So much for the chaperon, Nathan thought.

“I could use a refill. How about you?” Palermo held up her flute.

“Sure.” Nathan lifted the bottle and refilled her glass, then his own.

“I make you nervous?” Palermo appeared to be enjoying herself.

“Nervous? Why would I be nervous?”

The corner of Palermo’s lips curled up in a mischievous grin. “Such a brave man you are. And yet… one would think that before yesterday you had never beheld a woman’s breasts.”

“Not in the course of my duties, that may be true.”

“I find that quite hard to believe.”

“Why is that?”

“You were a spy, Mr. Grant! I imagine that such a life is filled with all sorts of intrigue.”

“Intrigue, sure.”

“Don’t tell me that beautiful foreign agents were not involved. I would be so disappointed to hear it.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Pity.”

Nathan wracked his brain for something else to talk about, anything besides his personal conquests. The fact was, of course, that Isabella Palermo did make him nervous. He worried that she might drop the white cotton robe she was wearing and show him those breasts all over again. Instead, she took a sip of her Prosecco, letting the bubbles tickle her nose. Nathan rose from his chair and moved to a window. Down below, the piazza buzzed, with sidewalk cafes teeming as uniformed servers weaved through the tables with trays of food and drinks. At the central fountain, families enjoyed gelato from a nearby stand.

“You have killed a man before, yes?” said Palermo. “How many?”

“I don’t keep a scorecard.”

“More than a few.”

“Nobody who didn’t deserve it.”

“Women?”

“I’d rather not talk about this, either.”

Palermo stood and swept across the room until she was by Nathan’s side, leaning close. “Perhaps I should worry?”

“Do you deserve it?”

“Not yet, but there is time, no?”

“Thank you for the wine, Signorina Palermo.”

“Signorina... So formal.”

Nathan felt the actress’ hand clasp him on the ass. The shock of it made him jump. Apparently, De Luca had been right.

“What’s wrong, Nathan? Do you mind if I call you Nathan?” Palermo pressed her body against his. “You want to know what I think?”

“I doubt it,” he said.

“I think you are not afraid of me. I think you are afraid of yourself. Afraid that you might say yes.” With her lips inches away, Palermo’s warm breath caressed his neck. “Is that it, Mr. Nathan? You are afraid to say yes?”

“Don’t you think this is a little cliché, Signorina? Going after the hired help while your man is away?”

“Is that how you see yourself? The hired help?”

“Aren’t I?”

“Does it matter? We are both adults here, free to make our choices.”

“I don’t think Signor Abbas would like this choice much.”

Palermo leaned her head back and looked Nathan in the eye. “Adnan and I have an understanding.”

Nathan licked his lips, considering the most diplomatic response. “Drama is your profession, not mine. I prefer to steer clear of it. If you don’t mind, I’ll be heading off.”

“Pity.” Palermo released her hand and eased away. “But this game is not finished. No man can resist me forever.”

“I will accept that challenge.” Nathan took a last look out the window. From across the piazza, a lone figure emerged from the crowd. He wore a black trench coat. On his feet were combat boots. Dark glasses covered his eyes. The man marched with purpose down the center of the square, on a mission and disregarding everything and everyone around him. Nathan recognized his gait and his tall form, the same man he’d last seen jumping onto a motorcycle to escape after ramming a work truck into Palermo’s Mercedes. He was back, perhaps to finish the job. “We’ve got a problem,” Nathan said. The man stopped directly below the villa and looked up, spying Nathan in the window.

“What is it?” Palermo perked up, rejoining his side.

“He’s here.”

Down below, the man shimmied out of his coat and let it drop to the ground. Underneath, he wore a tactical vest, strapped with grenades. Hanging from a sling across his shoulder was a 9mm Uzi submachine gun with an extended magazine. In the time it took him to raise the weapon, Nathan grabbed Palermo around the waist and tackled her to the floor. Seconds later, glass rained down on them as the window shattered to pieces, with bullets flying over their heads. A baseball-sized grenade hit what was left of the window frame and dropped straight onto the floor beside them. Nathan lunged for it, lifting it up and side-arming it back out the window, where it exploded in mid-air on the way back down. From the piazza below came screams and pandemonium.

“Let’s go!” Nathan popped to his feet and grabbed Palermo by one arm, yanking her up and away. They were in the hallway when a second grenade exploded, this time in the room they’d just evacuated. Where he might hide her, Nathan wasn’t sure. He had no weapon himself, the Beretta was back in his hotel. His colleagues downstairs would be armed, but outgunned. He couldn’t count on them. Nathan would go for the garage. If he could get Palermo to one of the Range Rovers and out the back, they’d have a chance. He scooped her up into his arms, one beneath her shoulders and the other her knees. By the time he’d reached the stairwell, the sound of gunfire echoed through the house.

“Put me down!” Palermo shouted.

“He’s in the house!” said Nathan.

“I said put me down!” the actress repeated.

Nathan did as instructed, lowering Palermo to her feet.

“This way! Come!” Palermo bolted up the hall in the opposite direction. Nathan was hot on her heels as they reached the last door on the right and she darted through. Inside was the library, with leather couches framing a stone fireplace. Hanging above them was a glittering chandelier. The walls held shelves on three sides, lined with books, floor to ceiling. There was only the one door in or out. Anyone caught in this room would be trapped. “No, not here!” said Nathan. “We need to reach the garage before we’re cut off!”

“Shhh!!! Quiet!” Palermo darted to a bookshelf on the left side and reached for a copy of Dante’s Inferno. That felt about right, Nathan thought. She flipped open the spine to reveal a number pad beneath, then pressed in a four-digit code. From behind the wall came the whirring sound of a hydraulic lock, then a click, and the bookshelf slid open to reveal a secret room. On a table inside was a computer keyboard, a monitor, and a speakerphone. A television was mounted on one wall. The room held a refrigerator, a sink and cupboards, and a safe. Nathan followed Palermo inside and she pressed the same code on an interior panel. The door slid closed behind them and the whirring hydraulic mechanism locked them in. “Nobody can harm us here, it is like a bank vault,” she said. “Perfectly safe.”

“What about the rest of the staff?”

“The police will arrive momentarily.” Palermo opened one of the cupboards and took out a remote, then pointed it at the television and pressed the power button. The screen blinked on to show the view from six security cameras, both inside and outside the house. The first was of the front door, which had already been blasted open and pocked with shrapnel. Sprawled on the ground nearby was the body of a man Nathan had to assume was Hector. Another view showed members of the staff cowering in the kitchen behind a center island. The cook held a butcher knife in one hand, no match for an Uzi. “I need a weapon,” Nathan said. “Where are your guns?”

“We are protected here,” Palermo repeated. She pressed a button on the phone and the device let off a series of tones as it self-dialed.

“Polizia, qual è la vostra emergenza?” came the voice of a police dispatcher.

“Lei è Isabella Palermo. Sono sotto attacco,” Palermo replied.

On the monitor, the assailant could be seen passing through the living room, and then shots rang out. He was knocked down, but not out. Instead, he crawled forward, positioning himself behind a large metal urn. “Bulletproof vest,” Nathan said, as Palermo gave a play-by-play to the dispatcher.

Another view showed Omar, crouched low in a doorway with a pistol. He fired one, two, three times. Protected by the urn, the assailant took another grenade from his vest, pulled the pin and lobbed it toward the door. Omar tried to scramble away but before he could manage, the grenade exploded, cutting him down.

Nathan couldn’t hide out and watch as a massacre unfolded. That wasn’t in his nature. He went to the safe and pressed the same code she’d used onto a keypad. Nothing happened. “What’s the combination?!” he called to Palermo, but she was too busy on the phone to respond. “I said the combo!” he shouted. “What is it?!”

This time, Palermo looked over. “You cannot. It is suicide,” she replied.

“Give me the number!”

“He will kill you, too.”

“Not if I kill him first.”

On the screen, the assailant could be seen entering the kitchen, where he crept around to the opposite side of the center island. The cook dropped the knife to the ground and all three staff members placed their hands on the backs of their heads. Their pleas fell on deaf ears. The man used his Uzi to mow down all three, spraying the kitchen with blood.

“Please,” said Nathan. “The code, Isabella. Tell me the code.”

“One-Nine-Seven-Five.”

Nathan pressed the numbers and the safe popped open. Inside were stacks of money, jewelry, a Glock 17 pistol, and a Beretta AR70/90 military rifle with a box of magazines. Nathan lifted the rifle and loaded it before flipping off the safety. “Don’t come out until the police tell you it’s safe,” he said.

“What is happening there?” The dispatcher switched to English.

“Tell your team they’ve got at least one friendly on the scene. I’m wearing a black suit and carrying an AR70/90. Please don’t shoot me!”

“Do not engage the intruder,” commanded the dispatcher. “Remain where you are. Officers are on the way.”

Nathan took a last look at the TV screen. The attacker entered the staircase and started upward. On the second floor, Palermo’s personal servant ran down a hall and entered a study. The assailant emerged in the hallway and moved into an adjoining room that Nathan knew to be an office.

“You’ll be fine here,” Nathan said to Palermo, then entered the door code. The panel slid open and he stepped out into the library, then pressed the number once again under The Inferno to seal the actress back inside. Rushing toward the door with the rifle in hand, Nathan understood that with the man’s protective vest, a body shot wouldn’t cut it. Only a head shot would eliminate this threat entirely. He ran down the hallway to the stairs and quickly descended one level. As he emerged onto the second-floor, a fusillade of bullets ripped into the wall just over Nathan’s shoulder and he quickly ducked back into the stairwell. He hadn’t even gotten off a single shot. He was being sloppy. Crouching low, he swung his rifle around the corner just in time to catch sight of the man as he moved into the study. From downstairs came the shouts of arriving police, but Nathan couldn’t wait for them. The servant might not last that long. The adrenaline of close combat kept his feet moving one after the other until he reached the study door and paused, grasping the rifle with both hands. At any second he might hear the shots that ended the servant’s life, but he’d rather check out of this existence himself than live with that on his conscience. In the chaos of battle, speed could be an ally or it could get you killed, but this was not a time to overthink it. He charged through the door. Instead of a barrage of gunfire, he was met with an empty room. Couches, a desk, a television, and an exterior door. Nobody in sight.

The far door opened onto a small patio, with a stairway leading down to the central courtyard and the swimming pool. Nathan managed a quick look before shots did ring out, with a bullet grazing his left forearm. He dropped to his hands and knees, then crawled forward onto the patio. At the edge of the stairs, he peered down toward the pool and finally spotted his quarry. The man was attempting to hide behind a chaise lounge. From here, Nathan had a perfect shot. He lined up his sights and squeezed the trigger. Rat-a-tat, tat, rat-a-tat, tat, he let loose eight rounds. Stuffing from the chair cushion flew into the air as the bullets tore it to shreds. The assailant rose to his feet, bloodied but alive. He took two steps forward, Uzi by his side.

“Fermati, non muoverti!” came a shout from the police on the ground floor, but the man was not deterred. He raised his weapon and this time it was the officers who fired back, mowing him down in a hail of bullets. He tumbled with a splash into the pool, turning the blue water to red. Nathan lowered his weapon and slid it away as the police rushed forward into the courtyard. From somewhere behind him came a whimpering noise. Nathan turned to see the servant, curled up in a ball beneath a desk.

“It’s all clear!” Nathan shouted to the police, then slowly rose with hands in the air. Their guns spun to face him. “It’s all right, it’s all right,” he added. “I’m with the house!”

Two officers ran up the stairs. One covered Nathan with his pistol while the other pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed him. He didn’t blame them. There was a whole lot here to sort out.

Chapter Twelve

The attacker’s name was Franco Gualtieri. He was twenty-two years old and resided in Naples. For such a young age, he already had an extensive criminal history dating back to his early teens. This included charges of assault, drug possession and theft. Gualtieri had spent a good portion of his short life in and out of the criminal justice system. All of this the police were willing to share with Nathan as they interviewed him at the nearest station. The big question was, why did Gualtieri go after Isabella Palermo? Nathan hadn’t seen much of her work, but the films couldn’t have been that bad. The police theory was terrorism, that the man was out to get the maximum amount of attention. This made no sense to Nathan at all. If Gualtieri was a terrorist, what point was he trying to make? Whose cause did he support? According to the police themselves, the man had no known ties to any terrorist groups. Additional speculation revolved around the idea that he was an obsessed fan, desperate to destroy what he couldn’t possess. Nothing supported this hypothesis either.

By the time Nathan was released from questioning, it was nearly one o’clock in the morning. He left the station and headed back to his hotel on foot. The most direct route led directly through the Piazza Navona, but he didn’t want to be anywhere near the scene, so he took the long way, detouring around the square. Back in his room with the door closed and locked, the exhaustion of the past several days caught up with him. Nathan’s entire body ached, his forearm stung where the paramedics had patched him up, and he was desperate for sleep. Checking his phone, he saw a long list of missed calls and texts, but he couldn’t deal with any of it, so he powered down the device completely before tossing it onto a bedside table. He dropped onto the bed fully clothed and a few minutes later he was out cold. He slept through all the way until morning.

What woke Nathan eventually was a knock at his door. He opened his eyes and checked the time. It was 9:34 in the morning. Nathan groaned lightly, remembered everything that had gone down the day before, and then called out, “Who is it?”

The answer came from a familiar voice. “Your presence is requested!” said Alphonse. “Signor Abbas would like a word!”

Nathan inhaled deeply, then let it out. “Hang on!” He sat on the edge of the bed and examined his forearm. He needed a shower, a clean bandage, and a cup of coffee. First, though, he got up and moved to the door, opening it to find Alphonse alone in the hall. “They serve breakfast downstairs until ten. Go get yourself some coffee and eggs. I’ll be down shortly.”

“Signor is eager to speak to you.”

“I won’t be long. Enjoy your breakfast.” Nathan closed the door and then went into the bathroom to prepare himself for what was bound to be another eventful day. Ten minutes later, he joined Alphonse in the breakfast room.

“You can eat at the villa,” said Alphonse. “We have kept Signor waiting long enough.”

“Come on, man, take it easy.” Instead of reaching for a ceramic cup, Nathan took a paper one, filled it with coffee and put on a plastic lid. Alphonse hovered nearby while Nathan chose a chocolate croissant and wrapped it in a napkin. “Shall we?” The pair walked out through the lobby and onto the street, where one of Abbas’ Range Rovers was parked. Nathan climbed in on the passenger side while Alphonse got in behind the wheel, as usual. “Take it easy with the driving today,” said Nathan. “I’d rather not spill my coffee.”

Alphonse fired up the car and off they went. It didn’t take long for Nathan to realize that they weren’t heading to the villa. They crossed the Tiber and continued toward the city’s outskirts. Trying to pry anything out of his colleague was an exercise in frustration, so he chose to be patient. He’d find out where they were going eventually. In the meantime, he munched on his croissant and drank his coffee. After what had gone down in the past few days, even the typically bold Alphonse appeared chastened. His driving style was calm and measured. Nathan declined to comment on that, either, he didn’t want to stir the pot.

After twenty-five minutes, the Range Rover exited a highway and passed through an exclusive neighborhood of homes on sprawling plots of land. Alphonse turned onto a private drive with tall hedges on either side. At the end of the lane they reached a large gate, with a police car parked on the right and a manned security booth on the left. One wave from Alphonse granted them entry and the car pulled through the gate and onto the grounds, where a towering stone mansion was surrounded by immaculate gardens. In front of the home was a round fountain ringed by a collection of high-end sports cars: a Ferrari, a Bugatti and a McLaren. The Range Rover stopped in front of the house and the two men got out.

“What is this place?” Nathan asked. “Abbas owns it?”

“Si.”

Heading inside, the men were met by a butler Nathan didn’t recognize and led to a sitting room.

“Please, you wait here,” said the butler.

“Sure,” said Nathan.

Alphonse took a seat on a leather couch while Nathan stood by the window looking out at the grounds. A few minutes later, Raphael Costa and the film director, Gunter Hoffmann, were shown into the room.

“What’s going on?” said Costa. “Where is Isabella? Why can’t we see her?”

“I have no idea,” said Nathan.

“Is she all right? She wasn’t injured?” said Hoffmann.

“No, she wasn’t injured.”

“Signor Abbas will answer your questions,” said Alphonse.

“What about the film?” said Hoffmann.

“I think we can forget about the film,” said Nathan. “At least for now.”

“But what does Isabella say?” asked Costa. Before anyone could respond further, Adnan Abbas entered the room, accompanied by Malik.

“Good morning, gentlemen.” Abbas looked exhausted, with deep circles under his eyes.

“How is she?” said Costa. “Tell us she’s all right!”

“Yes, Isabella is upstairs, recovering. Mentally, spiritually. Physically she is unharmed, but it was an extraordinary blow, psychologically speaking.”

“When can we see her?” Costa pressed.

“That I cannot say. For the present, she wants you all to know that she appreciates your thoughts, your concerns, but trauma such as this takes time to unwind.”

“Is she receiving professional help?” said Hoffmann. “Counseling, a psychiatrist?”

“You can rest assured, she is under the best of care. I called you here to let you know in person that she is fine and will recover. Our film, on the other hand, will have to remain on hold. We simply cannot continue under the present circumstances. Not only is there Isabella’s mental health to consider, but as yet we do not know the killer’s motivation. There may be others on the same psychotic vendetta. Until we understand the nature of the threat, and until Isabella is ready to continue, our project will cease production.”

“But we’re nearly finished shooting!” said Hoffmann.

“I am sorry,” said Abbas. “There is nothing more to say on the matter.”

“You’re leaving open the possibility to pick back up in the future?” said Costa.

“Yes, of course. For the moment, our film is the least of my concerns.”

“We understand,” said Costa. “Isabella comes first.”

“I guess that means I’m done here?” said Nathan. “My role is finished?”

Abbas looked over. “Isabella is particularly grateful to you, Mr. Grant. You showed tremendous bravery under the most challenging of circumstances. But yes, you were hired to protect her for the duration of the film shoot. Until further notice, she will remain here at my estate where she is well protected. I am willing to pay your fee for an extra two weeks, but you are released from any further duties as of this moment.”

“I understand. Please tell the Signorina I wish her all the best.”

“I will do so.”

“How is Omar?”

“He will be spending some days in the hospital, but I am told that he will recover.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Alphonse will drop you back in the city, Mr. Grant. Good day, gentlemen, and thank you again for coming.”

Forty minutes later, Nathan got out of the car and watched it pull away. That was that, it seemed. This job was over. None of it worked out as he’d have liked, but at least Isabella Palermo was still alive. That was something, anyway. Whatever happened next was no longer his responsibility. Nathan entered the hotel and climbed the stairs to his room, where he cleaned his wound and changed the bandage. It was an odd feeling having nothing in particular to do. Apparently there would be no private flight back to France for him, Abbas had other things on his mind, but with two weeks of severance pay, Nathan didn’t mind booking his own. He wasn’t in any hurry, though. He might as well sit around Rome and eat pizza for a few more days. In theory, that wasn’t such a bad idea. In practice, however, he’d have to see. Forced downtime was never something he took to easily, but he was willing to try. Perhaps it would be good practice, to focus on himself for a while instead of always searching for an outside distraction.

The first thing Nathan did was wander over to the Vatican, where he paid for a ticket and took a tour of Saint Peter’s Basilica, the Sistine Chapel and the Vatican Museum. After that, he had lunch at a cafe on the Piazza di Spagna, near the bottom of the Spanish Steps, ordering fettuccine Alfredo and a beer. Summer season was still gearing up and the square was packed with tourists. A pair of municipal employees moved up and down the steps, blowing whistles to keep the visitors from committing the grievous infraction of sitting down. He was halfway through his lunch and wondering how many days he could keep this up, when Nathan’s phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket and checked the number. The country code was Italy, but the phone number wasn’t one recognized. “Nathan Grant,” he answered.

“Hello, Signor Grant,” said a familiar female voice. “Is this a good time?”

“Signorina Sorrento?”

“Yes. I would like to speak with you.”

This was a surprise, but Nathan was used to those. “I’m afraid you’re a little late,” he said. “I’ve been let go.”

“What does this mean, let go?”

“Released, laid off, whatever you want to call it. I’m no longer working for Signorina Palermo. The film shoot has been canceled, at least for the foreseeable future.”

“I see. Then we must act even more quickly than I thought.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I will be at the Colonna Traiana in one hour. You may know it as Trajan’s Column. Are you familiar with this place?”

“Yeah, I know it.”

“Please, Signor Grant. I must speak with you, in person.”

“You’re lucky I don’t have much going on.”

“I ask only that you keep this between us.”

“That depends on what you have to tell me, but I’ll listen anyway. See you there.” Nathan hung up the phone and finished off his beer, then waved to the server for another. If he had an hour to kill, he might as well make the most of it.

Fifty minutes later, Nathan sat on a set of stone steps overlooking the Piazza Foro Traiano. Here, nobody with a whistle tried to shoo him away. He only had to wait a few minutes before the archaeologist made her way across the square. Nathan stood and descended the stairs, meeting her at the base of the column. Her demeanor was guarded, but she wouldn’t have been here if she wasn’t willing to take a chance on him, whatever the reason.

“Good day, Signorina.” Nathan wasn’t about to pepper her with questions. She’d called this meeting. Sometimes it was best to listen.

“Thank you for coming.”

“No problem.”

“Perhaps we can walk?”

“Sure.”

The pair set off around the piazza. “I heard this news, about the signorina. We were all quite stunned. An attack such as this, it does not happen in Rome.”

“This one happened, I can vouch for that personally.”

Sorrento eyed the bandage on his forearm, but kept her mouth shut.

“Is that what you wanted to talk about?” said Nathan.

“No.” They came to a stone bench. “Shall we sit?”

“If you’d like.”

The pair took their places side-by-side and Nathan scanned the piazza for any potential threats, a habit that carried over from his CIA days. Nobody looked particularly suspicious, just a square in the middle of Rome, crowded with tourists on a summer day.

“I went to the film site this morning, the Villa Adriana,” said Sorrento. “To carry out my inspections.”

“And?”

“I was denied entry.”

“I’m not surprised, with everything that’s going on. If I was in charge, I’d shut the whole set down, too. Nobody in or out. Nothing is happening there today, the project is canceled. I don’t think you have any reason for concern.”

“On the contrary, I saw much activity. Many trucks, coming and going.”

“Did you speak to Cardona?”

“He will not answer his phone. I have tried.”

“What are you worried about, exactly, that the crew might scuff a stone stairway?” Nathan’s interests involved situations of life or death, not scraped pavement. He was beginning to wish he hadn’t agreed to this meeting.

“It is my job to protect the site. I am asking for your help.”

“I already told you, I don’t work for them anymore. There’s nothing I can do for you.”

The color drained from Sorrento’s face. “You asked me before, why was I following you? The other day?”

“Yeah, I was a little curious. I don’t know that it matters anymore.”

“I was at the hospital,” said Sorrento. “I went to see Signorina De Luca.”

“All right. Why?”

Sorrento cleared her throat. “I hoped that she could provide some explanations.”

“Keep going.”

“You have seen the statue of Venus, in the home of Signor Abbas?”

“The reproduction. Yes, of course, I’ve seen it.”

“I believe this is not a reproduction.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I believe that it was stolen.”

“Call the police, then.”

“I cannot. Signor Abbas is a powerful man. I cannot risk my career, not without solid proof.”

“What could this possibly have to do with me?”

“I saw you leave the room of Signorina De Luca. I wanted to know who you were. I was curious, but I am an archaeologist, not an investigator. This is all very new to me.”

“What about the truck you were poking around in? What were you looking for there? You think that Abbas is stealing artifacts straight off the set?”

“I am suspicious, yes.”

“People would notice if something like a Venus statue went missing.”

“The original Venus, it is displayed at Herculaneum.”

“And? Has it gone missing?”

“No, but I believe the statue at Herculaneum is the reproduction. Two years ago, Signor Abbas filmed a project at that site. Shortly after, he acquired his Venus.”

“You think he swapped out the real one?”

“Yes. Perhaps.”

“That is a big accusation, indeed.”

“I have inspected the Venus at Herculaneum. I am quite sure, it is not authentic.”

“And the one in Abbas’ villa?”

“I am denied access.”

“What does Cardona think?”

“Signor Cardona thinks that his job is more important than asking too many questions.”

“You do realize there is more than your job at stake. People connected to Abbas have been winding up dead lately.”

“I am aware of the dangers, Signor Grant. This is about more than me, more than any of us. It is the cultural heritage of my country. I cannot allow that heritage to be stolen. I must do what I can.”

“Let me get this straight. You think that at this very moment, members of the film crew are swapping ancient artifacts at the Villa Adriana for reproductions?”

“I am worried this may be the case, yes.”

“And you thought I might get you in there?”

“I can see now that such expectations were misguided.”

Nathan sat where he was, running the whole thing through his mind. First Abbas was a pedophile, now he was a thief. Both could potentially be true, yet none of it was technically Nathan’s concern any longer. All the same, this wasn’t the sort of thing he could easily walk away from. He wanted answers, as much as Sorrento did. It didn’t much matter if he was still on the payroll or not. “Let’s go, then,” he said. “We’ll take a look.”

Sorrento’s eyes opened wide, as though she couldn’t quite believe she’d convinced him. “My car is parked nearby,” she said.

Nathan stood from the bench and held out a hand. “After you.”

On the drive to the Villa Adriana, Sorrento kept mostly quiet. Nathan tried to put her at ease with some small talk. It didn’t work particularly well. “Did you always know that you wanted to be an archaeologist?” he asked.

“Yes. Always.”

“You studied here in Rome?”

“Yes.”

Nathan looked her over, both hands gripped to the wheel, jaw set. Daniela Sorrento was anxious, and understandably so. They drove the last few kilometers in silence, but when they reached front gate at the Villa Adriana, she slammed on her brakes. “Dove sono andati?” she cried out. “They’ve gone!”

Indeed, no production trucks were in sight, nor any signs of a film project. All of the equipment was cleared out. Nathan got out of the car and took a look around. A few paper cups and food wrappers blew past on the ground. It was late in the day, past opening hours for public visitors, and the front gate was closed and locked.

“Two hours ago, they were here!”

“And now they are gone. There’s nothing left to see.”

“No! We will go inside. We will look.”

“It’s closed. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“We will climb over.” Sorrento inspected the gate. It was formidable, with metal bars rising three meters high. On either side, a two-meter high masonry wall stretched off across the undulating rural landscape. Sorrento turned left and began walking the outer perimeter. After a short distance, she stopped and turned back. “You are coming, yes?”

Nathan was skeptical. The idea that Abbas was stealing stone statues off the grounds seemed highly unlikely. There was no way he wouldn’t be found out, one way or another. The potential payoff wouldn’t be worth the risk, but then again, only solid evidence would satisfy Sorrento. “Sure, I’m coming.” He followed after and they continued along the outside of the wall. This was not a high-security complex. He doubted there was anything inside worth stealing for a connoisseur like Abbas. The valuable pieces would be in a museum already, not out here in the elements, but Nathan wasn’t about to argue the point.

A few hundred meters down the line, the wall jogged left, then right around a rock outcropping. It was as good a place to climb over as any, out of view from the road. Sorrento stopped and put both hands against the brick. “Lift me.”

“Whatever you say.” Nathan intertwined his fingers and held his cupped hands down low. Sorrento placed a foot in the pocket. “On the count of three. One, two, three…” He boosted her up and Sorrento scrambled atop the wall. That left Nathan to make it up and over on his own.

“I will pull you,” said Sorrento.

“No, no, I’ll manage.” Nathan moved a few feet further down the wall, then put his hands along the edge. He jumped up and pulled his torso onto the top, then sat up and took a look around. That wasn’t so bad. He lowered himself over the opposite side and then moved back to Sorrento to help her down. “What next?”

“We will see.” Sorrento took off walking, with Nathan right behind. He had to admit, he was beginning to like her style. She led him back to the scene of the previous day’s shoot, where the colonnade surrounded a small pond. The archaeologist went straight to a white stone statue to give it an inspection. It didn’t take her long before she moved to another, and then a third.

“Well?” said Nathan.

Sorrento was lost in thought.

“Are they fakes?” Nathan pressed, moving closer to one of the statues to take a look for himself.

“No. These statues, they are authentic.”

“That’s good then, right?”

The archaeologist wasn’t finished looking for clues. She continued around the colonnade, examining the columns, and the pavements. “There is more to see.”

“You want to walk the grounds? It’s a big complex.”

“We will look.”

“Fine. Whatever you say.” Nathan spent the next hour following Sorrento around, checking one section and then another. At the small on-site museum, painting supplies were stacked against an outside wall, including paint cans, buckets, brushes and ladders. Beside these, Nathan peered through a window. Inside, marble statues were on display. These appeared to be in pristine condition, carefully restored. Sorrento joined him at the window, her eyes darting from one figure to another, taking a mental inventory. “There’s no sign of forced entry. Everything looks fine,” said Nathan. In an adjoining room, however, he saw movement. “Get down!”

Simultaneously, Nathan and Sorrento shifted out of view. “What is it?” she asked.

Nathan took another careful look. Inside, a uniformed guard passed through the room and continued into the next. “Security,” said Nathan. “It’s time we called it a day, here, don’t you think? Before we get caught.”

“No,” said Sorrento, “I am not finished.” She set off once more, toward the ruins of the main villa. When they reached it, Sorrento poked around what Nathan considered to be just a bunch of old bricks and stones.

“What are you looking for?” Nathan was losing his patience. “I know I’m not an expert, but there doesn’t seem to be anything out of place to me.”

“I must be missing something. I don’t understand.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re wrong? I mean, there’s nothing worth stealing here that isn’t locked in the museum.”

“Signor Abbas is a thief. I intend to prove it.”

“I don’t think we’re going to prove anything this afternoon. Not here. Come on, it’s time we headed back into the city.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I deal in facts, not beliefs. The fact is, there’s nothing to see here.”

“I have not given up. I will not.”

“I don’t expect you to, but at the moment we’ve hit a dead end.” Nathan started up the path. This time, Sorrento followed, back toward the wall they’d come in over. “Tell me this,” said Nathan as they went. “Why do you think Romano was asking about Egyptian artifacts?”

“I do not know. It is confusing to me. Very confusing.”

As they continued along, the tracks left behind by carts and dollies were visible in the gravel path. At an intersection, one path led toward the front gate and another deeper into the complex. Nathan was hardly paying attention, so focused was he on trying to unwind these seemingly disparate threads. Only when he was halfway across this intersection did a bell ring in his subconscious. Something wasn’t right. Nathan stopped where he was.

Sorrento paused a few steps ahead, eyeing Nathan in the fading light of the summer evening. “Che cos'è?” she said. “What is it?”

Nathan examined the tracks where the crew had carted off their equipment a few hours prior. He saw nothing unusual in that. It was something else that bothered him. On the branching path, the gravel was perfectly smooth.

“What do you see?” said Sorrento.

“Why aren’t there any footprints? Shouldn’t there be footprints on this path?”

It only took Sorrento a few seconds to understand what he was talking about. Somebody had smoothed it out, to cover their tracks. The archaeologist’s eyes darted up this path.

“Where does it lead?” Nathan asked.

“Il Cortile delle Biblioteche.”

“What is that?”

“The Courtyard of the Libraries. Ruins, only. There is nothing.”

“Apparently there must be something.” Nathan didn’t have to argue the point, she was already charging ahead up the path, her shoes crunching on the smooth gravel. When they reached the Courtyard of Libraries, it did indeed look like just another pile of bricks to Nathan. Two crumbling edifices stood on either side of a garden. These would have been architectural gems in their day, but two thousand years of neglect left a very deep mark. The larger of the two stood three stories high, with arched doorways and large, visible chambers open to the elements. Sorrento ducked inside and did a quick scan of the ground floor before taking a set of stairs up one level. It only took a few minutes to go through the whole place. The second building took even less. Once more, they appeared to be at a dead end. “Were they filming any scenes here?” Nathan asked.

“No, not in this place.”

“Is there anything missing?”

“No. Nothing.”

“What were they trying to hide, then?”

Sorrento wandered across the courtyard as if in a trance, under so much self-imposed pressure to solve this mystery that Nathan worried she might just break down. Sorrento planted both feet firmly on the ground and tilted her head back to stare at the rising moon. She stood this way for several seconds and then retreated to the gravel path, where she bent low to examine it more closely. With dusk falling, it was getting harder to see, but she followed the path back to the entrance of the larger of the buildings. Once inside, she snapped out of her trance-like state. “Sotto,” she said.

“I’m sorry, what’s that?”

“Underneath.” Sorrento motioned.

Nathan pulled out his phone and shone the light along the ground. Aside from their own footprints, the gravel here was smooth all around. In fact, it was smooth enough to show a slight ridge elevated in a straight line. Nathan followed this ridge with the beam of his light, up and then to the left, and back again. It formed the outline of a square roughly one meter on each side. Neither of them said another word as they dropped to their knees. Nathan propped up his phone to light the scene and they began scraping gravel to the sides with their bare hands. Not far below the surface they uncovered a section of plywood. Nathan made a fist and rapped on the wood with his knuckles. They were met with a hollow, thumping sound. The two of them picked up the pace, scraping away the last of it until the entire plywood board was clear. It was set into the ground, though not quite flush. Nathan was able to press his fingers against one side and pry the board up. He flipped it aside to reveal an empty space below, a hole dropping into darkness. Sorrento grabbed Nathan’s phone and leaned forward to shine the light into the abyss.

“What is it?” Nathan leaned closer to see for himself. A vast chamber opened up beneath them. It was hard to judge the distances, but the floor beneath was three, or possibly four meters below them and covered in detritus, with what had possibly been wooden boxes, smashed to pieces. The walls were coated with the grime of centuries.

“I can’t believe it!” Sorrento gasped.

“It seems you were onto something.”

“The ministry must be notified!”

“Are you sure about that?”

“The site must be protected!”

“By Giuseppi Romano?”

Sorrento gave this a moment of thought, then poked her head deeper into the hole to take a better look. “Maybe we check first,” she said. “What is here.”

“That’s a long way down. If we drop in there, we’ll never get out.”

“Unless we have a ladder.”

A few minutes later they were back at the museum, carefully moving aside paint cans and empty buckets before lifting a long, collapsible ladder from beside the building. They lugged it through the falling darkness, back to the historic library, where they extended it to full length. At any moment, Nathan expected to be interrupted by a roving security patrol but so far they’d only seen the one guard, inside the museum. Sorrento shifted one end of the ladder to the edge of the hole and Nathan began to slide it into the abyss. Would it be long enough? He wasn’t sure.

“Attento! Careful!” she said.

“Take it easy.” Nathan lowered it, down, down, down, until the feet hit the ground. At an angle, the top just barely protruded out, but he leaned it against the edge of the hole. “All right, then, we’re in business. You first?”

“OK, but you hold on.”

“Sure, I’ve got it.” He gripped the top of the ladder and Sorrento positioned herself with one tentative foot on the top rung. She eased some weight on to test it out. “Go on,” Nathan coaxed her.

“Yes, but you wait here,” she said. “This is a sensitive site.”

“What do you mean, you think I’ll damage something?” Nathan took offense. Besides, he wanted to see what was down there for himself.

“What if the guard comes?”

“If a guard comes, that’s it, we’re caught. I’m not going to knock him out. That’s an assault charge on top of whatever this is.”

“Please. I am asking you. Wait here.”

“Fine,” Nathan conceded. It wasn’t worth an argument. “Go ahead.”

Down the ladder Sorrento went until she stepped off onto the ground and took out her phone. She shone her light 360 degrees around the room.

“What do you see?” Nathan asked.

Sorrento stepped toward one of the walls. “Frescos!” she said. “Beneath the dirt, there is a picture.” She leaned closer still. “It is a man and a woman. And a dog, I think. Or a lamb, maybe. We will need conservators to clean it.”

“Has anything been recently disturbed?”

Sorrento knelt down to some of the boxes and very carefully lifted a piece of wood, turning it over in her hands. “This is very old, but yes, as you say. Recently disturbed.” She put the piece down and carefully stepped across the chamber, her phone illuminating the walls as she went. “I see a doorway.”

Nathan stuck his head further through the hole just before Sorrento disappeared into another passageway. “What do you see now?” he called out, but she didn’t answer. Nathan peered back over his shoulder. Still no sign of any guards. His curiosity was unbearable. If there was something to see in this chamber, he wanted to witness it himself. He’d had enough of waiting. Nathan put his phone into his mouth and swung a leg over. Down he went. Stepping off the ladder at the bottom, it felt as though he’d been transported not just in space, but in time. He, too, took in a complete view of this basement, with a vaulted ceiling and cavernous interior. It was the type of discovery that could make an archaeologist’s career. If there’d been anything of value in here, it was also one that could make a person of lesser morals very, very rich. Nathan moved forward and into a narrow tunnel. It went for perhaps ten meters before emerging into another room, this one roughly four-meters square with a flat ceiling. This chamber was empty, except for Sorrento, who stood in the center, shining her light once again on one of the walls. Nathan’s appearance startled her.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“Nothing, I had to see for myself. What did you find, more frescos?”

Sorrento couldn’t help but let her professional enthusiasm creep back in. “Look!” She pointed to the wall.

Nathan stepped closer. The images were clearer and better preserved than the pictures in the first room, though they seemed out of context. Instead of a scene from early Rome, these were Egyptian hieroglyphs. There were birds, eyes, a snake, a human form, a hand, all arranged in rows like written text. “Egyptian,” he said.

“Yes.”

“What does it mean?”

“I do not know. I am not an Egyptologist.”

“But why would the library of a Roman emperor be covered in these?”

“It is fascinating,” was her only response. Archaeologists might spend the next fifty years studying this site, but to Nathan they were just a couple of empty rooms in the end. It would be best to get going before he and Sorrento were discovered. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I am not ready.” Sorrento moved along the wall, taking more of it in.

“We’ve been lucky so far. I’d rather not push it.”

Sorrento took a last look at the hieroglyphs and then nodded. “Yes, all right.” They moved into the tunnel and headed back. In the first room, Sorrento had one hand on the ladder when they were startled by a voice.

“Chi è la?” The beam of a proper flashlight illuminated them from above. “Non muoverti!”

Nathan had heard that command before. “How are we going to explain this one?” he said to Sorrento.

“Do not forget, I work for the ministry.”

“Yeah. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel much better.”

Chapter Thirteen

They were held in a meeting room of the main office, each handcuffed to a chair. A security guard sat nearby to keep an eye on them. Two police officers stood just outside the door. Nathan and Sorrento had hardly said a word to one another since being pulled out of the ruins. Despite her prior assurances, her role in the ministry hadn’t seemed to provide them with any special privileges. A good lawyer seemed in order, if that was possible. After an hour or so, a commotion emanated from the front office. A moment later, Giuseppi Romano burst into the room with his bodyguards, Fitoussi and Bianchi, in tow.

“What is happening here, Signora Sorrento? I demand you explain yourself!”

“Look who’s talking,” Nathan replied.

“Why are you here?” the minister redirected his ire, raising a finger in the air and jabbing it forward to make his point. “You are a criminal and a thief! Where are my artifacts?!”

“What artifacts? All we saw were some dusty paintings on a wall.”

“The next walls you see will have bars on them, Signor Grant.” Romano turned back to Sorrento. “You have defiled a historic monument. You are a disgrace to your profession.”

Sorrento attempted to slouch her way into oblivion. It wasn’t working.

“You had no permission to be on the grounds at this time. You were attempting to steal!” Romano accused her.

“No! Never!” Sorrento replied.

“Unless you would like to join Signor Grant in prison, you will tell me everything.”

For the next ten minutes, Sorrento made a valiant attempt, but the truth was that she didn’t know much. She’d suspected Abbas of a plot to replace authentic artifacts with fakes, but she had no proof of anything.

“But why to suspect? Why, signorina?” said Romano. “I do not understand.”

“Rumors, that is all. Rumors.”

“Where from, these rumors?”

Sorrento wouldn’t answer.

“And yet, you did not alert my office?” Romano pressed. “Instead, you sneak around, you and this American.”

“I’ve seen your basement,” said Nathan. “Why on earth would we trust you?”

“You are accusing me?!” Romano shouted.

“Why were you asking about Egyptian artifacts? What’s the story, minister? Or do you have one?”

“It would be helpful,” said Sorrento, “if you had some information to share.”

“With you? Never!” said Romano.

“Are we on the same side, or not?” said Nathan. “If so, then tell what you know about these missing Egyptian artifacts. It must be something, or you wouldn’t have sent your two goons to abduct me.” Nathan eyed Fitoussi and Bianchi, but they remained impassive.

“I have a source. He tells me that some items may soon appear on the black market, for the high-end collector. It seems to me that the pair of you may have stumbled upon the origins.”

“Perhaps we should return to the chamber?” said Sorrento. “There may be additional clues that we missed, something that would provide answers.”

“You think I would take two crypt robbers back to the scene of their crimes? No!”

“What did we steal?” said Nathan. “There was nothing there but some broken wooden crates. Besides, I know you want to see it for yourself. Let’s go take a look and give your archaeologist a chance to do her job.”

“I will take Signora Sorrento. Not you.”

“I will not go without him,” said Sorrento. “Signor Grant is not a thief and neither am I.”

“We’re wasting time with this arguing,” said Nathan. “While the real thieves are getting away.”

Romano grimaced as he looked from one of them to the other. He turned to the museum security guard. “Release them. They are coming with us.”

The guard did as he was told, removing the handcuffs from the two of them. Nobody said much as they were escorted back to the library with police in tow. Nathan, Sorrento, Romano and the guard descended into the chamber. Romano carefully lifted a shard of wood and examined it before turning his attention to the nearest wall. “Where are the hieroglyphs you mentioned?” he said.

“Through the tunnel, there is another chamber,” said Sorrento.

“Show me.”

In the second room, Nathan stood beside Sorrento and Romano as the guard illuminated the wall with a proper flashlight. The hieroglyphs were clearer in better light, and Sorrento leaned close to examine them, then stepped back to look around the room.

“They were here, these artifacts we seek,” said Romano. “I know it.”

“What else can you tell us of their existence?” said Sorrento.

“Very little. Our source tells us that a sale is to take place, an auction to the highest bidder. We know nothing of the details, only that the objects in question are Egyptian, and priceless. We had assumed that they were smuggled to Italy with the help of corrupt officials, perhaps someone in the Cairo museum.”

“Any objects that came from this site would have been brought here two thousand years ago,” said Sorrento. “I cannot read these symbols, no, but given their condition, it is safe to assume that the emperor himself had this room created for his collection, to hold his Egyptian treasures.”

“You think they were down here in the dark all this time?” said Nathan.

“Yes.”

“And only just discovered?”

“Yes.”

“By who?” said Romano. “And where have they taken them?”

“That, we do not know.”

“Tell me you’re not going to hold Dr. Sorrento and me responsible,” Nathan said to Romano.

“Give me a reason why not.”

“Because whether you like it or not, we’re in this thing together now.”

“Certainly not. You are in the employ of our main suspect, Adnan Abbas. I must lock you up, don’t you see? So that you will not inform him.”

“I don’t work for Abbas, or Isabella Palermo. They let me go just this morning.”

“But where does your loyalty lie? That is the question, is it not?”

“My loyalty lies with the truth.”

“And if I release you, Signor Grant? What will you do, then? Will you leave our country? How can you assure me that you will no longer interfere?”

“Me? I have no plans to leave the country, no,” said Nathan. “I’m going to Naples.”

“Naples, Signor Grant? Whatever is in Naples?”

“A lead, that’s all. Trust me, Romano, we’re on the same team here.”

“Trust you,” Romano repeated in disbelief. “Never will I trust you. What does this mean, a lead?”

“It means I’m going to see if I can talk to some people.”

Romano let out a low growl. “If you betray me, the only thing you will see for the rest of your life are the four walls of a prison cell.”

“If I find anything out, you’ll be the first to know,” said Nathan, though it wasn’t a promise he had any intention of keeping.

Chapter Fourteen

Any further information Nathan could get about Franco Gualtieri came from public sources. With such a high-profile attack, every news outlet on earth was covering the story. The public wanted to know who had attacked the world-famous actress Isabella Palermo and why. Speculation was rife. Some suspected a romantic angle, suggesting that Gualtieri was a spurned former lover. Others believed the man was just a lunatic off his meds. Nathan figured there must be a whole lot more to it than that. He didn’t care for any lurid guesses, he wanted cold, hard facts. From what he was able to gather, Gualtieri was your typical petty criminal and a member of a notorious Napolese street gang. What Nathan couldn’t understand was why he would risk his life over something like this. Gualtieri didn’t seem the type to go on a rampage for philosophical reasons. There was nothing obvious to be gained from murdering Isabella Palermo. Besides all of that, the way he’d gone about it was a suicide mission. The man was on a vendetta, though the reasons for it were entirely unclear. Nathan hoped that a trip to Naples might gain him some perspective, but he’d need to be on his toes. This city had a dark reputation, especially the Scampia neighborhood that Gualtieri came from. That was why Nathan carried the loaded Beretta in his knapsack as he got off the train at the central station. He walked to the taxi stand out front and got into the back seat of a waiting cab. “Scampia,” he said.

“Scampia?” The driver turned to look back at his passenger in the rear-view mirror. “No! Non lo farò!” The driver shook his head.

“Come on, man, I don’t have time for this.”

“Prendi un altro taxi!”

Nathan opened his wallet and took out a one-hundred-euro note. “Is this enough?”

The driver thought it over. He didn’t say yes, but he didn’t say no either. Nathan added another fifty euros. The driver took the money and then started the car, muttering to himself as they pulled away. Twenty minutes later, they were driving down a main drag between crumbling concrete high-rise apartments. It was the type of place dreams came to die. Neighborhoods like this were incubators of crime, where the youth had nothing better to do than cause trouble.

“Where?” said the taxi driver.

“Here.” Nathan gestured to a run-down park. “This will do fine.”

The cab pulled over long enough for Nathan to get out. As soon as he’d closed the door behind him, the driver spun the car around and sped back the way he’d come. Nathan stood on the side of the road, trying to remind himself why he thought that coming here was a good idea in the first place. Without any satisfactory answer, he figured he’d make the most of it. His first stop on this grand tour was a stroll through the park, which was mostly deserted except for a few young mothers watching their children make the most of a dilapidated playground. It was early afternoon on the first day of a forecasted heatwave and the temperature was rising. Anybody with some sense and an air-conditioning unit was at home, inside.

Nathan exited the park and headed down a cross street, feeling the eyes of curious onlookers upon him as he passed apartment blocks on either side. He didn’t have much of a plan, other than to ask a few questions about Franco Gualtieri and let the man’s associates come to him. The best place to start would be a bar, if he could find one open at this time. Spotting a pizzeria instead, he figured that would do. The restaurant was on the ground floor of a residential building. It didn’t look like anything special, but on walking in, the cool air and the aroma of fresh-cooked pizza cheered Nathan up. A handful of customers were seated at tables around the dining room, enjoying their pies. Nathan stepped up to a self-serve counter, peering into a hot-food case with freshly-baked calzones on display. Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man in a white apron, kneading dough. Nearby at a cash register was a younger woman with short hair dyed a bright magenta. She had one piercing through her lower lip and another in her nose, with tattoos up and down her bare arms. “Ciao,” she said.

“Ciao. You speak English?”

“Yes.”

“What’s inside these?” Nathan pointed to the calzones.

The woman pointed from one to another. “Ham, mozzarella, salami, tomate. Verdure, how you say, vegetal?”

“I’ll take one ham and mozzarella, plus a beer. To have here.”

“Please, you sit.” The woman used a spatula to take a calzone and move it to a small oven, placing it inside and shutting the door.

“Grazie.” Nathan took an empty table and placed his knapsack on the chair beside him. Nobody else in the place looked particularly threatening. There were a few workmen in coveralls having their lunch, a young couple, and a trio of teenagers. While he waited for his food to come out, Nathan took out his phone and scrolled through the latest news reports. He didn’t find any updates on Franco Gualtieri, or Isabella Palermo. Missing Egyptian artifacts, either. That story hadn’t hit the presses, and Giuseppi Romano was doing his best to keep it under wraps so as not to tip off Abbas, or whoever the perpetrators turned out to be. If they knew the heat was on, they might cancel the auction and go underground. In that case, any stolen artifacts might end up hidden away in storage somewhere, never to be seen again. Either way, the best time to catch a break was now, while the items were on the move. Assuming they actually existed. One couldn’t rule out the prospect that the chamber was empty all along. Then again, someone had gone to the trouble of covering their tracks, literally. It did seem that something was removed from the site.

The young woman with the magenta hair brought out Nathan’s calzone, hot on a plate with a knife and fork, along with a glass of Italian Pilsner. “Grazie,” Nathan said again and then set to work on his lunch, cutting off a piece and blowing to cool it down before popping it in his mouth. Even in this out-of-the-way pizza shop in the roughest of neighborhoods, these people took cooking seriously. Nathan washed it down with his light but hoppy beer. Nobody else in the place paid him much attention. When he was finished, he went back to the counter to pay.

“Fourteen euro fifty,” said the woman.

“I’ll pay by card.”

The woman tapped the amount into a card reader and spun it around to face him. “Per favore.”

Nathan pressed his card against the reader until he heard it beep. “Tell me,” he ventured. “Have you heard of a man named Franco Gualtieri?”

The woman froze, a cloud of apprehension descending over her. In the kitchen behind her, the man’s head shot up and he looked directly at Nathan, gauging whether or not to intervene. Apparently this question struck a nerve.

“I’ve heard he was from around here,” Nathan pressed. “He was probably about your age. Did you know him?”

The pizza chef hurried to the counter and began shouting at Nathan in a stream of Italian that this American had no hope of understanding, though the overall message was clear enough.

“Esci dal mio ristorante e non tornare mai più, qui non sei il benvenuto! Andare!” The man raised a hand in the air and pointed toward the door.

“All right, then,” Nathan replied. All eyes in the place were on him now as the other customers paused their lunches in apprehension. “Thanks anyway, you make a mean calzone.”

“Andare,” the man repeated.

“Sure.” Nathan put his wallet away and walked out. He might not have learned anything directly, but he was getting somewhere. Franco Gualtieri had a rep in this town, no doubt. Street gangs in Naples were notorious not only for narcotics and prostitution, but also extorting local businesses for protection money. That included pizzerias. If he’d had to venture a guess, Nathan would suspect that very few tears were shed around here over Gualtieri’s passing. How one went from running protection rackets in Naples to a suicidal attack in Rome was the question of the day, however, and Nathan would need to keep digging if he hoped to find an answer.

Out on the street, the heat struck Nathan like a furnace. The buildings here were four stories high and connected all the way up the block. Concrete apartments, concrete sidewalks, asphalt streets and hardly a tree in sight. He passed a few small markets and a school. Only a handful of pedestrians ventured out in the afternoon. A few cars drove past, and the occasional scooter, but for the most part it felt like a ghost town. At another intersection, Nathan came to an establishment called The Metro Bar. This looked like as good a place as any to keep cool and troll for information, if he didn’t get kicked out here, too. He stepped through the door and was enveloped once more by the sweet relief of air conditioning. A gray-haired gentleman stood behind a wooden bar. Three men and a woman of the same generation sat on stools nursing beers. Two younger women occupied a table. Mounted throughout the establishment were televisions tuned to football matches, but nobody was paying attention. Nathan bellied up to the bar, placed his knapsack on a stool, and took the one beside it.

“Buona giornata,” the bartender greeted him.

“Ciao,” Nathan replied. “Do you speak English?”

“No.”

“All right. Una birra.”

“Quale tipo?”

Nathan thought it over. What was he in the mood for this time? “Stout?”

“Irlanda? Italiano?”

“Try the Verdi,” said the woman down the bar. “It is very good. Verdi Imperial. It has won many medals.”

“That sounds like a good call, then,” Nathan replied and then nodded to the bartender. “Verdi Imperial Stout.”

“Bene.” The bartender reached for a glass and began to pour. The woman went back to conversing with her companions. Nathan was encouraged at least that somebody around here spoke English. The bartender finished the pour, dropped a coaster on the bar, and placed the beer on top. “È tutto?”

“SÌ. That’s all for now.” Nathan took a sip. It was quite good. He’d have to remember the name, though of course, he wasn’t here for the beer. After the reaction at the pizzeria, though, he wasn’t sure that throwing around Franco Gualtieri’s name was the best tactic, at least not right off the bat.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” he said to the woman, who gave him a quick smile in return, though her expression let him know that she wasn’t interested in chatting.

“Saluti,” she said.

“Cheers,” he answered, undeterred when she looked away. “I’m enjoying your fair city. There’s a lot to see around here.”

This time, all four of the customers looked at Nathan as though he was completely insane.

“Tourists, they prefer the center,” said one of the men.

“I like to take a look around a place, you know, see how the locals live. I never cared much for the tourist crowds.”

All four patrons turned away, shifting their conversation back to Italian. “Tough crowd,” Nathan muttered under his breath. He went back to his beer. The two younger women at the table were lost in their own conversation, though he saw one of them sneak a glance his way. He’d elicited some curiosity, at least. He shifted on his stool to better take them in. This pair were in their early twenties, one thin, the other a bit heavier, both with dark hair, one short the other tall. Neither would win any beauty contests, but they had youth on their side. The thinner one wore a sleeveless black shirt that showed off tattoos across both arms. A leather motorcycle jacket hung from her chair. It was an odd choice given the weather. Her friend wore a black dress and leather boots. Both wore heavy, black eye liner. Nathan downed a little more of his stout while he formulated a plan of attack. The indirect approach hadn’t worked any better than the direct, so far. All he could do was keep trying. He rose from his stool and carried his glass toward their table.

“Excuse me, do you two speak English?” he asked.

The women halted their conversation and stared at him in disbelief. Neither said a word, as though they hoped he’d simply get the hint. Nathan pressed on.

“I’m here from out of town. I thought I’d ask what there is to see around here.”

“Non possiamo aiutarti,” said the one with tattoos.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Nathan answered. It was time to try the direct approach. “I wonder if you could tell me this? There was a man named Franco Gualtieri who used to live around here. Did you know him?”

The woman’s jaw dropped. “Why you ask this?” she said.

“You are police?” said the one in the dress.

“No, not police.”

“Giornalista?”

“No, not a journalist. Just a curious private citizen.”

Again, both women stared at Nathan without saying a word, waiting for him to go away. He got the picture. “Sorry to bother you.” He returned to his seat at the bar. The young women launched back into conversation, with the tattooed one lifting her phone and firing off a text. One thing was apparent, whenever he mentioned the name Franco Gualtieri around here, it caused a stir.

Nathan finished his beer and ordered another. The four customers at the bar paid their tabs and left. A few new patrons came in, all of them on familiar terms with the bartender, who didn’t need to take their orders before pouring their drafts. Nathan considered alternate strategies for gathering intel on Gualtieri that didn’t involve asking random strangers. If he was able to locate an address for the man, he could go by the apartment and knock on the door, maybe speak with a girlfriend, or Franco’s mother. This entire angle made very little sense to Nathan. He could understand why someone would break into a vault to steal precious artifacts, but how Franco Gualtieri was connected to it, he had no idea. The two events may have had nothing to do with each other, but Nathan had to follow this thread until he knew for sure. He took out his phone and searched for any further records he could find on Gualtieri. He hadn’t gotten far when he was interrupted by the roar of a motorcycle pulling up outside. A man in a fitted leather riding jacket parked his bike and pulled off a shiny red helmet. Dismounting in a hurry, he placed the helmet on a rear-view mirror and rushed inside. Standing in the doorway, the man scanned the place, his eyes resting finally on Nathan. He moved to the two young women. “Chi è lui?!” he demanded. One of the women raised a hand and pointed. The man was on Nathan in an instant, hovering over him red-faced and glowering. “Why you here?” he said.

“I’m having a beer,” said Nathan.

“You ask questions. Why for?” The man was spoiling for a fight, and if it was going to come to that anyway, Nathan decided that he might as well push some buttons, to gauge the reaction if nothing else.

“I’m here about your friend, Franco,” Nathan said. “You want to explain why he attacked my boss?”

The man’s fury grew. He made fists with both hands. Nathan got off the bar stool. The guy was a scrapper, slightly smaller than Nathan but with an unpredictable ferocity. A fledgling black mustache gave away his young age, perhaps twenty years old at best. It almost wasn’t fair to go against this kid, one-on-one. Nathan was a trained Army Ranger, but the kid had youth on his side. Besides, he was the type who’d have fought street battles all of his life. One should never underestimate an opponent, but all the same, Nathan couldn’t help but think he’d make quick work of the guy if it actually came to that.

“Per favore, Lorenzo, non qui,” said the bartender. “Outside.”

Nathan lifted his knapsack. “Outside, then.” He went first, half expecting a cheap shot in the back of the head as he moved through the door. Lorenzo followed, with the two women just behind. Nathan passed the motorcycle, an orange and black Aprilia sportbike, before moving across the road and onto the center of a grassy roundabout. He dropped the knapsack to the ground and turned to face the Italian. The two women stood behind.

“We don’t have to do this,” said Nathan. “I didn’t come here for a fight. All I want is some answers.”

Lorenzo slid out of his jacket and handed it to one of the women before stepping forward.

“You think it was my fault, what happened to Franco?” Nathan continued. “He had nobody to blame but himself. Franco was a madman with a death wish.”

“You are the one with a death wish,” said one of the women. “Coming here, after what you did to him. This is our place, our neighborhood.”

“What did Franco have against Isabella Palermo? Just tell me that and we can all walk away from here.”

“You no walk,” said Lorenzo.

Nathan saw no other way out than through this guy, but things began to shift before the first punch was even thrown. In the distance came the rumble of more motorcycles approaching. A sly smile showed on Lorenzo’s lips. The cavalry was coming. Nathan looked to his knapsack, with the Beretta inside. Murder in broad daylight with witnesses didn’t seem like a good idea, even in self-defense. He had only a few seconds to consider it before the pack of motorcycles arrived, twelve sport bikes in all, a few with extra passengers on the back. They circled the roundabout, the riders revving their throttles in a deafening racket. This was all about intimidation, and in a neighborhood like this, there’d be no police arriving to defuse the situation. Nathan was on his own. After a few laps, the bikes pulled to a stop, surrounding them. With one last chorus from their throttles, they shut off their engines. The riders wore matching leather jackets, including at least one woman. She stood out, riding a bright red Ducati and wearing a white helmet with a black spiderweb decal on one side. The woman took her helmet off to reveal long, flowing black hair. Her eyes were ringed with heavy black liner, pointed on the corners, and they bored right into Nathan with an unmasked hatred.

The riders dismounted and formed a ring. One of the men snatched Nathan’s knapsack and lifted it in the air. “Hey!” Nathan tried to grab it back, but two others moved to block him.

“Is ours now,” said one as he waved a finger back and forth in the air.

“Get your hands off my bag,” said Nathan.

Lorenzo puffed up his chest and got right in Nathan’s face. “Lui è mio. Lascialo a me.”

Nathan got the gist of it. Lorenzo wanted first crack at him. The other men backed off a few steps, the whole pack of them jeering and hollering, braying for a fight. Nathan had no choice but to give them what they wanted. Lorenzo swung first, but it went wide as Nathan ducked his head just out of the way, then jabbed Lorenzo with a right to the jaw. He followed this with a solid left to Lorenzo’s gut, and the man doubled over. As expected, it was almost too easy, but now Nathan had the rest of them to worry about. He stood back to see if Lorenzo had any more fight left in him. The man couldn’t back down, not in front of his friends. His pride was at stake. He caught his breath and then lunged forward with another wild swing. Nathan parried it and pushed Lorenzo backward, causing the younger man to trip and fall. Yet more jeers arose from the angry crowd.

“You done yet, Lorenzo?” said Nathan. “There’s no shame in walking away.”

Unfortunately, Lorenzo didn’t see things that way. He climbed to his feet and put up his hands, more wary this time.

“All right, then,” said Nathan. “We’ll finish it.” He juked left, then right, then left again before catching Lorenzo with another right to the face, this time putting all of his weight behind it. Lorenzo dropped to the ground, out cold. It was enough to silence the crowd for a brief moment. A few of the spectators came to Lorenzo’s aid, trying to rouse him. Nathan stepped across to the man with his backpack and gave it a tug. “I’ll take this.”

“No.” Another man stepped forward. “Is my turn.” This one was larger than Lorenzo, and better built. A tattoo of a spiderweb spread out around his left eye and continued around his shaved head. Wrapped around the fingers of his right hand were the links of a metal chain. Those would do some serious damage, if the man connected. Nathan’s face would never be the same.

“Come on, guys,” Nathan said. “Fair is fair. My beef was with Lorenzo. We’ve settled it. Let’s all take a deep breath, shall we?”

“You fight Lorenzo, you fight us all,” said the man with the chain.

“Come on, seriously? Where’s the honor in that?” Before the man could answer, Nathan took the initiative of popping him hard in the jaw. Pain shot through Nathan’s hand, but it was worse for the other guy, who dropped to the ground beside Lorenzo. The crowd was momentarily stunned once more, but it wouldn’t last. Nathan snatched his knapsack. “Grazie,” he said, slipping it onto his back. He strode to the nearest bike, a green Ninja, threw a leg over, and hit the starter button. The motorcycle roared to life. “Ciao!” Nathan popped the bike into first gear and roared off up the street. Of course they’d be after him, but he had a jump on them. It would all come down to skill, and maybe a little bit of luck. At the first major boulevard, he turned left and opened the throttle, then shifted gears as he weaved around cars and trucks, the world whizzing past in a blur. In his mirrors, he spotted the gang members ripping onto the avenue a block behind him. Nathan ducked low behind the windscreen and focused on what was ahead. At a red light, he checked in both directions and then shot through, barely avoiding a delivery truck hurtling toward him. That would be an inauspicious way to go out, he realized, but at the next intersection he took a hard left and then jumped a curb, crossed a sidewalk and entered a park. He tore across the grass, fishtailing as he went on these smooth street tires. Joining a cobblestone walkway, he just missed a woman with a baby carriage before cresting a small hill. Facing a row of trees and a fence beyond that, he saw that he was trapped here with no way out. Nathan spun the bike around. His pursuers lined up below him, seven bikes in all. Nathan’s mind flashed back to his youth, tearing across the hills of Texas on a dirt bike. He had to hope that some of those skills survived. Nathan revved his throttle, let off the clutch, and took off straight toward his adversaries. Reaching the bottom, he swerved right, wound between a pair of them, and flew past. On the street he opened the bike once more, this time reaching 180 kilometers per hour, 190, 200, all while avoiding traffic. It wasn’t fast enough. These guys had skills, too, and Nathan couldn’t shake them. It was starting to seem like the Beretta would be his last, best option.

Nathan pulled down a side street and raced past a series of large warehouses until he came to one with a gaping front door, wide open. He ripped on inside, then hit the brakes and spun the bike around, pressed the kill switch and shut the Ninja down. His pursuers entered the space after him and circled around and around, the roar of their engines reverberating off the walls. They pulled to a stop and the woman on the Ducati held a fist in the air. They shut off their bikes. The sudden silence was the calm before an incoming storm. Nathan put down his kickstand, got off the Ninja and took a few steps away. His pursuers removed their helmets and one by one climbed off their own bikes. A lust for vengeance burned in their eyes. The woman on the Ducati alone appeared dispassionate. She snapped two fingers and the men started forward, slowly but deliberately. Nathan removed his knapsack, unzipped it, and reached a hand inside. He felt his water bottle, and his phone. His laptop was there, too. But no Beretta. He wasn’t one to panic, typically, but this was as close as he got. The bag had only been out of his hands for a brief few moments, but in that time…

“Are you looking for this?” One of the men held a pistol in the air. A black Beretta. Nathan’s heart sank. The man pointed it dead at Nathan’s chest from a distance of three meters. “Raise your hands.”

Nathan complied. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. Seven against one, and they had the gun. “Why don’t we talk this over,” he said. Unsurprisingly, none of them were interested in a chat. They approached like a horde of zombies, closer and closer, all six men while the woman watched. If they weren’t going to shoot him outright, the only other question was who would throw the first punch. Nathan decided it might as well be him. He picked out the largest of the lot, wound his arm back and swung. The man juked right and the punch didn’t land. It would be the only chance Nathan got. The blows rained down, beating on his head, his back, his sides. The best he could do was duck his face between his arms, but then his legs were cut out from beneath him and down he went onto the hard, concrete floor. Nathan curled into a ball and did his best to protect his head as he was kicked repeatedly with black leather biker boots. Somewhere in the maelstrom, a well-placed kick hit home. All consciousness drained away and Nathan Grant’s world went black.

Chapter Fifteen

The taste of blood on Nathan’s lips was his first sensation as he regained consciousness. His right eye was nearly swollen shut and every nerve ending in his body screamed in pain. They’d dragged him into a smaller room, an empty office, but he was still on the ground, only now his arms were cinched together behind his back with a strap. His tormentors were still there, though Nathan could only make them out as blurry shadows, hovering over him as they peered down at their handiwork.

“E 'vivo,” said one.

“Vai via,” said the woman’s voice. Nathan squinted with his better eye and saw her standing with arms crossed in front of her. “Tell us,” she said. “Why you have come?”

“Il suo nome è Nathan Grant,” said a man beside her, holding Nathan’s wallet in one hand and his driver’s license in the other. “Americano.”

“Americano,” the woman repeated. “What you are here, Americano? You seek revenge?”

“Information,” Nathan croaked. “That’s all.”

“Appoggiatelo al muro,” the woman directed some of the others.

The men dragged Nathan further across the floor, sending another shot of pain through his core. They lifted his torso and leaned his back against the wall. He spat blood across the concrete as the woman came closer, leaning down to get a better look.

“Tell me your name,” said Nathan.

The woman narrowed her eyes. “What you will tell me in return?”

“Anything.”

She stood tall, looming over him. “You talk, maybe you live.”

“Ask me anything.”

“I see you before, with the actress. You protect her, no?”

“Yes. Security. Not police. Private.”

She shook her head. “This whore, she sent you.”

“No.” Nathan struggled to speak, his vision fading in and out.

“I will end him,” said the man with the Beretta.

“Palermo didn’t send me,” Nathan repeated.

“I don’t believe you.” The woman crouched down, this time so close to Nathan that he felt her hot breath on his face. “Why you are here?”

“What Gualtieri did was suicide.”

“So?” The woman stood back up and crossed her arms.

“It makes no sense.”

“To me, yes. Perfect sense.”

“Explain it, then,” said Nathan, squinting up at her.

“To you? What for?”

“Kill him,” said another of the men. “For Franco. For Carla.”

“Carla?” said Nathan.

A third man wound back a leg and kicked Nathan hard in the side, sending him sprawling on the concrete once more. “You are not worthy to speak her name.”

“Passa a prenderlo,” the woman said, and Nathan was lifted back against the wall.

“You?” Nathan asked. “That’s your name?”

“I am Serena. Serena Leone, the one who decides if you live or you die.” She knelt back down and placed a single finger under Nathan’s chin, lifting his head to get a better look at him. “You took Carla’s life, I will take yours.”

“I don’t know any Carla.”

“We waste time!” said the man with the gun, his impatience growing.

“Shh!” Leone raised her other hand to silence him, then clamped her eyes shut as she lost herself in thought. A moment later they popped back open and she grasped Nathan’s jaw full in her hand. “You live, but you pay. Remember the name. Carla Gualtieri. You say it.”

“Gualtieri,” said Nathan. “The same as Franco.”

Serena turned to the others, “Fagli sentire il dolore.” She walked out of the room. The roar of her Ducati echoed through the warehouse as she started it up and took off.

“This is going to get ugly all over again, isn’t it?” said Nathan. He was answered by six street thugs punching and kicking and pounding him into oblivion.

Chapter Sixteen

Serena Leone was true to her word, at least. Nathan had lived, but only just. He woke in a hospital bed, wrapped in bandages, with a splint on his left arm and an IV in his right. The pain was severe from head to toe, but it would have been worse if it hadn’t been for some powerful pain meds. Whatever they had him on was clouding his brain, but he wasn’t going to argue. He didn’t know where he was, or how long he’d been out, or much of anything else. He did remember the beating, and he remembered two names. The first was Serena Leone. The second was Carla Gualtieri. None of that seemed to matter much anymore. Not to Nathan Grant. He’d had enough. As soon as he recovered, Nathan was going back to France. Italy could take care of itself.

Beside Nathan’s bed was a call button, and he managed to reach out a hand to press it. A nurse came into the room in an excited state, checking on him while shouting out to colleagues. “È sveglio, è sveglio!” They were quickly joined by two more nurses and a doctor.

“Can you up the dose on my meds?” Nathan croaked. “If you don’t mind?”

The staff scurried around checking his vitals, seemingly surprised that he’d survived at all. The next few days were a blur of semi-consciousness, a liquid diet and around-the-clock care. He had no phone, no clothes of his own, no ID, no money. The doctors told him he’d been found by warehouse workers, beaten to a pulp. He arrived at the hospital in a coma and was out for the next three days. They had no idea who he was, or who to call on his behalf. He was the Italian equivalent of a “John Doe.” Nathan had a fractured left forearm, two broken ribs, bruised kidneys, and numerous cuts and abrasions. It hurt just to breathe. He was able to give them his name and nationality, but didn’t share much more. Two days after regaining consciousness he was getting up and out of bed, with assistance, to use the facilities and take short walks back and forth across the room. Without a phone he was effectively cut off from the world, but he didn’t particularly mind. In many ways, this prehistoric state of being was a relief. The only challenge was boredom. When he’d recovered his focus enough to read, an orderly stopped by his room bringing Nathan a stack of options in English, and he kept his mind occupied with a worn novel and outdated magazines. A television in his room had more than 100 channels in Italian and two in English, both of them news broadcasts. With his contract to Palermo canceled, Nathan had no commitments or obligations. Nobody knew he was here, and he doubted anyone was looking. By day three, however, he was eating solid food and planning his escape, whether the doctors cleared him or not. That was when the police arrived, looking for a statement and a description of his attackers.

“Serena Leone,” Nathan told them. “I’m sure you’ve heard of her.”

The two officers seemed surprised. “A woman did this to you?”

“Not personally, but she seemed to be in charge.”

One of the officers wrote the name in a small notebook. “You would like to press charges, then? Against this woman, Serena Leone?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Not if I’d need to stick around for a trial. I’m ready to get the hell out of here, if you don’t mind.”

“You do not want this woman, this Signorina Leone, to pay for her crime, for what she did to you?”

“Honestly, I just don’t care anymore, about any of it.”

“Any of... it, signore?”

“Never mind. Look, these people seem to have it out for my boss. My former boss, I should say. Isabella Palermo. You might want to contact the authorities in Rome and let them know.”

“And what shall we tell them?” said the other officer.

“That Franco Gualtieri wasn’t working alone.”

“Gualtieri, you say?” The officer jotted down the name. “Who is Franco Gualtieri?”

Even sharing this much information made Nathan uneasy. He was loath to get dragged in any deeper when he was trying to wash his hands of it all. Up until this point, he’d enjoyed the thrill to a certain extent. Chasing bad guys was in his blood, he’d long come to realize, perhaps even an addiction. The fact that he’d been getting paid made it all the better, but being beaten to within an inch of one’s life somehow took the fun out of it. What was the point? After all that he’d been through, Nathan still had very little idea of what was actually going on here. There were too many moving parts that he hadn’t been able to connect. Now there was yet another in Carla Gualtieri, but lying in this hospital bed, he preferred to think about anything else.

The police pressed for further details about the attack, and what Nathan was doing here in Naples in the first place. He was cagey, and eventually they gave up. If he wasn’t going to help them bring his attackers to justice, they didn’t have much patience for him. The officer with the notebook slipped it into a pocket. “I wish you a full recovery, Signor Grant. My advice to you is that you leave Naples as soon as you are able.”

“I expect to follow that advice, thank you.”

“Goodbye.” The two officers moved toward the door as a nurse came in to check on him.

“I do have one more question for you,” Nathan said to the officers. He couldn’t seem to help himself, despite his best intentions. That kernel of curiosity did remain, buried deep within him. “Does the name Carla Gualtieri mean anything to you?”

The officers looked at each other, but it hadn’t seemed to spark any familiarity. “No, signore. Carla Gualtieri? She also attacked you?”

“No. Never mind. Forget it.”

“As you wish. Arrivederci.”

“Bye.”

The officers left the room, and the nurse set to checking Nathan’s bandages. In the midst of her task, she stopped, staring at him as though she had something to say.

“Is everything all right?” Nathan asked.

The nurse went back to her work, removing a bandage and tossing it into the trash, then cleaning his wound with disinfectant and putting on a fresh dressing. She took a step back and then made the sign of the cross before pressing her hands together in prayer and looking down toward her shoes. “Gesù Cristo nostro Signor, abbi pietà della sua anima.”

“What is this about?” Nathan asked, but the nurse hurried out of the room. “Hey!” Nathan called after to no avail. “What was that?” he said again, this time to himself. She was asking Christ for salvation, but why? Nathan shifted his thoughts back to France. He’d be a few months ahead on his mortgage at this point and could get back to his business at hand. And yet… the name Carla Gualtieri hadn’t meant anything to the police, but was that what set off the nurse? It seemed that way, but he had no way to be sure. He didn’t plan to be here by morning. He’d get another meal out of them, and one more night of sleep, then slip away. The problem was, he still had no money, no ID and no clothes, aside from the blue hospital gown he was wearing. He couldn’t very well walk around Naples in that, with his underwear showing out the back. And how would he get back to Rome? His belongings were theoretically still in his hotel room there. It seemed that he was going to need to rely on the kindness of strangers, one way or another.

Later in the evening, one of the doctors came to check on Nathan’s progress. “How are you feeling?” The doctor was young, probably just out of medical school.

“Improving,” Nathan replied.

“How about your left arm?” She took it in hand and twisted gently. A jolt of pain shot through Nathan’s brain. “That bad?” she said. “I’d like to have another X-Ray done, to check the radius and ulna. We might need to get you into a cast.”

“I don’t have time for that, I need to be moving along.”

“I don’t recommend that, Signor Grant. Your body needs to heal.”

“I’ll have someone check it out when I get back to France. Is that good enough for you?”

“No, not good enough. If you have a fracture, we should get you in a cast before you travel, not after.”

“It’s my arm, doctor. I appreciate the advice, but I’ll make the decisions.”

“As you wish, though I strongly disapprove.”

“I got that. What about my clothing? Can I have it back?”

“Only your boots survived, and your socks. I will have them brought to you. The rest we had to cut from your body. The hospital operates a charity shop on the ground floor. One of our orderlies can bring you some items to wear.”

“I don’t have any money to pay for them.”

“We can accommodate you, but you understand, I am not ready to release you.”

“Sure.”

The doctor looked at Nathan knowing full well what he had in mind. Instead of arguing, she went about checking his other injuries and made some notes on a tablet. “I will write a prescription for pain pills, but please, take them only as directed. These medications are highly addictive.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you have any other questions for me?” The doctor held her tablet across her chest and concentrated her gaze on Nathan.

“Yes,” he said. “Have you heard of a woman by the name of Carla Gualtieri?”

“That is not the type of question I expected.”

“Can you answer it anyway?”

“I have heard the name, yes.”

“Really? Can you tell me anything about that?”

“There is such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality. You have heard of this, no?”

“Does it still apply if the patient is deceased?”

The doctor took a moment to think this over. “You are a mystery, aren’t you Signor Grant?”

“I’m trying to solve one, actually. I’m hoping that you can help me.”

“Signorina Gualtieri was technically a patient here, I suppose, though she was dead on arrival, as you would say.”

“Murdered?”

“No, Signor Grant. Not murdered. The coroner ruled that it was suicide.”

“Was that definitive?”

“You asked me a question, this is my answer. Signorina Gualtieri passed due to blood loss caused by self-inflicted cuts to the wrists. The police found her in a bathtub at her home. A razor blade on the edge of the tub held her fingerprints. Is this enough for you?”

“That does sound definitive.”

“If there is nothing more, I will send in the orderly about your clothing sizes.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

“You can thank me by allowing yourself to heal, Mr. Grant.” The doctor turned and left the room.

“Sure,” Nathan said quietly, but his mind was preoccupied with this latest bit of information. Serena Leone had implied that Carla Gualtieri was killed. The doctor told him otherwise. Who was right? Nathan fought against the creeping urge to care.

It was the following morning when one of the orderlies showed up with a selection of folded clothing on his cart. “Buongiorno, Signor Grant!” said Marco. This young man seemed to perform a daily miracle. He was always in a good mood. Nathan didn’t get it, but he admired the kid just the same.

“Good morning to you, Marco.”

“I am told that you will be leaving us.”

“Who said?”

“The doctor, Palmieri, she signed your release.”

“No kidding.”

“You didn’t know?”

“I’m glad to hear it from you, Marco. I’m ready to check out of this pleasure palace and get on with my life.”

“I am sad to see it, signore. I appreciate the opportunity to practice my English.”

“You speak very well.”

“Thank you!” A familiar smile broke out on the man’s face. “I have brought some clothing for you. Let us see if it fits, shall we?”

Nathan sat up on his bed, still with some stiffness, and then thumbed through the stack. It included a few collared shirts, one gray T-shirt, a faded pair of jeans, another pair of khaki pants, and a brown belt. On the bottom of the cart were Nathan’s own brown leather boots and the socks he’d come in with, cleaned and folded, plus a package of new cotton underwear still in the plastic. “You’re very good to me, Marco.” Nathan stood and slipped out of the robe and went for the underwear first. He’d had on his original pair for a week straight. By this time, it ought to be incinerated. After changing these, he tried the jeans, but they were a tad too tight. The khakis were slightly loose around the waist, but the belt took care of that. “So far, so good,” he said, then tried on the T-shirt. It was also a little tight.

“Perfetto!” said Marco.

“You think?”

“Yes, yes, very good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Nathan stepped into the bathroom and took a peek in the mirror. The clothes were fine, but his face still looked like it had gone through a meat grinder, with cuts and abrasions not yet healed, and one fading black eye. None of it seemed likely to cause any permanent scarring. The general public might be somewhat disconcerted, but there was nothing to be done about that.

“Where will you go now, Signor Grant? You will stay in Naples?” said Marco.

“No.” Nathan moved back into the room. “Rome, if I can get there, then back to France.”

“Somebody will take you? To Rome?”

“No.” Nathan shook his head. Hitching a ride seemed his only tenable option.

The first worried look all week crossed Marco’s face. He reached for his wallet and then combed through it, pulling out a twenty-euro bill and holding it forward. “Here, you will take the train.”

Nathan held up one hand in protest. “You’ve done enough for me already, thank you.”

“Please.” Marco took Nathan’s other hand and pressed the bill into his palm. “For me.”

Nathan hesitated but then wrapped his fingers around the note. He couldn’t very well refuse, though he knew from experience that the ticket price was fifty euros, not twenty.

“I am sorry,” said Marco. “Is all I have, but you take the slow train.”

“The slow train?”

“Yes. Is three hours, not one hour.”

“That’s fine. Perfect. Grazie.”

“Prego.” Marco refolded the jeans and put them back on the cart before wheeling it toward the door. “Buon viaggio.”

“Take care, Marco.”

Nathan had one last breakfast of watery eggs, toast and burned coffee, then signed his discharge papers and was off. He took an elevator to the ground floor and walked with a stiff gait to the lobby of the hospital. He had no idea where this place was, even. A friendly receptionist at the front desk explained that Spatuzzi Hospital was only a five-minute walk from the train station, so Nathan set off, stretching his legs in earnest for the first time since he’d been admitted.

Crossing the Piazza Garibaldi, with outdoor cafes serving breakfast to eager customers, there was something about it all that appealed to him, despite his circumstances. He loved Rome, of course, but this place felt more authentic. These weren’t tourists having their morning coffee, they were locals, preparing themselves to get on with their day. Nathan might have enjoyed taking in Naples a little more, but not this time around. He was ready to get back to his life. At the train station, he bought a ticket for the slow train, leaving in just over an hour. Second-class fare just fifteen euros. That left him with five euros for a coffee, a real one as opposed to what they’d served him at the hospital. He went back to the piazza, found a quiet cafe and took a table on the sidewalk. A waiter handed him a menu. An espresso was one euro fifty. A chocolate croissant was two and a half more. That left an extra euro for the tip.

After his order came out, Nathan sipped the coffee slowly. There wasn’t much of it, and he had some time to kill. He watched the comings and goings in the square as a broad swath of society went to and from the station. A man wandered along checking garbage receptacles for empty cans and bottles. A young woman stood outside a massage parlor, attempting to lure in prospective customers. Nathan took a bite of his croissant. His thoughts shifted back to Carla Gualtieri. He’d tried to let it go, but couldn’t seem to manage. Who was this woman? Franco’s wife, sister, mother, aunt? His cousin, perhaps? And why had she killed herself? Nathan had a ticket for Rome in his pocket. The train would depart in less than an hour. All he had to do was get on it. In Rome, he would gather his passport and extra cash from the safe in his hotel room and get the hell out of Dodge, putting this entire episode in the rear-view mirror.

Without a watch, Nathan kept an eye on a clock on the wall of the cafe, just inside the window. The minutes ticked down, forty-five to go, then forty-two, thirty-eight. He finished the last of his croissant. Part of what bothered him was that, while he didn’t like being beaten up in general, he liked it even less under false pretenses. They’d blamed him for the death of Carla Gualtieri, a suicide. He ought to let it go. He ought to forget about the whole thing and chalk it up to experience. He knew that, and yet as he sat here in this cafe, he also knew that he couldn’t. Curiosity, vengeance, whatever it was that drove him, Nathan Grant had to follow through. He was indescribably annoyed with himself, but Nathan simply wasn’t capable of leaving it alone. He flagged down the waiter and paid his check, then stood and walked out of the cafe.

If he was going to do this, and apparently he was, then Nathan needed transportation, not to Rome but back to the Scampia neighborhood. He walked along the square until he came to a side-street, then hooked around to an alley that ran behind the cafes. A white delivery van pulled up and the driver got out and went around to the rear of the vehicle. The delivery man opened the back door and took out a tray of baked goods, then carried it into one of the restaurants. Nathan swung the back door shut, came around to the driver’s side and climbed in. The keys were in the ignition. The engine was running. Too easy. Nathan shifted the van into gear and drove away. In the mirror, he saw the man run out, waving his hands in the air as he shouted.

Nathan turned right at the first intersection. Navigating an unfamiliar city without an online map was a challenge in and of itself. In this case, the driver would be calling the police already. The van probably had a tracker in it, too, so the employer could keep an eye on its location. Nathan wouldn’t have a whole lot of time before he’d need to ditch it, but with some luck he’d get where he needed to go before things got too dicey. He knew Scampia was northwest, so he wound his way in that direction, past the airport. Eventually he recognized one of the parks he’d seen before, and knew he was close. He pulled the van over and parked on the side of the road. Before climbing out, he went into the back and took a few pastries for himself. He couldn’t say when he’d have a chance to eat again, so he wolfed one down and took another along as he got out and locked the van with the keys inside. He walked through the park, finishing the pastry and then licking his fingers.

Here Nathan was, back in Scampia, unarmed and on a fool’s errand. If these street thugs spotted him again, he wouldn’t end up in the hospital, it would be the morgue. He needed to get to Serena Leone, alone. To locate her, he’d need some help. Nathan headed for the pizza place where he’d had his first lunch in the neighborhood. It was still mid-morning when he arrived, and the place wasn’t open for business yet, so Nathan sat on a set of cement stairs in front. Behind him, a roll-down metal door was splashed with graffiti. He took a small bottle of pain pills from his pocket, popped the top, and downed one without any water. He slid the bottle back into the pocket and then rubbed his left forearm, sending a shock wave through his nerve endings. Roughly twenty minutes later, Nathan spotted the young woman with the magenta hair making her way along the sidewalk. Seeing him, she hesitated, steeling herself to any unpleasantness. “We are closed,” she said.

“I’m not here for the pizza.” Nathan stood. “Or the calzones.”

The woman eyed his bruised and busted face. From her pocket, she pulled out an e-cigarette, put it to her lips, and inhaled, then blew a stream of vapor from one side of her mouth. “You are asking questions.”

“That’s right.”

“About Franco Gualtieri.”

“Among others.”

“And you do not learn your lesson, I can see.”

“I’m stubborn that way.”

The woman put her e-cig away and took out a set of keys before leaning down to unlock the roller door and slide it upwards. Another key went into an inner door, which she unlocked. “I am sorry. The restaurant, it is not open.” She moved through and tried to close the door behind her but Nathan stuck a foot in to block it.

“Please,” he said. “I just want to talk.”

“I cannot.”

“I’m looking for somebody. Do you know a woman named Serena Leone?”

“Of course.”

Nathan wasn’t surprised. The two women were of a similar age and from the same neighborhood. They’d probably gone to school together their whole lives, or at least until one of them dropped out. “Can you tell me where to find her?”

“No.”

“Because you don’t know, or because you won’t help me?”

“My boss, he will arrive very soon. I cannot speak with you.”

“Give me her address and I’ll leave you alone. That’s all I need.”

“Serena’s gang, they did this to you, yes?” She motioned to his face. “It was not enough?”

“Tell me where she lives. I’m not going to hurt her.”

“Please.” The woman pulled on the door.

“What happened to Carla Gualtieri? At least tell me that much. Was it suicide?”

The woman looked behind her at the kitchen, still dark, then shifted her view out on the street, to see who might be watching. “I cannot speak here.”

“Where, then?”

“You stay here, un momento!” She held up one hand.

“All right.” Nathan stood where he was while the woman went further inside to the counter. She took a napkin and drew something on it, then brought the napkin back and handed it to him.

“Three o’clock, you come to this place. Please, nobody must know.”

To Nathan, that meant he’d have more than four hours to kill, and without a cent to his name, but at least he was making some small progress. He looked at the napkin. On it was a hand-drawn map and a hastily-scrawled address. “Is there a library around here? What do you call it, a biblioteca?”

The woman gave some vague directions, up a few blocks and then over. “Go!” she said. “Per favore.”

“Grazie,” Nathan replied. “See you this afternoon.”

The library wasn’t hard to find. Inside it was mostly empty, but for a few pensioners whiling away their days at the magazine stacks. To use a public computer, Nathan needed a library card. For a library card, he needed an ID. Of course, had neither. Instead, he joined the retirees, thumbing through a rack of periodicals before taking his place in a plush chair. He started off with a National Geographic, in English, admiring a photo-essay of waterfalls and rugged open spaces in Iceland. The article after that one seemed to taunt him, with photos of ancient Egyptian artifacts from a newly-discovered tomb in the Valley of the Kings. Here was a golden scepter, there a funeral mask. Daniela Sorrento would love it, no doubt, but for Nathan it was all too much. He put the magazine down and within a few minutes he was nodding off. Nobody disturbed him. By the time he woke up, he’d killed two hours. He flipped through a few more magazines, used the restroom, and then opted to take a walk.

A little after 3 p.m., Nathan headed to the address that the young woman had jotted down. He arrived to find a typical apartment block, worn down and in need of repair. Below the address, the woman had written a doorbell code. Nathan punched it into a keypad by the front door.

“Prego!” the woman’s voice came through.

“It’s Nathan Grant, the American.”

“Floor three, apartment is number six.”

The door buzzed and Nathan pushed it open, then made his way to an elevator. He’d been in plenty of buildings just like this one, all over the world. Nobody thrived in a place like this. It was where the working classes survived, at best. The all had the same stale smells in the hallways, graffiti etched in the elevators, and universal air of hopelessness throughout. On the third floor, he found his way to apartment number six, with the metal bars of a security door on the front. He pressed a doorbell button and a few seconds later, a man’s voice called out. “Chi è la?” The inner door swung open and Nathan found himself facing a young man in a gray T-shirt and black underwear. His head was shaven and he had one pierced ear. “Chi sei?” he said.

“Who are you?” Nathan answered.

“Lui è qui per me!” The young woman appeared from a back room and pushed past the man, scooting him out of the way as she stuck a key in the security door and swung it open. “Come in. Please.”

Nathan and the young man eyed each other.

“Cosa riguarda?” the man said.

“Niente. È per me.”

The man didn’t like whatever was going on, but it was clear who was in charge in this relationship. He gave Nathan the evil eye once more, but then retreated into a back bedroom.

“Please,” the woman repeated. Nathan entered the apartment and she closed and locked both doors behind them, then led him into a kitchen. “Sit,” she said, motioning to a small table. Nathan did as he was told, then watched as she opened a cabinet and took out a bottle of grappa and brought it to the table, along with two glasses. She poured them each a stiff one and held hers aloft. “Saluti,” she said.

“Cheers,” he replied, lifting the other. They threw them back. From the way it burned going down, Nathan realized this wasn’t the good stuff, but he wasn’t going to complain. The woman poured them each another and took a seat across from him. “Thank you for inviting me into your home,” he said.

“Is better here. Nobody sees.”

“Tell me, what is your name?”

“Francesca.”

“Thank you, Francesca. I’m Nathan. I have a lot of questions for you. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Who you are? Why you have questions?”

“I’m investigating the attack on Isabella Palermo by Franco Gualtieri.”

“Why?”

“I was hired by Signorina Palermo, to protect her.”

Francesca furrowed her brow and took another sip of the grappa. “Why you ask about Carla?”

“Your friend Serena seemed to think I had something to do with Carla’s death.”

“And? Is true?”

“No, of course not. They told me at the hospital it was suicide.”

“And you trust them?”

“Look, you’ll have to pardon me, but I don’t know the first thing about any of this. Who was Carla? Can we start with that? What did she have to do with this?”

“Carla Gualtieri. The sister.”

“Whose, Franco’s?”

“Of course.”

“OK, we’re making progress.”

The young man poked his head through the doorway and shot a glance at Francesca, then Nathan, and back. “Stai bene?” he asked her.

“SÌ,” she assured him. “Bene.”

The man glared directly at Nathan as if to warn him, then disappeared again.

“So?” said Nathan. “What happened to Carla? Was it suicide?”

“Yes, is true. She did this to herself, by her hand.”

“Then why did Serena think it was my fault?”

“Because, Isabella Palermo. She is the one, the guilty one. That means you also are guilty.”

“Isabella Palermo drove Carla Gualtieri to suicide? Is that what you’re saying?”

“Yes.”

“And Franco Gualtieri came to Rome to exact his revenge?”

“This is surprise for you?”

“I can’t say I believe it.”

Francesca stood from the table and moved across the room to a window overlooking a small interior courtyard. She turned a knob on the window frame and swung it open to let in some fresh air, then took her e-cigarette from her pocket and brought it to her lips, inhaling a stream of vapor and then blowing it outside. Turning her back to the window, she leaned against the sill. “I spoke with Carla, two days before,” Francesca began. “She told me, all the story.”

“Go on.”

Francesca took another hit from her e-cig and launched right into it, starting from the very beginning. Carla Gualtieri was a dreamer who wanted more from life than could be found in this crime-ridden, working-class neighborhood in Naples. She was born into an abusive family, along with her older brother, Franco. Each of them dealt with it in their own way. Franco’s was to become a small-time thug, joining the local street gang. As survivors, the pair of them maintained a tight bond. Both yearned for a better life for Carla, and by the time she was seventeen, he’d helped her save enough money to move to Rome. Carla Gualtieri was going to be a model and an actress, finding what work she could manage along the way. At some point, she was cast in a small role opposite Isabella Palermo. It felt as though her big break had finally arrived.

“I think I know where this is going,” said Nathan, recalling De Luca’s description of young women at the villa. Isabella Palermo was an enabler for Adnan Abbas. Such was the price for a life of wealth and glamour. Abbas was her producer. He made her the star that she was, and he could take it all away. The sordid truth of it made Nathan sick to his stomach.

“On the island, they destroyed her.”

“What do you mean, what island?”

“Where they kept her, as a slave.”

“Not Rome?”

“No. Somewhere else, this island, I do not know the name of it.”

“But she escaped? Or they released her?”

Francesca shrugged. “Is the same, no? She returned to Naples, to the family she despised. Two days later, she was found. Morta.”

To Nathan, this part of the puzzle was beginning to make a little more sense, though he couldn’t tie any of it to stolen Egyptian antiquities. “Were other girls on this island, or only Carla?”

“More girls, yes.”

“How many?”

Francesca shrugged again and took another hit, then slid the e-cig in her pocket and shut the window. On her phone, she pulled up a photo and held it out. “Carla and Franco,” she said. The image showed a thin girl with long, dark hair. She was laughing, with one elbow bent and a cigarette between her fingers. In front of her was the young man who’d ended up dead in the pool at the Abbas villa.

“She looks so young.” Nathan drank some more grappa, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat.

“What you will do? You look for Serena, for revenge?”

“No. I’m not interested in revenge. I’m going back to Rome, but I could use one last favor.”

“You ask too much, signore.”

“All I need is a ride to the train station, if you can manage it. I promise, after that you’ll never see me again.”

Francesca thought it over and then raised a finger in the air. “You wait.” She went into the back room, where it only took a few seconds before an argument erupted as she and her boyfriend shouted at each other in Italian. It was all too much for Nathan. He stood from the table and moved to the front door, where he paused to listen for a few more beats and then let himself out, opting to take the stairs down to the street. As he contemplated how long it might take him to walk, or whether he should try to hitch a ride, the door to the building swung open and Francesca’s boyfriend emerged. He walked to a row of Vespa scooters parked along the curb and climbed onto one of them, turned the key and fired it up. The man pulled out and swung around to a stop beside Nathan. “Andiamo,” he said.

Nathan climbed onto the back seat, grasped handles on either side, and placed his feet on the rear pegs. “Andiamo,” he repeated, and off they went, zipping down the street.

Chapter Seventeen

After successfully changing his ticket, Nathan boarded a train departing Naples at 4:20 p.m. He slept most of the way, waking up shortly before arrival at Rome’s Termini station. From there, it was a forty-minute walk back to his hotel. He entered the lobby and approached the front desk. “I need a key to my room, please,” he informed the clerk.

“I am sorry, sir, but you are no longer registered.” The man eyed Nathan’s beat-up appearance with apprehension.

“But I never checked out.”

The clerk tapped a few buttons on his computer as he squinted at the screen. “Your bill was paid through last Tuesday. It is now Sunday. We attempted to reach you.”

“What about my things? My clothing?”

“Please, give me a moment.” The clerk retreated into a storage room, rustled around and then reappeared with Nathan’s garment bag. “It is yours?”

“Yeah, it’s mine.” Nathan took the bag in hand and placed it on the counter before going through the outside pockets. “Can I book a room for the night, please?”

“Unfortunately, we have no availability this evening. The hotel is full.”

Nathan found his passport in one of the pockets. Tucked inside were two one-hundred-euro notes and a credit card. At least he was getting somewhere. His best bet would be to head straight for the airport, get on the next plane to Marseille, and put this whole mess behind him. “Were there any messages for me?” he asked.

The clerk went to a row of small wooden cubbies and pulled out a stack of notes. “Yes, sir.” He placed them on the counter. Nathan flipped through the papers, all of them from Daniela Sorrento. Nothing at all from Isabella Palermo or Adnan Abbas.

“Thank you.” Nathan pocketed the notes and then lifted his bag. “You have a good evening.”

“And you, sir. Shall I call a taxi for the gentleman?”

“No. That won’t be required.” Nathan hoisted the strap over his right shoulder and walked out. He could take a cab to the airport, but why push it? A proper meal and a good night’s sleep were in order. He’d only been released from the hospital that morning. The effects of his beating persisted, in both his body and his soul. Nathan headed up the street, passing a few more small hotels as he went, all with red neon signs in the front window; Occupato. No real surprise there. It was the height of the tourist season.

Nearly half an hour later, Nathan was feeling discouraged. He was nearly to the train station when he came upon a crumbling post-war edifice that hadn’t been renovated in at least fifty years. Based on the seedy clientele loitering outside, it seemed like the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour, but at this point he wouldn’t be picky. He went inside and found a skinny, wrinkled man behind a desk. “Do you have any rooms?”

“Stasera?” said the man.

“Yes, tonight.”

The man nodded. “One hundred twenty euro.”

“That’s a little steep, isn’t it?”

The man stared at him without an answer.

“Fine.”

“Passaporto.”

Nathan handed it over. “Is there a phone in the room?”

“SÌ.”

Nathan paid in advance and took an ancient elevator up three flights. The room was about what he’d expected: small, dingy, and smelling of cigarette smoke. It did have a phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to use it. He wasn’t ready to give up this state of disconnection from any and all responsibility. As it was, nobody could find him and he didn’t feel like being found. Not yet, anyway. He left his bag in the room and went out for dinner to a fairly average restaurant a block away, where he had a standard tagliatelle al ragu and a glass of Chianti. The pasta was overcooked and drowning in sauce. It was a shame to have this be his last dinner in Italy, but all he really wanted at this point was some rest. Back in the hotel before 11 p.m., Nathan showered and then climbed into bed. He was sound asleep within five minutes.

Waking at 8:00 a.m. the following morning, Nathan was groggy and in need of caffeine. His left arm throbbed, and the rest of his body was a patchwork of additional aches and pains. He got dressed and went through his bag for a full accounting. His belongings were all there, including one of the two suits Abbas had made for him. He zipped up the bag and was ready to head to the airport when he reached into his pocket and felt the message slips. Pulling them out, Nathan looked from the notes to the phone on his room desk. He ought to check in at least, to keep Sorrento from worrying. He sat at the desk and lifted the receiver. The phone must have dated from the 1990s, but at least there was a dial tone. He punched in Sorrento’s number and waited. She picked up on the second ring.

“Prego.” Sorrento spoke in a whisper.

“Good morning, Daniela. This is Nathan Grant.”

She raised her voice. “Where you have been?!”

“Away.”

“Away?! Where away?”

“Naples.”

“Napoli,” she repeated, stunned.

“I would have called sooner, but I spent three days in a coma.”

Sorrento didn’t respond to this one, as though she couldn’t quite fathom what he was saying, so Nathan continued.

“Look, I just called to let you know I’m all right. You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m about to check out of my hotel and catch a cab to the airport.”

“No! You cannot.”

“I can and I will.”

“I must explain, in person,” she said. “Please! We must meet.”

“If you’re in some kind of trouble, you ought to call the police. Is your safety at risk?”

“Please,” she repeated. “When is your flight?”

Nathan hesitated. “I haven’t booked one yet.”

“Which hotel are you in? I will come to you.”

“I’m staying by the train station. There’s a restaurant nearby, the Caffe Repubblica. Do you know it?”

“I will find it.”

“If you haven’t arrived by the time I’m done with breakfast, don’t expect me to wait.”

“I will be there.”

“OK, then, see you soon.” Nathan hung up the phone. Daniela Sorrento’s tone had suggested that she was frightened. Nathan could offer her advice. He might even be able to fill in some of the gaps in her understanding of things. If she expected anything more, she was going to be disappointed. The sooner Nathan put some distance between himself and this country, the better.

At the Caffe Repubblica, Nathan took a table and ordered a caprese omelet with fresh tomato, mozzarella and basil, along with a double Americano. Daniela Sorrento arrived even before his coffee, sweeping into the restaurant with an urgent air. She spotted Nathan and hurried over to take the seat just opposite.

“Good morning,” said Nathan. “Would you like to order breakfast? I’ve got an omelet on the way.”

Sorrento didn’t seem to hear him, she was too busy staring at the cuts and bruises on his face.

The waiter dropped off Nathan’s Americano in a tall, narrow glass with a handle on one side. “You would like to order?” he asked Sorrento.

“No.” She gave a shake of the head.

“Caffè?” said the waiter.

“No grazie.”

“Bene.” He walked off.

“What happened to you?” Sorrento squinted at Nathan.

“It’s a long story.” Nathan lifted the coffee but it was too hot to drink, so he blew on the top and then set it back down. “I’d rather stick to why you’re here. What’s so urgent?”

“Tommaso is missing. I cannot reach him. Not by phone, nor email, nothing.”

“Tommaso Cardona? Your boss? Maybe his phone died. It’s usually the simplest explanations that prove correct.”

“No. Something has happened. Something terrible, I know it.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Tommaso, he was investigating.” Sorrento lowered her voice, anxiety flashing in her eyes. “The information, it was disturbing what he found.”

“In what way?”

Sorrento looked to her hands resting on the table. “He met a woman, a young woman. She told him stories. This woman, she was kidnapped and taken to an island…”

“Her name wasn’t Carla, was it?”

“No, not Carla. Alessandra.” Sorrento gave Nathan a searching look.

“Never mind, go on.”

“This island, it was a fortress, many hours across the sea. Alessandra was held there, tortured, abused.”

“This sounds familiar. Any connection here to Egyptian artifacts?”

“These men, her abusers, they were collectors. Hedonism alone did not bring them to this place. It was an auction. Stolen artifacts.”

“Egyptian?”

“No, but Tommaso believed that another auction was imminent. The last we spoke, he was on his way to the police.”

“Did he know who was behind it? Any names?”

“No. No names. Descriptions, yes. These men, they were from all around the world.”

“I’m sorry to hear all of this, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

“I will go to the press. These men, they want their secrets kept. I will make sure the world knows.”

“I don’t have to tell you, this is a dangerous game.”

“No game, Signor Grant. This is why I have come. You will protect me.”

Nathan shook his head in response. “One look at my face ought to disabuse you of that idea. Trouble has a way of finding me.”

“The young woman, Alessandra, she will accompany us. A reporter is waiting, from the newspaper, La Nazionale. The truth is our only weapon. We must use it.”

“I admire your idealism,” said Nathan, though in contrast, he himself was beset by a creeping cynicism. He’d always striven to do the right thing, to fight the good fight, but at this point he just wasn’t having fun anymore. That didn’t mean he wasn’t concerned for Daniela Sorrento, but these fears weren’t enough to change his mind. “Tommaso had the right idea. You should go to the police. If you don’t trust the local cops, try the Carabinieri. They can protect you.”

Sorrento sat where she was, eyes blinking open and shut. “I should have known, a man who worked for Adnan Abbas would never help us.”

“I’m sorry, Daniela.”

“Not sorry enough.”

“I can’t save the world. Not by myself. Three days in a coma made me realize that.”

“I am not talking about the world.”

“The Carabinieri, that’s my best advice.”

Sorrento’s shoulders dropped as it sank in that she was on her own, though she wasn’t ready to give up on Nathan entirely. She waved down the waiter as he went past. “Una penna, per favore,” she said. The waiter nodded, removed a pen from an apron pocket and handed it to her. Sorrento took a paper napkin and scrawled a phone number on it, then slid it across the table. “In the case that you find a conscience,” she said to Nathan, “you call me.” With that, she stood and walked off, across the dining room and out the door. Nathan lifted his coffee again and managed a sip as his omelet arrived.

“Buon appetito,” said the waiter.

“Thank you.” Nathan put down the coffee, lifted a fork and dug in. This omelet wasn’t bad, with creamy eggs, veggies and cheese, but somehow he’d lost his appetite. He ate as much as he could stomach, paid the check, and slung his luggage strap over one shoulder. Lastly, he lifted the paper napkin from the table, folded it in half, and stuffed it into a pocket. Nathan exited the restaurant and looked up and down the block. No taxis were in sight, but he’d be able to get one from the train station. He walked half a block before being surprised by a familiar face. Standing beside a silver Range Rover was Alphonse. “What do you want?” said Nathan.

“The boss has some questions,” said Alphonse.

“He’s not my boss.” Nathan attempted to push past, but Alphonse blocked the way. The rear passenger door swung open and Malik got out. Nathan saw a flash of steel and felt the barrel of a gun pressed to his side.

“Please. Get in the car,” said Malik.

“Sure.” Nathan changed his tune. “A little exit interview, no problem.”

Alphonse took Nathan’s bag and Nathan climbed in. Beside him sat Omar, still showing scars from the attack at the villa.

“Hello, Omar,” said Nathan. “Nice to see you’re recovering.”

Omar kept his mouth shut. Alphonse put Nathan’s bag in the back before taking his usual place behind the wheel, with Malik in the front passenger seat. Nathan was having a rough start to his day. Aside from this little complication, his omelet marked the second unsatisfying meal in a row, and so far just about the only good thing he’d found in Italy was the food.

Chapter Eighteen

If they’d planned to kill him straight away, they’d never have brought him to Abbas’ country estate. They’d have taken him out into a quiet section of woods somewhere, bound his hands, and put a bullet in his head. Instead, Nathan found himself sitting in the man’s study, hands unbound, with his three former colleagues standing in different corners of the room, keeping an eye on him but with their guns put away. It only took a few minutes before Abbas entered, and right off the bat, Nathan was caught off guard by the man’s demeanor. He’d expected Abbas to be angry, frustrated, bent on destruction. This was someone used to bending the world to his will and getting away with it. At least that was what Nathan Grant had assumed. What he saw in this Adnan Abbas was not fury, but desolation. The man’s eyes were bloodshot and misty, his face red and swollen. He approached Nathan with an air of desperation. “Have you seen her?” he demanded. “Where is she?!” Abbas hovered over Nathan.

“Who?”

“No games, Mr. Grant! Where is Isabella?”

“I have no idea.”

At this, Abbas howled with dismay. “Ohhh!” He tilted his head back and raised his hands in the air. “Tell me where to find her! You must help me!” Abbas clasped his hands together in prayer. “Please, I fear something terrible has happened!”

Nathan shook his head as he tried to make sense of it all. “Look, Mr. Abbas, I haven’t seen her. Maybe you can explain to me what’s going on?”

The first signs of anger flashed across Abbas’ face. “Liar!” He pointed an accusing finger at Nathan. “You know where she is!”

“I don’t, honestly. How did you find me, anyway? Don’t tell me it was coincidence.”

“That’s not important. It is the location of Isabella that is important.”

“You were following Daniela Sorrento, weren’t you? She led you to me.”

“I told you, I am a desperate man.”

“When was the last time you heard from Signorina Palermo?”

“The same day that you vanished! That is how I know you ran off with her. Tell me the truth!”

“I’m flattered, I guess. Isabella Palermo is way out of my league.”

This was the first thing Nathan said that Abbas appeared to believe. “Then where did you go, if not with Isabella?”

“I was in Naples, getting my ass kicked. As you can see.”

“For what reason?”

This was where things got particularly tricky, especially if Nathan’s assumptions were correct. Abbas was abusing young women and trafficking stolen artifacts. It had to be him. To accuse the man to his face would be bad for Nathan’s health. “I was following a lead,” he explained. “Franco Gualtieri was from Naples. I went down to ask around about him.”

Abbas’ eyes narrowed. “Why should I believe you?”

“I don’t care if you do or not.”

“What did you find, then, about this Gualtieri?”

“He was after revenge. Pure and simple.”

Abbas screwed up his face in disbelief. “Against my Isabella?”

“For what happened to his sister, Carla Gualtieri.”

“Carla? I’ve never heard of this person.”

“That doesn’t mean you haven’t met.”

“Don’t speak in riddles, Mr. Grant. If you have something to say, please proceed.”

With three armed bodyguards hovering in the corners of the room, Nathan was reticent about saying another word, but in the end he couldn’t help himself. He had to lay it out there. “Why did you sneak young women into your villa, Abbas? I know that you did, there’s no use denying it.”

“What are you saying? What women?”

“Maria De Luca told me all about it.”

“Impossible! This is defamation. Signorina De Luca would not dare make such an accusation.”

“Not in public, but she did to me in private. Your men brought one of these girls up the stairwell late at night. She was a direct witness.”

“My men are here to defend themselves, isn’t that so?” Abbas looked from one of his guards to another. Not one of them responded. Instead, they all looked away. “I said, is that not so?” Abbas raised his voice.

“Maria mentioned Omar in particular,” said Nathan.

“Well?” Abbas turned to Omar. “Tell us these are lies!”

“I cannot,” Omar mumbled.

“What are you saying, Omar? Tell the man that this is not true!”

“Signorina Palermo, she swore us to secrecy,” said Omar.

Adnan Abbas was stunned. “Secrecy? What secrecy? From who?” He turned to Malik. “What have you to say?”

“We did not ask questions,” said Malik. “It is not our job to ask.”

Abbas lowered himself into the nearest chair.

“You can’t expect me to believe that you weren’t behind it,” said Nathan.

“I don’t believe this. Not my Isabella. This is not possible.”

“You really weren’t involved?” said Nathan. “The signorina did it all on her own? If that’s true, she has quite the appetite.”

“Somebody made her. It must be. She was forced to do it.” Abbas addressed his guards. “Who? Who made her?”

The bodyguards refused to spill it. Nathan’s thoughts shifted to Daniela Sorrento, about to meet with an editor at La Nazionale and quite likely to accuse Adnan Abbas of these heinous crimes. “Does anyone have a phone I can borrow?” he asked.

“Isabella...” Abbas ignored Nathan’s request. “She was innocent, I know it.”

“One of my sources talked about an auction,” said Nathan. “Stolen artifacts sold to the highest bidder. Sound familiar?”

“Stolen? No. Why would I know of such a thing? I don’t associate with such people!”

“What about your Venus? How do you explain that?”

“It is a replica, Mr. Grant! Not an artifact at all!”

“All right, let’s say I believe you. The Venus is a fake, I don’t really care.”

“A replica, not a fake.”

“Whatever. You travel in cultivated circles. You must have some ideas about who might be in the market for the real thing.”

“I should hope not.”

“Come on, Abbas. Take a guess. If we want to locate Isabella, we need to figure a few things out here. My guess is, it’s all connected.”

This reasoning made sense to Abbas. He took a moment to think it over. “The world is full of unscrupulous men, and women, with a taste for the finer things in life.”

“They’d need to have a whole lot of money and the ability to transport their acquisitions without alerting customs officials. That means private planes, and maybe altered flight logs. My source said that the auctions were held on an island. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Which island?”

“I don’t know.”

This last bit of information generated a hint of recognition in Abbas’ eyes. “Gordon Klein,” he said.

“Who’s that?”

“Klein is American, from New York. I heard that he is here in Rome, at the St. Regis.”

“What does he have to do with an island? Does he own one?”

Abbas went to a desk where he took out a computer tablet and brought it back, retaking his seat before opening an app and typing in a search. He scrolled through some photos and then showed one to Nathan. “This is Klein on the left, last month at Cannes. He told me that he was heading to Cevsky. Cevsky Island.”

The photo was taken on the red carpet at the film festival. In the center was Isabella Palermo, all done up and wearing one of her slinky black dresses. On one side was Abbas. On the other, a pudgy man in a gray suit and a pair of black sunglasses. He was fairly young, perhaps mid-20s, with a two-day beard. Nathan wouldn’t have described him as particularly handsome, more like your average-looking, corn-fed college boy.

“He adores Isabella,” said Abbas.

“How do you know him?”

“Gordon invested in our last film. We gave him the title of Executive Producer. Writing checks was his only role.”

Abbas tapped away further on the tablet and then handed it to Nathan. The browser showed one of Gordon Klein’s social media accounts. The man seemed to post photos everywhere he went, sharing his billionaire lifestyle with the world. Here he was with a bevy of beauties on a beach in Thailand, there he was at a vineyard in France. Several photos showed him casually dressed, one in an office of a New York City skyscraper, with views of the city spread behind him. Nathan scrolled further until he came to a series of shots on a large yacht. Here was Klein on deck, drinking champagne with a few other gentlemen. There he was, lounging in a hot tub with several young women. A third shot showed him shirtless on a chaise lounge with a girl on his lap, and a broad grin spread across his face. As for the girl, her expression was grim. She didn’t want to be there, that much was clear. Nathan scrolled in closer and something else became clear.

“I recognize her,” Nathan said. “This is Carla Gualtieri.” He handed the tablet back.

Abbas took in the photo. “I can’t say that I’ve seen her.”

“Is Klein behind it all? Or is he one of the bidders?”

Abbas scrolled back and forth, then held up the tablet to show another photo. Beside Klein at the rail was an older gentleman, perhaps in his early 70s, in a white collared shirt and a blue blazer. His hair was greased back with not a strand out of place. Age lines creased his golden-brown face, and a pair of black, wrap-around designer sunglasses hid his eyes. Completing his ensemble was a single gold chain around his neck, matching gold cuff links, and a Rolex watch. Nathan didn’t need to be given a name. Sergio Bellini was famous enough that even this American recognized him. Bellini was Italy’s biggest media magnate, with a hand in nearly all of the major Italian newspapers, television stations and film studios. He’d dabbled in politics, holding a seat in parliament at one stage and considering a run for prime minister, though even in a place like Italy his wild antics were seen as a step too far. It all made perfect sense.

“Sergio Bellini,” said Nathan.

“Yes.”

“He’s holding the auctions.”

“Bellini purchased the island some years ago,” said Abbas. “Cevsky is off the coast of Montenegro, the site of a stone fortress dating from the eighteenth century. For one hundred years the complex lay abandoned. Bellini had it renovated into his own private palace.”

“Outside the jurisdiction of Italian authorities.”

“Whatever involvement Isabella may have, it was against her will, I can assure you!”

“Uh huh...” Something deeper bothered Nathan, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Slowly, his subconscious connected the dots. “Tell me this, does Sergio Bellini own the newspaper, La Nazionale?”

“Yes, of course,” said Abbas.

“I see. This time I mean it, somebody lend me a phone.” Nathan moved to face Alphonse. “I need to make a call. It’s important.”

Alphonse looked to Abbas.

“What is this about?” said the boss.

“Daniela Sorrento is about to make a big mistake. I don’t have time to explain it any further.”

“You have all the time you need, Mr. Grant.”

“She’s about to meet with a reporter from La Nazionale. There’s a very good chance she is going to implicate you in this whole thing.”

“Me? Preposterous!”

“It might not be too late. Let me use a phone.”

“Make the call!” Abbas gestured to Alphonse, who took his phone out, unlocked it, and handed it over. Nathan pulled the napkin from his pocket and unfolded it, then punched in the number Sorrento had scrawled. This time she picked up right away. “Chi è questo?” she said.

“Daniela, it’s Nathan Grant. Where are you?”

“I am with Alessandra. You have decided to join us?”

“No. I’m calling to tell you not to go to La Nazionale.”

“I am sorry, but this is the way to justice. Please, if you are not coming with us, I have nothing to say to you.”

“Daniela, listen to me. Adnan Abbas is not behind this.”

“Of course he is. He must be.”

“He’s not, I can assure you. In fact, I’m here with him now.”

“And you believe what he says? You are back on the payroll?” she scoffed.

“It’s Bellini, Sergio Bellini.”

“Bellini?”

“The man owns La Nazionale. What have you told them so far?”

Sorrento was quiet on the other end of the line as the implications sank in.

“Tell me where you are. I’ll come to you,” said Nathan.

“We are at the apartment of Alessandra, but what am I to say to her?”

“Just keep calm. I’ll be there as quickly as I can. What’s the address?”

“Via Positano 34, apartment 204, on the second floor.”

In the background, Nathan heard a doorbell buzzer, followed by the voice of a young woman answering it. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“Somebody has arrived.”

“Were you expecting visitors?”

“No.”

“Lock the door.”

“Un momento.” Sorrento put the phone down. In the background, a man’s voice crackled over the intercom. Nathan wasn’t able to understand the language, but the tone was clear. Pure aggression.

“Daniela! Call the police!” Nathan shouted, but his pleas went unanswered. A pounding on the door was followed by the shattering of wood as the intruder broke through. Next came screams. The man was inside. Nathan shoved the phone back into Alphonse’s hands. “Give me the car keys!” he yelled. Alphonse stood in place with his mouth hanging agape. Nathan shoved him against the nearest wall and then reached a hand into the driver’s pocket until he felt a key fob and yanked it out. “I need to go.”

“Our business is not concluded!” said Abbas.

“Don’t push me, Abbas. You’ve got a stake in this, too.”

Abbas was uncertain, not clear how to proceed. “Alphonse will accompany you,” he said.

“Fine, but we’ve got to move.” Nathan strode from the room and down a hall, through a foyer and out the front door. The Range Rover was parked in the driveway, and he swung open the door and threw himself into the driver’s seat. He’d shut the door and hit the starter button when Alphonse caught up.

“I drive!” Alphonse shouted.

Nathan rolled down the window. “Not this time. You want to come, get in!”

Anger flashed across Alphonse’s face, but Nathan wasn’t going to wait around and argue. He threw the car into reverse and backed out, then shifted into drive. Alphonse quickly got in on the passenger side. Nathan hit the gas and they flew down the driveway, stopping just long enough for the front gate to open before they tore off up the street.

“I need to know how to get there!” said Nathan.

“Of course you do not know, is not your city!”

“Don’t argue, just plug it in. Via Positano 34.”

Alphonse switched on the navigation system and entered the address. At normal speeds, it would take them nearly half an hour, according to the map. Nathan might cut that down to twenty minutes, but it was still too long. Too much could happen in twenty minutes. Too much could happen in two minutes.

“I need you to call the police,” said Nathan. “Tell them that two women are being assaulted. This is life and death.”

“How do you know this?”

“Just tell them!”

Alphonse put in the call, in heated Italian. Nathan concentrated on the driving, weaving through traffic. After one kilometer, he entered a highway and punched the accelerator, reaching speeds of nearly 200 km per hour. Alphonse hung up the phone, his face turning green as they went. Maybe this was why he preferred to drive, to keep from puking. Nathan didn’t care much either way. After eighteen minutes, they pulled onto Via Positano and went two more blocks before screeching to a halt behind a lone police car. Nathan bounded from the Range Rover and ran for the door of a four-story apartment block with the number 34 on the front. The main door was propped open. He raced through and then took the stairs, charging up to the second floor. An officer stood in the hallway in front of an open apartment door.

“No, stai indietro!” the officer called out, holding up both hands, but there was no stopping Nathan. He strode forward and pushed the man aside.

“Where is she?” Nathan entered the apartment. Another officer stood inside, stunned. The place was a wreck, with dishes smashed on the kitchen floor, a lamp and a bookcase toppled over. “Where is Daniela Sorrento?” Nathan lunged to his left, to an open bathroom door. Inside was a scene of absolute horror, with blood smeared across the walls and running along the floor. A porcelain bathtub was overflowing with dark, red water, and in the middle was the body of a young woman, recently deceased with her wrists slit and one arm hanging out. Nathan had seen death before. He’d lost close friends in the heat of battle. He’d witnessed all sorts of unspeakable terror, but none of that prepared him for this. What he saw in this instant was innocence itself stolen away. This young woman should have had her whole life ahead of her, yet here she was, brutally murdered in a staged suicide that only an imbecile could fall for. And still the question rang in Nathan’s head: Where was Daniela Sorrento?

Chapter Nineteen

Four hands, two on each arm, dragged Nathan out of the apartment. He was thrown face forward against a wall in the hallway and his wrists cuffed behind his back. The officers frisked him, then took away his car fob and passport. One of the men rambled away in Italian as Nathan was taken downstairs to the waiting patrol car. Alphonse attempted to intervene, but he was on thin ice himself merely from associating with this American. After heated discussions, Alphonse’s phone and wallet were confiscated and he joined Nathan locked in the back of the car. Three more police cruisers arrived in a hurry, as well as one motorcycle cop and an ambulance. An unmarked car held two detectives, wearing suits and carrying cameras and equipment. Nathan and Alphonse were questioned again briefly, with Alphonse doing the translating. Who were they and what were they doing here? None of their answers seemed to matter a whole lot. What bothered Nathan the most was that they weren’t going anywhere. Time was ticking, Daniela Sorrento was missing, and Nathan was stuck sitting in the back of this police car.

Half an hour later, the two original officers got into the front seats and off they went. At a nearby station, Nathan and Alphonse were escorted inside, with each one placed in a separate interrogation room. With no watch, no clocks, no phone, Nathan didn’t know how much time had elapsed, but it felt like at least an hour before the door swung open and two other detectives came in.

“Am I under arrest?” Nathan asked.

“No. Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“That depends on your answers, of course.”

“Should I be calling a lawyer?”

“Do you feel that is necessary?”

“No.”

“All right, then shall we begin?”

“Fine,” said Nathan. “Let’s get this over with. Another woman is missing, and you need to find her.”

“Who is this woman?”

Nathan was in a bind here. Tommaso Cardona had gone to the police and then disappeared himself. Sergio Bellini was a powerful adversary. Say the wrong thing to the wrong officer, and Nathan might be next to vanish, but he saw no other option than to take his chances. “Her name is Daniela Sorrento. I was on the phone with her when the killers arrived. She begged me to help her. That was why I called the police.”

“You called the police?”

“Yes. The other gentleman, Alphonse, and I. We were the ones who called this in. You can check his phone records.”

The detectives gave each other a glance. “Why did you not obey the instructions of the officers on the scene?”

“I was worried about Signorina Sorrento. I still am.”

“Can you identify the attackers? Perhaps you know a motive?”

“I have no idea.” Nathan wasn’t willing to share any more. This was a complicated story, with a formidable adversary. When it came right down to it, he didn’t expect much help from the police one way or the other. It struck him that when it came to locating Daniela Sorrento, the best man for the job was himself, but he needed to get out of here first. If he started talking about movie stars and Egyptian artifacts and Sergio Bellini, he’d be in here forever. Instead, he kept the rest of this stuff to himself. A little over an hour later, he and Alphonse were released. Nathan was given back his passport and the key fob, which he handed to Alphonse, much to the man’s relief. They took a taxi back to the scene of the crime, but the Range Rover was gone, towed away, so they gave the cab driver the address of Abbas’ country estate instead.

“What did you tell them?” Nathan asked Alphonse as they rode along, side-by-side in the back.

“Nothing,” said Alphonse. “This crazy American made me come with him, that’s all.”

“You didn’t mention Bellini?”

“No.”

“Good.” So much for going straight back to France, Nathan realized. With Daniela Sorrento’s fate at stake, he was in this again until the end. If she was even still alive.

At the estate, the men gathered again in the study. It wasn’t an adversarial meeting this time, they were partners. Nathan relayed the latest information, describing the scene in Alessandra’s apartment.

“Evil, pure evil.” Abbas shivered as he paced back and forth. “How could anyone be capable of such wickedness? I greatly underestimated Sergio Bellini.”

“If we find Bellini, we’ll likely find Isabella, and maybe Daniela Sorrento, too,” said Nathan. “We need to get to this auction. What was the island, Cevsky did you say?”

Abbas plopped himself down in his chair, looking despondent. “Cevsky. Yes. I told you, it is a fortress, literally. Impregnable. There is no way to access this place without an invitation.”

“We will load a boat with weapons and cross the sea,” said Malik. “They will not expect us.”

“No,” Nathan countered. “They’d blow us out of the water before we even got close.”

“What do you suggest?” said Abbas.

“Exactly what you just said. We need an invitation.”

“Invitation to me? Never! If Bellini has stolen my woman, he is not going to invite me to the scene of the crime.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” said Nathan.

“You expect Bellini to invite you to Cevsky?” Abbas scoffed.

“Not me, either, but how good a friend is Gordon Klein?”

Abbas’ eyes lit up at this suggestion. “It is time to find out.” He took out his phone and put through a call. “Hello, Gordon, it’s Adnan here. I hear that you are in Rome?”

Chapter Twenty

All five of the men piled into a Mercedes sedan, with Alphonse and Abbas up front. In back, Nathan, Omar, and Malik. Abbas’ quest was to locate Isabella Palermo, but for Nathan it was all about Daniela Sorrento. Either way, Gordon Klein was the connection that might get them there. The St. Regis was located in a former palace, surprisingly close to Termini Station where Nathan started his day. Unlike Nathan, though, Gordon Klein could afford nicer digs. Alphonse pulled up in front of the hotel, where valets in fancy uniforms opened the car doors. Nathan and the others climbed out.

“We shouldn’t be long,” Abbas said to the valet.

“Yes, sir.” The valet handed him a paper slip and climbed into the car. Abbas led the group into the hotel, where he inquired at the front desk about Gordon Klein.

“Mr. Klein is expecting you,” said the clerk. “He is in our Royal Suite. I will have a bellman show you the way.”

“Thank you.”

They rode an elevator to the top floor and exited into a wide hallway. Even before they reached the room, they were met by the pounding beats of electronic music. The suite was the furthest down on the left, and the bellman gave the door a loud knock. With no answer, Nathan stepped forward and pounded on it with his fist. This time it swung open to reveal a bikini-clad young woman with a loopy grin on her face. “Helloooo!” she said.

“Where is Gordon?” said Abbas. “We’re here to see him.”

She turned to look over her shoulder. “Gooordy! You’ve got visitors!” In the room behind her, a clutch of young people held cocktails and grooved to the music. Gordon Klein hurried over, wearing Bermuda shorts and a white cotton shirt and holding a martini in one hand.

“Signor Klein, the music, please!” said the doorman.

“You like it?” said Klein.

“The volume, signore! Our other guests will complain.”

“Yeah, yeah, fine, I’ll turn it down.” Klein shifted his attention to Abbas and his entourage. “You brought along the cavalry, Adnan? Should I be worried?” He put an arm around Abbas and escorted him inside, followed by Nathan and the others. Alphonse shut the door behind them, locking out the bellman.

From further inside the suite, a beefy man in a dark suit emerged, puffing out his chest with self-importance. “Are you all right, Mr. Klein?” he said.

“I hope so,” said Klein. “Am I all right, Adnan?”

“Of course,” said Abbas.

“I’m all right,” Klein said, but the bodyguard wasn’t sure whether to believe it.

“These are your guests?”

“Yes, Oscar. They are my guests.”

A couple sitting on a couch in swimwear leaned down to snort lines of cocaine off a coffee table.

“About the music,” said Nathan. “You were going to turn it down?”

“Who is this?” Klein asked Abbas.

“An associate of mine. Mr. Nathan Grant is one of your countrymen.”

“Is that so?” Klein looked to his bodyguard. “Go ahead, Oscar. Turn it down, will you?”

“Yes, Mr. Klein.” Oscar took a tablet from a nearby bureau, tapped a few times and the music dropped to a tolerable level.

“Look, Gordon, we need to talk,” said Abbas. “You know I wouldn’t have come down here on such short notice if it wasn’t important.”

“Yes,” said Klein. “I can see that something is bothering you.”

“There’s a nice bar downstairs,” said Nathan. “How about your party guests relocate while we discuss the situation?”

“I hate to be inhospitable,” said Klein.

“It is not a request, Gordon,” said Abbas.

“You come to my party and start making demands? I don’t appreciate that, not at all.” The first real apprehension flashed across Klein’s face.

“Don’t take it personally,” said Abbas. “Some things are best discussed in private.”

“Whatever, have it your way.” Klein turned to address his guests. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve been informed that you’ll need to take the party elsewhere.”

A collective grumble rose from the group. Nathan moved into the next room, where he found several more people at a dining table. “The party is over, let’s go, everyone is headed downstairs to the bar.” He continued into the master suite, where two women soaked in a Jacuzzi, with glasses of sparkling wine in hand. Nathan lifted towels from a stack and held them out. “Here you go, I’m sure there’s a very nice hotel pool, if you can find it.”

“But we only just got here!” said one of the women.

“And now you’re leaving. Come on, let’s go.”

The women climbed out and each grabbed a towel. Within a few minutes, all of the guests were successfully evicted from the suite, leaving Klein and his bodyguard facing Abbas and his crew. “This better be important, Adnan. I thought we were friends.”

“We most certainly are,” said Abbas. “Which is why I’ve come to you. I’m afraid that nobody else can help me.”

“With what?”

“Can we sit?”

“Of course.”

The room was furnished in gilded Louis XVI style, with chairs and couches situated around the coffee table. Abbas took a place on one of the couches, and Nathan sat just opposite. Klein took one of the chairs, with Oscar standing directly behind.

“Go ahead, enlighten me. What is going on?” said Klein.

“I’m worried about Isabella,” said Abbas. “She’s disappeared, missing for more than a week now. I thought you might have heard something.”

“Disappeared, that’s awful news! You think some harm has come to her?”

“Of course I fear the worst.”

“Yes. I can see why you would, after last week. I am sorry to hear this, very sorry indeed, but I am afraid that I know nothing about it. If there is anything I can do to help, you know that I’m here for you.”

“There is something,” said Nathan. “Now that you mention it.”

“Yes?” said Klein. “And what would that be?”

“What can you tell us about an auction?” said Abbas. “I hear that Bellini might be holding one.”

“Bellini?” Klein was uneasy. “What sort of auction?”

“No holding out on us, Gordon. On Cevsky Island? I understand you have participated in such events in the past.”

“That may be true, but what does it have to do with Isabella?”

“We think she may be with Bellini,” said Nathan.

“Well, then, there’s your happy ending! Let’s call him and find out.”

“We believe Isabella is being held against her will,” said Abbas.

“By Sergio? Impossible.”

“I wish that I had your confidence.”

“I’ll get him on the line right now and we can sort this out.” Klein pulled out his phone, but Abbas held out a hand to stop him.

“Please. No phone calls.”

“Well, how do you expect to locate her, then?”

“Another one of these auctions is imminent,” said Nathan. “Isn’t that right?”

“Why are you asking me?” said Klein.

“Gordon, you said we were friends,” said Abbas.

“Of course we are friends.”

“Is another auction planned?”

Klein caved. “It might be.”

“And you will attend?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “But I don’t know a thing about Isabella, I swear.”

“Are you allowed any guests?” said Nathan.

“Only my appraiser.”

“Who’s that?”

Klein appeared to be on the verge of clamming back up entirely.

“Please,” said Abbas. “Help us. Don’t make me beg.”

“He’s a fellow from Cal. Cal Berkeley. An expert in his field.”

“Has he ever met Bellini?” said Nathan.

“No, never.”

“Good.”

“Wait a minute,” said Klein. “You can’t expect… Tell me you’re joking.”

“I’d like to think my jokes are funnier,” said Nathan.

“No way, it will never work.”

“Why not? I’ve never met the man.”

“I’m willing to bet that you’re no Egyptologist. Do you even know the first thing about it?”

“All you need to do is get me on that island.”

Klein was dumbfounded.

“When is the auction, Gordon?” said Abbas.

“It will never work.”

“All we want is to find Isabella and make sure she’s all right,” said Nathan.

“And then? Have you entertained the possibility that Isabella is there of her own volition?”

“Yes,” said Abbas. “But I need to know for sure.”

Nathan turned to Abbas. “Show him the photo of Carla Gualtieri.”

It took Abbas a moment to discern where this request was leading, but then it dawned on him. Where a friendly request had failed, they would turn the screws on the man. “Of course.” Abbas took his phone from his pocket and tapped away, then held out the picture of Gordon Klein with Carla Gualtieri on his lap. “This is the young Signorina Gualtieri.”

“So?” Klein took a look. “I can’t say I remember her.”

“That won’t save you in front of a judge,” said Nathan.

“What, is this some sort of threat?”

“Don’t think of it that way. Think of this as the moment you made the choice between good and evil. Which side of the fence are you going to come down on, Klein? The path that you’re currently traveling on will lead to a very bleak future.”

“You don’t intimidate me, Mr. Grant.”

“Perhaps I should refresh your memory of Carla Gualtieri, then? First, there is the issue that she was underage. You could get locked up for a very long time on that alone.”

“There’s nothing illegal about having a young woman sit on your lap.”

“Then there’s the whole question of how she died.”

“Adnan,” Klein turned his attention back to Abbas. “I really don’t appreciate the way this is going.”

“Hear him out,” Abbas replied. “You might be enlightened.”

“It was ruled a suicide,” Nathan continued. “But a second girl wound up murdered in a similar fashion. The death of Carla Gualtieri is looking increasingly suspicious.”

“And what do I have to do with any of this?” said Klein.

“These girls were on the island at Bellini’s last auction,” said Abbas. “To entertain the guests.”

“Remember her now?” said Nathan.

Klein’s face turned red. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. “I had nothing to do with it.”

“We are not accusing you, Gordon,” said Abbas. “We’re merely shedding some light on what you’ve become involved with. Sergio Bellini is not who you might have thought. To borrow a word from Mr. Grant, we are talking about an evil man, committing evil deeds. Is that who you want to be associated with? Or will you take a step in the other direction? Will you help us?”

Gordon Klein rubbed his hands together and glanced around the room from one man to another. All eyes were on him, expectantly waiting for an answer. “If I do this, will you tell the authorities that I was on your side? Will you go to bat for me when it counts?”

“Of course,” said Abbas. “I will do everything I can for you, just as true friends do for each other.”

Klein looked next to Nathan. “If they suspect anything, you’re on your own. I will disavow you.”

“Like I said, just leave it to me,” said Nathan. “When is the auction taking place?”

“A helicopter will arrive at Ciampino airport, today at 5 p.m. They will take us from there.”

“All right, then.” Nathan clapped his hands on his thighs. “I guess we’d better pack.” 

Chapter Twenty-One

The private departure lounge held twelve passengers, all of them bound for Cevsky Island. On one side of the room, tall windows overlooked the field. Commercial airplanes departed on a nearby runway. Closer at hand was a row of six helicopter landing pads, two occupied and four empty. Nathan sat at the bar with Gordon Klein, the pair of them sipping cocktails. Klein seemed intent on avoiding contact with the others, as much as he could. These were the men and women he would be bidding against, theoretically, although Nathan didn’t know whether Klein still planned to go through with that side of things. They hadn’t discussed it. Nathan didn’t much care. All he wanted was to locate Daniela Sorrento, and hopefully take down Sergio Bellini in the process. As for Isabella Palermo, he’d sort out that side of it in the moment. Maybe she was there against her will, as Abbas believed. But then, maybe not, and it wasn’t his job to protect her any longer.

Nathan lifted his gin and tonic from the bar and took a drink, then shifted his gaze around the room. Klein had already filled him in on the bios of the other attendees. Seated on a pair of couches in flowing white robes and headdresses were Prince Abdul Hassan and his assistant. Closer to the windows with her associate sat the Russian heiress, Polina Orlova. The woman wore a designer dress, gold jewelry, and had a face sculpted by plastic surgery. By her side was an assortment of matching Louis Vuitton luggage. Smoking a cigarette at table nearby was the Chinese property developer, Caishen Zhao. Nathan pegged him at being in his mid-60s, or perhaps late 50s but aged by stress and hard living. With him was a young male valet, perhaps twenty-two years old.

At the opposite end of the bar was a man with dark curly hair and a bushy mustache, drinking a glass of beer. This had to be Carlos Gutierrez, the South American drug lord. With him was a man in suit jacket that was a bit too tight in the shoulders. The kingpin’s head of security, no doubt.

The last to arrive was Malcolm Stirling, the Australian mining magnate who burst in like a whirlwind, sucking up all of the oxygen in the room. Stirling was loud, and bold, and not afraid of causing offense. With him was a middle-aged woman in brown khaki pants and white blouse, her hair tied back in a ponytail. Stirling barreled straight ahead to the bar. “You can leave the luggage here, good sir!” he said to a porter, who unloaded the bags from a cart and waited for a tip. None was forthcoming, so he turned and walked away disappointed. “Mr. Bartender, what kind of beer can you bring us?” said Stirling. “You got a good stout on tap?”

“Yes, sir,” said the bartender.

“Two pints, then, chop, chop!” Stirling turned to Klein, clapping him on the back. “Look who we have here, if it isn’t my man Gordon Klein! You planning to pick up the scraps I leave behind, eh, Gordy?”

“How are you, Malcolm?”

“I’ll be better with some beer in me.” He took a seat beside Klein, on the opposite side from Nathan, and then motioned for his companion to join them. “Come on, Shelly, belly on up to the bar!”

Shelly took a seat beside him. At the far end, Carlos Gutierrez eyed them with skepticism but didn’t say a word.

“Who you got with you, Gordy? I can’t say this chap looks familiar,” said Stirling.

“Nathan Grant,” Klein introduced them. “He’s my appraiser.”

“Is that right?” Stirling reached around to shake Nathan’s hand. “Good to know you.” The Aussie squeezed Nathan’s fingers in a vice-like grip.

“Likewise,” Nathan answered.

“This here is Shelly Moore, from the University of Queensland.”

“Formerly,” she corrected him.

“Formerly. That’s right. You know how it is, hard to get anyone legitimate to take part in these junkets. No offense, of course.”

“You just pay my rate and we’ll call it square.”

“What’s your story, Grant?” said Stirling. “Who you with?”

“Let’s just say I’m an independent contractor.”

“My kind of man.”

The bartender placed two glasses of stout on the bar. “Anything else, sir?”

“Snacks would be nice. You got some peanuts or pretzels or something?”

“Would popcorn do?”

“That’d be fine.”

The bartender went to a popcorn machine, filled two bowls and brought them back. Stirling looked around the room for the first time. “So this is the competition, eh? Same motley crew as the last time, more or less, except for the dame. Who is she?”

“That’s Polina Orlova,” said Klein.

“Russian, eh?”

“Yep.”

“These Russians are loaded. I hope she doesn’t drive up the bids.”

To Nathan, the whole experience felt like some strange version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, with this mixed group of oddballs and their golden tickets to the big event. Stirling was only halfway finished with his beer when two large helicopters came into view through the front windows. Nathan recognized the make and model as the Sikorsky S-76. Depending on the configuration, these were capable of carrying thirteen passengers plus two crew, each. They hovered over adjacent landing pads and eased to the ground, one after the other. Exiting the nearest helicopter was a woman in gray slacks and jacket, with a small tablet in hand. From the other came two men in coveralls. They converged on the tarmac and then approached the lounge, where airport security guards let them through a door and they breezed inside. The woman was clearly in charge.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen!” she announced. “Thank you for joining us. Your transportation has arrived. Signor Bellini is pleased that all of you are able to attend.” The woman peered at her tablet. “Most of us have met, all but Signorina Orlova.” She looked back up, focusing on the Russian. “My name is Giulia Ricardi, personal assistant to Signor Bellini. Welcome.”

“Thank you,” said Orlova.

“Now, if you would all please follow me, you can leave your luggage where it is.” The passengers rose to their feet and made their way across the lounge. When Nathan moved past, she looked him over. “And who have we here?” she said.

“This is Nathan Grant, my appraiser,” said Klein.

“Nathan Grant,” she looked back to her tablet. “This is not the name on my list.”

“I was forced to make a change,” said Klein. “My original appraiser was a squeamish. You know how it is.”

“I see.” She turned her attention to Nathan. “Not so with Mr. Grant?”

“I’m here to do a job, that’s all,” said Nathan.

“You are qualified, I assume?”

“Enough for my purposes,” Klein answered.

“That’s all that matters, isn’t it?” said Ricardi. “Welcome aboard, Mr. Grant.”

“Thank you.”

The group was escorted out to the nearest helicopter. The luggage was loaded onto the other. With everyone strapped in and given a headset, the pilot fired up the engine and they were away, rising through the air. They reached a cruising altitude of 10,000 meters and whisked their way out of Rome and on across the Italian countryside. First stop was an hour away at a small airfield in Bari, on the Adriatic coast, for refueling. This took them a little over ten minutes, and with a full tank, they were off once again.

The second leg took forty-five minutes, skimming across the sea before Cevsky Island became visible. It grew ever larger until they hovered directly above. It wasn’t much, maybe five acres in total, and almost entirely taken up by the ancient fortress. In a small cove was a gleaming blue super yacht docked to a pier. Inside the fortress walls, a courtyard contained a swimming pool, along with a wooden deck, chaise lounges and a bar. Just outside a main gate was a flat area with a single landing pad. The helicopter eased down to a rest and a pair of attendants hurried across to open the doors. The passengers were quickly escorted out. Near the front gate, Nathan recognized Sergio Bellini himself, standing ready to greet them. Beside him were two bodyguards, with the bulge of holstered sidearms showing beneath their jackets. Ricardi led the guests to their host.

“Welcome, welcome!” Bellini shouted over the prop noise. His hair was slicked back and he wore a double-breasted blue suit, with a red rosebud in one buttonhole. He shook the guests’ hands, one after the other. When he came to Nathan, his eyes registered some curiosity, but he shook his hand as well and moved on. “Come, let the festivities begin!” Bellini led them through the gate and into his compound. Nathan had expected a pat-down at least, which was why he’d come unarmed. He didn’t even bring a weapon in his luggage. He was fairly sure the South Americans hadn’t made the same mistake. At least Nathan was in, like the proverbial fox in the hen house.  Perhaps the biggest wildcard was Isabella Palermo herself. If she was here, she very well might blow his cover. That would likely depend on whether she needed saving. If she was here against her will, she’d be inclined to keep her mouth shut. If she was here of her own volition, she’d spill the beans, that Nathan Grant was no Egyptologist. This was just another of a long list of things he’d have to face on the fly.

The guests entered the inner courtyard, with the swimming pool, Jacuzzi and bar on one side. In a formal dining room on the other side, a long table was set for dinner. Lined up in a row in front of the table was a cadre of uniformed servants, twelve in all. Overhead, their helicopter rose into the sky and headed back toward Italy. The second helicopter swept in to drop off their luggage.

“For those who have joined us previously, welcome back to Cevsky,” said Bellini. “For those making their first visit, we do hope that you will enjoy yourselves. I am thrilled to share with you that the items up for auction this weekend are even more sensational than I have led you to believe. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“When will we see them?” said Stirling.

“Patience, Mr. Stirling. Soon enough. First, we will show you to your accommodations and let you settle in. Cocktails here in the bar will begin at your leisure, with dinner served at eight p.m. Following that, we will present the artifacts for your appraisal.”

“And the auction, Signor Bellini?” said Orlova. “When will we have the opportunity to place our bids?”

“Bidding will commence tomorrow at noon. In the meantime, we will do all we can to make sure your stay on the island is a pleasant one. If you need anything at all, please do not hesitate to ask my assistant, Signorina Ricardi.”

Ricardi stood at the head of the servants, her tablet in hand. “As is our custom, each of you will be assigned your own personal valet,” she said. “No request is too small. Your wish is our desire.”

Ricardi directed each servant to a particular guest, including one for Nathan. His valet was a diminutive older woman with a wrinkled face and gray hair pulled back tightly in a bun. Klein got a sharp-looking young man with tight muscles showing under his starched white shirt. The guests were led to their rooms, with Klein’s and Nathan’s quarters side-by-side. Nathan entered his room to find stone walls offset by wooden furniture, including a bed, desk and chair, wardrobe, and a luggage rack. A pair of windows overlooked the sea. He unlatched one of them and poked his head out for a look. In the distance rose the dark mountains of Montenegro. Stretching out below him was a 15 meter drop straight into the sea. Worst-case scenario, if he had to make a quick escape he could always jump and then swim for it. He swung the window closed and flipped down the latch.

“Is there anything the gentleman might be needing?” said the servant.

“A name would be nice,” said Nathan.

“I am Evelina.”

“Thank you, Evelina. That’s all for now.”

“To summon me, you may press here.” She pointed to a button mounted on the wall beside the door.

“Thank you,” Nathan replied.

Another man appeared with Nathan’s garment bag, bringing it in and hanging it in the wardrobe.

“We do hope that you enjoy your stay,” said Evelina.

“I’m sure that I will.”

Evelina and the bellman left the room. Nathan examined the call button she’d referred to. Just above it, under a dark plastic electrical cover, was a dark, flat section that he was quite sure concealed a hidden camera. They would be watching him, all the time. In fact, every square inch of the island was likely covered in a broad web of security cameras. It wasn’t unexpected, but it would complicate things. He left the room and went next door to check on Klein.

“How are you doing?” Nathan said.

“How do you expect? There’s no sign of Isabella.”

“We only just arrived. Give it time. What’s the dress code for this dinner?”

“Formal wear.”

“Maybe you should have told me that beforehand.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have come.”

“You’re not going to make this difficult, are you Klein?”

“I’m not the one making it difficult.”

“Look, I’m not going to argue over this. Just keep it together.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“If you play your cards right, you can walk away from this a free man.”

“Maybe it would help if you told me the plan.”

“We find Palermo, make sure she’s OK, and report back to Abbas.”

“And what if she’s not OK?”

“That’s not your concern. I’ll take care of it. In the meantime, what am I going to do about a tux?”

“I’m sure your valet can manage.”

“In my size?”

“You’d be amazed at what one can accomplish with a billion dollars.”

“Fine. I’ll knock when I’m ready.” Nathan went back to his room and pushed the call button. Evelina appeared within thirty seconds. Klein was correct, she was able to provide him with a tuxedo in his size within twenty minutes, along with shoes. Ten minutes more and he was sitting with Klein, side-by-side at the bar as the other guests drifted in. No matter how much Bellini wanted to foster an air of festivity, there was no masking the fact that these people were here to compete, with enormous sums of money on the line. Stirling was convivial, on the surface. Only Zhao seemed to be actually enjoying himself, as he chain-smoked cigarettes and downed glasses of booze.

“Your property market has taken quite a beating in the past few years, hasn’t it Zhao?” said Stirling.

“Yes. Difficult.”

“I’m surprised you still made the cut for this little event. It must have been a big hit to your bottom line.”

“No only property. Technology, yes? Automobiles.”

“Zhao has a hand in all sorts of things,” Klein explained. “Computer chips, electric cars, mobile phones, he’s got stakes in them all.”

“I see,” said Stirling. “Diversification. Good man.”

“Yes, good.” Zhao took another drag. Further off, Carlos Gutierrez sat with his associate, speaking softly in Spanish while they watched the others. Polina Orlova occupied another a table, drinking an Aperol Spritz along with Prince Hassan, who stuck to coffee. There was still no sign of Isabella Palermo, or their host Bellini. At the top of the hour, Signorina Ricardi relocated the group to the dining table, six on each side with the two extra places set at the ends. Seven servers lined up behind them, ready to meet their needs.

“Where is Señor Bellini?” said Gutierrez.

“Here I am!” Bellini entered the room, dressed in his black tux. On his arm and wearing a designer gown in blue and gold was the one and only Isabella Palermo. She tilted back her head slightly and offered an insincere smile as they made their way forward, with two bodyguards close behind. Nathan’s heart nearly stopped. This was the moment of truth. Would she betray him, or not? A servant pulled out her chair and Palermo sat. The servant scooted her forward. Nathan’s face was impassive as she looked from one guest to another. When she came to Nathan Grant, he gave a light smile and a nod. Isabella Palermo’s face dropped, but only slightly. In a flash she recovered and shifted to the next guest in line, Polina Orlova. Under the table, Nathan felt Gordon Klein kick his foot.

“Most of you know our special guest this evening, Signorina Isabella Palermo, if not personally, then by reputation.”

“Good evening,” said Palermo. “It is lovely to see you all.”

“Good evening to you,” said Stirling. “The pleasure is ours.”

Bellini took his place at the head of the table, with the bodyguards hovering on either end of the room, and the dinner commenced. It was a feast for the ages as far as Nathan Grant was concerned. For the rest of them, he imagined this was just another Friday. It started with Prosecco all around, along with olives, nuts and cheese to keep them occupied before the first course arrived, a rich seafood stew. Next was roasted quail, then a sorbet cleanser, then lobster with rice and vegetables, salad, and finally, a selection of Italian cheeses and fruits. Following this meal was a dolce course of tiramisu and a panna cotta, then espresso and finally a limoncello as a digestive. All the while, the conversations remained innocuous. They discussed global politics, the stock market, real estate and the difficulty of finding reliable crew for their yachts. Only Malcolm Stirling dared invite the drug lord, Gutierrez, into the discussion. “How about your neck of the woods, good help hard to find around there?”

“This has never been a problem for me, no,” said Gutierrez. “As long as one is willing to pay above the average wage.”

“I’ll bet that’s pennies on the dollar around there. You oughta try Australia, it’s a crying shame how much we have to pay. Damn near bankrupts us.”

Throughout the dinner, Nathan mostly kept his mouth shut. The prince, on the other hand, was enamored with the famous Italian film star. “I’ve seen every one of your films,” he blushed. “Tell me, what are you working on these days? Anything interesting?”

“We’ve been shooting a film in Rome,” said Palermo. “After the Fall is the title.”

“How do you think we acquired these fabulous artifacts you’re all here to see? Isabella’s film made for a terrific cover,” said Bellini.

“I would love to hear more about that,” Nathan spoke up.

“I am sure that you would.” Bellini was not pleased. “Any further information along these lines might compromise our sources.”

“Fair enough. Speaking of the artifacts themselves, then, I suspect they date to the Middle Kingdom, or perhaps Second Intermediate. What can you tell us about that?” Nathan asked.

“I would put them at around 1500 BC at the latest,” said Shelly Moore, Stirling’s archeologist. “What I’d like to know is, how did you get them out of Egypt?”

Bellini flashed a grin. “These were transported out before customs were invented, or international borders for that matter. You will pardon me if I decline to say much more, but I will note that nobody in the Italian nor the Egyptian governments have any knowledge that these artifacts exist. I intend to keep it that way.”

“What about Adnan Abbas?” said Nathan. “Does he know?”

Isabella Palermo looked away. The rest of the table went quiet.

“Why should he?” said Bellini.

“I read in the newspaper somewhere that he was producing the film.”

“He knows nothing, nor will he.”

“Well, I for one can’t wait to get a good look,” said Stirling.

“That is a wonderful suggestion.” Bellini pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “If you follow me, we will move to the gallery, to take a good look.”

“Yes,” said Zhao. “We look.”

The guests rose in unison and were led into a corridor and down a hall to an anteroom with several couches. To one side was a large door guarded by two men carrying AK-47s. “You understand, the space in our gallery is limited,” said Bellini. “To avoid crowding, we will take you down in groups of four. Each group will have ten minutes to examine the merchandise. The rest of you may wait here.”

“Who goes first?” said Stirling.

“We shall draw names,” said Ricardi, holding up a small basket. She reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. “All of the bidders have been added.” She put the slip back and mixed them up before holding the basket out to Polina Orlova. “Would you do us the honor?”

Orlova reached a hand in, drew a slip and read the name. “Malcolm Stirling,” she said. A sly smile appeared on Stirling’s lips before Orlova handed the slip to Ricardi and drew again. “Gordon Klein.”

“Mr. Stirling and Mr. Klein may go first, along with their guests,” said Ricardi.

One of the guards opened the door and stepped aside.

“Shall we?” said Bellini.

“Indeed.” Stirling rubbed his hands together.

A stairway led down into a stone tunnel. Bellini went first. Klein was second, with Nathan right behind. At the bottom was a basement with an arched ceiling and gallery lighting. Wooden cases were set up on tables throughout the room. The items on display glimmered in gold. Shelly Moore let out a gasp. “Beautiful,” she said. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“Ten minutes,” said Bellini. “I will leave you in the care of my trusted associate. The clock starts now.” He checked his watch, then retreated from the room, leaving behind one of the armed guards.

“These certainly don’t disappoint,” said Stirling as he moved to the first case. Nathan went from one to another, examining the contents. Here was a ceremonial dagger with a forged iron blade and golden handle, there was a water pitcher crusted in precious stones. A sculpture of the goddess Isis was dressed in a flowing robe. The very last crate contained the star of the show, a golden funeral mask of an ancient pharaoh, forever in repose. Even Nathan understood the enormous magnitude of this archaeological discovery. To lock these pieces away in the private collections of narcissistic billionaires made it the crime of the century. He watched Ms. Moore’s expression, trying to gauge how she felt being a party to it, but all he saw was the glow of desire. No hint of guilt clouded her demeanor, only greed.

The ten minutes elapsed in what seemed like precious few, and this first group was escorted back up the stairway to the anteroom. “When you have changed out of your dining attire, please feel free to join us in the bar,” Orlova said.

“Sure,” said Stirling. “After that, I could use a drink! Or two.”

Nathan and Klein made their way back down the corridor. “What’s the dress code for the evening?” Nathan asked.

“Casual,” said Klein. “Though Bellini will wear a suit. He always does.”

“You?”

“I’m a technology guy. We don’t do suits. Not unless we have to.”

“Right.”

“Palermo seems perfectly fine to me. We ought to call Adnan and tell him not to worry, eh?”

“Not until we speak to her, in private.”

Klein was frustrated. “Fine, but we better not make him wait too long.”

Back in his room, Nathan closed the door behind him, then took off his tuxedo and changed into a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved, collared shirt. He was putting on his shoes when there came a knock at the door. He moved across the room to answer it, expecting to find Klein on the other side. Instead, when he opened the door, Isabella Palermo stood facing him. “What are you doing here?” she said.

“Technically, I’m looking for you,” Nathan replied.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Palermo had changed from her formal gown into a casual blue dress and sandals. Her eyes shone bright with anger. Nathan held up one hand. “Hang on a second.” He backed into the room and slid the luggage rack close to the door, then retrieved the garment bag from his wardrobe and propped it up against the wall, covering the suspected camera. “OK, come in.” He stepped aside, but Palermo didn’t move.

“You expect me to enter your private quarters?” she said.

“Getting cozy didn’t seem to bother you in Rome,” he answered.

“That was Rome.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Someone might see.” She peered up and down the vacant corridor. It was cameras that worried Nathan more, but he hadn’t spotted any in the hall.

“Don’t be shy, we need to talk.” Nathan gestured with one hand. Palermo took one last look and then crossed the threshold. He shut the door behind her and Palermo moved toward the window, then spun around.

“I don’t know what game you are playing, Signor Grant. Explain yourself!”

“Adnan sent me. You disappeared. He was worried.”

Palermo appeared stunned. She moved to the chair and sat. “I need a cigarette.”

“Sorry, I can’t help you there.”

The look Palermo shot Nathan in response told him exactly how worthless he was. “You should not have come.”

“But I did. I’m here. The question is, what happens next?”

“I will pretend I never met you. When this weekend is over, you will return to your pathetic little village in France. Is that clear?”

“What about Abbas? What am I supposed to tell him?”

Palermo raised her chin in the air and looked away. “Tell him to forget me.”

“You’re a difficult woman to forget, Isabella. He’ll need a very good reason.”

“Life is too short to be with one man. That is my reason. Now if you do not mind, I will be getting back.” She rose from the chair.

“Hang on, we’re not finished. I’ve got more questions for you.” Nathan blocked the door.

“I have said all that I have to say.”

“I found out who attacked you, and why. Would that be of interest?”

Palermo didn’t respond, but she didn’t move either.

“Have you heard of a girl named Carla Gualtieri?”

“Never.”

“You ought to have. Apparently you recruited her to entertain the guests at one of these soirées.”

“Get out of my way.”

“What about Daniela Sorrento?”

“If you do not move at once, I will scream.”

“She was working on your film, as an archaeologist. She’s disappeared as well.”

“You have five seconds.”

Nathan and the actress stood at an impasse for three of those seconds before she filled her lungs with air. “OK. Go.” He stepped aside. Palermo bolted to the door, swung it open and fled down the hall.

Klein’s door opened next and his head popped out. “What was that?”

“Call Abbas if you’d like,” Nathan said. “You can tell him his girlfriend has left him.”

“What? Was that her?”

“Go ahead, make the call.”

“I don’t want to tell him that! What did she say?”

“That it was over.”

“No reason?”

“Not really.”

“We never should have come here. This whole thing was a mistake. I should have flown straight back to New York.”

“You’re here now, and you’ve got a role to play. Don’t blow it.”

“Role? What role? Our mission is over, we found Isabella!”

“We still need to find out what happened to the archaeologist, Daniela Sorrento.”

“That was not part of the arrangement. I came here for Isabella, that’s all. You’re going to get us into trouble, I know it! Sergio probably suspects us already!”

“Keep your cool. For now, we need to head to the bar. Are you with me, Gordon? Can I count on you?”

Klein steeled himself to the prospect. “I didn’t touch her, you know, that Gualtieri girl. She sat on my lap, that’s all.”

Nathan placed a reassuring hand on Klein’s shoulder. “I believe you. Are you ready to go have a drink?”

Klein shut the door to his room. A throbbing techno beat echoed up the hallway as they approached the lounge. They turned a corner to find multi-colored disco lights dancing off the walls. Zhao was in the Jacuzzi with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a bikini-clad girl on each arm. Six more women gathered in the bar, some in slinky dresses, others swimwear. Ricardi watched over them. “Here we go,” Nathan said to Klein.

“Try not to cause any trouble,” Klein replied.

“I’m sorry to inform you, Gordon. Causing trouble is the reason I’m here.”

The two men entered the bar and took seats on opposing couches, with a small table between them. A server approached and took their drink order. Scotch for Nathan, grappa for Klein. Next came two of the women, one in a shimmering, silvery dress and the other in black leather. “Buonasera,” said the one in silver. “We sit?”

“Sure,” said Nathan. He’d rather have declined, but that was likely to draw more attention. It was best to fit in. The girls sat, silvery dress beside Klein and black leather next to Nathan.

“Would you like something to drink?” said Klein.

“SÌ, drinks,” said black leather. “Prosecco?”

“How is your English?” said Nathan.

“English? Little. Italian, better,” said silvery dress.

“That’s what I figured.”

“They aren’t here for conversation,” said Klein.

“I realize that.”

The server returned with the men’s drinks, then went back for a bottle of Prosecco. In the meantime, more attendees filed in, two by two until the gang was all there, along with the usual contingent of guards, each one sporting a firearm strapped beneath their jacket. Four guards in total stood with their backs to the walls, one on each side of the room. Since he’d arrived at the compound, Nathan had counted a total of eight different guards, including these four, plus the two at the entrance to the basement vault, and two more who never left the side of Sergio Bellini. He assumed there were more, perhaps a few coordinating things in a central security office and keeping their eyes on the camera monitors. There would be a few more watching the entrance and perimeter. What did that mean, then, fourteen armed guards at a bare minimum? Against one unarmed, retired Army Ranger? On paper those weren’t good odds, but they didn’t know what was coming. Nathan felt a hint of optimism. Maybe that was just his way.

Back with the Prosecco, the server poured two glasses, one for each girl, and then put the bottle into an ice bucket on a stand. Bellini and Palermo were the last to join the party. Sergio made the rounds, greeting his guests with a broad smile. Isabella Palermo followed dutifully by his side, with a conjured smile on her lips. When they reached Klein’s couch, she shook the man’s hand but refused to even look at Nathan, as though willing him to vanish into thin air.

“I do hope you are enjoying yourself,” said Bellini.

“The artifacts are spectacular,” said Nathan. “They live up to their billing.”

“I am glad you approve.”

To get the evening going, Gutierrez passed out vials of clean, white cocaine to anyone who wanted some, and the hosts moved off to the bar to chat with Stirling. Zhao was the first guest to retreat, taking a pair of ladies back to his room, accompanied by one of the guards. Nathan saw an opportunity. “Hey,” he said to the girl beside him. “How about we find someplace quiet?”

“Eh?” She didn’t understand him.

“My room, let’s go. Andiamo.”

“Oh.” Her face went pale, but she agreed, more afraid not to.

“What are you up to?” said Klein.

“Just relax and enjoy the party.”

Nathan and the young woman stood up from the couch. He lifted the bottle of Prosecco with his right hand and then put his left arm around the girl as they headed off. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the guards move to follow them. Nathan continued around the corner, down the hall and to his room. He unlocked the door. At the end of the hall, the guard stood firm, with hands crossed in front of him. Nathan ushered the girl inside and closed the door. She sat on the bed and eyed him in terror, anticipating the worst.

“It’s OK.” Nathan set the wine bottle on a table and held up both hands. “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

The girl clearly didn’t. In the brighter light of the bedroom, she looked barely over sixteen years old.

“What is your name? Come ti chiami?”

The girl’s eyes blinked open and shut. “Sofia.”

“Fine, Sofia, come here.” Nathan waved her closer. It took her a moment, but she rose to her feet and stepped forward. Nathan did his best to explain what he wanted from her, mostly through pantomime. He pointed toward the door, then emulated the bouncer, standing with his hands crossed. He pointed to Sofia and acted out raising a hand in the air and beckoning the man. Nathan couldn’t tell if she got it or not. He glanced around the room. His bag was still propped up over the camera. The only weapon at his disposal was the bottle, so he picked it back up and then emptied the wine in the bathroom sink. Back at the room door, he gripped the handle and looked to Sofia. “Ready?” he said. She gave him a blank stare still, but in a lightbulb moment, she seemed to get it, nodding her head. Nathan opened the door and eased her into the hall.

“Signor!” Sofia said, waving the guard forward. Nathan backed into the bathroom and pulled this door mostly shut. From this vantage point, he couldn’t see much, but he did hear footsteps moving up the corridor. Sofia and the guard exchanged a few words and the man entered the room. This was all Nathan needed. He swung the door open and in one fluid motion, brought the bottle crashing down on the guard’s head. The man collapsed to the ground, either out cold or dead, Nathan wasn’t sure. He put the bottle down and pulled Sofia back into the room, then shut the door. Sofia stood aside, one hand over her mouth, as Nathan checked the man for a pulse. He was still alive, but only just. Nathan unsnapped the man’s holster and removed a 9mm Luger, then placed it on the table. “It’s OK, Sofia. I’m a friend, all right? Amico.” Sofia stayed put, eyes on the gun. Nathan went to the window and swung it open. He poked his head out. It was a dark night with only a sliver of moon reflecting off the tranquil sea. Returning to the guard, Nathan unfastened the holster and put that on the table as well, then slid one hand under each arm and dragged the man across the room. He picked the man up and put his head through the window, with his abdomen resting on the sill. Lastly, Nathan lifted the man’s feet from the floor and levered him up and over the edge. One last push and the man went through, free-falling downwards until he hit the sea below with a splash. One down, Nathan thought as he closed and latched the window.

From the desk, Nathan lifted the Luger, checked to see that the magazine was full, and then slid the gun back into the holster and strapped it on. He donned one of his jackets before turning back to the Sofia. “I want you to wait here.” He used two hands to motion for her to stay put. Sofia didn’t say a word. “It will all be over soon,” he said. “Casi finito.” Nathan left the room, shutting Sofia inside. Going back to the party alone would be a red flag, but this game was on now, and the faster he got through it, the better. Nathan’s best course of action would be to find the security office and take out whoever was monitoring the cameras. Where was this office likely to be? Certainly out of view of the guests. Perhaps underground. It was time to do some exploring.

Turning in the opposite direction from which he’d come, Nathan hurried off. It didn’t take long before he was lost in a maze of corridors, turning right, then left, then right again. He came to another set of stone stairs and started down. At the bottom he was met with the sound of a football match, as an announcer called the game and a crowd cheered. Nathan moved forward, one hand under his jacket and gripping the Luger. At a doorway, he peeked inside. It was a lounge, with plush couches and a large television. Two members of the kitchen staff sat taking a break. They gazed back at Nathan, speechless. He was turning to go when Evelina approached him from behind.

“You cannot be here, signor! It is off limits!”

“My apologies, I must have made a wrong turn.” Instead of taking the stairs back up, Nathan moved further past. He came next to the servants’ private quarters. Here a row of doors lined either side of a hallway, with one door open on the left. Inside was a set of bunk beds, one small desk, and a dresser. Further down the hall, a man exited a bathroom wearing only a towel around his waist. The man froze in place at the sight of this guest, invading his space.

“Don’t mind me.” Nathan continued along. At the end of this hall, a solid wooden door was slightly ajar. Nathan pushed it open. Another set of stone stairs descended further, down a narrow tunnel. If he kept going, he ran the risk of getting trapped in here, and yet from somewhere down below he saw a light. Nathan had to check it out. He pulled out the Luger and held it in both hands as he took one step, then another. All was quiet, not a sound. He kept going, bending low to keep from banging his head on the ceiling. At the bottom, he entered some sort of dungeon, with a collection of ancient torture devices on display. Here was a rack, a long wooden table with manacles on either end, connected to chains with a wheel. Turning it would stretch the victim’s vertebrae past the breaking point. There was a guillotine, with the blade carefully sharpened. Perhaps most impressive of all was an iron maiden, a steel chamber in the shape of a man standing upright. Nathan swung the door open to reveal a space for the victim at the back, with rows of metal spikes at the front, like some sort of perverted juice squeezer complete with a drain at the bottom. He placed a thumb on one of the spikes. Sharp as a tack. This whole room was a museum of human misery. At the far end, a corridor continued straight ahead, with cells lining either side. The doors were constructed of thick iron bars, and inside the first one was a bunk bed and a bureau. A mirror hung from one wall. Women’s clothing was scattered on the floor. A desk was covered in makeup; tubes of lipstick, compacts of blush, palettes of eye shadow. At the back was a toilet, no more than a hole in the ground. The stench was nearly unbearable. This was where they lived while they were here, Carla and Francesca and Sofia and the rest of the terrorized young women. Nathan continued forward, with one cell after the next empty as the inhabitants entertained guests at the party up above. Despite all of the depravity he’d seen so far, what he witnessed next still surprised him. Locked inside another cell was a young woman with wild blond hair sticking out in all directions. Makeup ran down her face, with black eye shadow and pink rouge blended in swirls, red lipstick smeared around her mouth. She wore black lace panties and a torn white T-shirt, with nothing on her feet. At the sight of Nathan, the girl began to scream, her shrieks giving way to a string of expletives in Italian. She grasped the bars with both hands and shook them, as though desperate to get at him, to tear him limb from limb. “Shhh!” Nathan put a finger to his lips, though it was pointless. This girl had completely lost her mind and there was nothing he could do for her. Nathan was about to turn around and go when he realized that the next cell in the row was occupied as well. On a single cot on the floor was the figure of a woman, curled up beneath a blanket, her face hidden by one arm. “Hello?” Nathan pulled on this door, but it, too, was locked. “Are you all right?” It was a preposterous thing to say, he realized. Of course she wasn’t all right. The woman lifted her head to face him and Nathan’s heart sank. “Daniela,” he said.

Daniela Sorrento was too dazed to speak. She sat up on the cot, holding the blanket up to her neck as she processed this reality.

“I’m here to get you out,” said Nathan, though he had no clue how. The lock was large and square, made of iron and with a seventeenth-century keyhole. A 9mm Luger was no match for it. “Where’s the key?” he said. “Who has it?”

“Nathan?” was all Sorrento could manage, her eyes struggling to focus.

Nathan knelt down low and put a hand through the bars, to offer a reassuring touch, a calming hand, but she was too far to reach. “I’ll be back for you. I promise. Don’t give up.” He rose back up and hurried along the corridor, then through the torture chamber. Before he reached the stairway, two guards spilled out in front of him, one armed with a pistol and the other an AK-47. Quicker to react, Nathan fired two shots at the first man, then two at the second. They dropped to the ground one after the other, spewing red blood onto the stones as the rifle clattered across the ground. Nathan holstered his Luger and checked the men’s pockets. No ancient medieval keys to be found. He picked up the Kalashnikov.

Up the stairs Nathan charged, through the servants’ quarters and on up to the main level. Another of the guards came his way, but again Nathan fired first, taking him out with a single shot. This was now a hunting expedition. So far it was four guards down, with at least as many to go. A few of Bellini’s men might still be in the bar. Nathan arrived in a matter of seconds. Huddled together in the center of the room were Klein, Stirling and Moore, as well as Gutierrez and his associate. Bellini and Palermo were gone. Two guards remained, one on either side with pistols drawn, but neither had time to use them. Nathan took them both out with the AK, one after the other. The guests scrambled in terror, diving for the floor and attempting to hide behind couches. These were desperate moments and much could yet go wrong, but there was no turning back. Nathan had only two options, victory or death. He looked up at a security camera mounted near the ceiling, pointed his weapon and fired another round, shattering the camera into pieces.

Nathan crossed the courtyard to the nearest stairway and went up a level, then up one more. He exited onto a walkway along the ramparts, with a view down onto the fortress to one side and the rest of the tiny island to the other. All was quiet. He kept moving. At a bend in the fortification wall, a slot on the outer side allowed for archers to fire under cover. It would work just as well for gunmen. Down below at the pier, three armed men exited Bellini’s yacht and ran toward the compound. Nathan waited until they were halfway to the gate before he opened up on them. The men were caught in the open, with no cover. One got off a few shots, some hitting the outer wall and a few others buzzing over Nathan’s head. It was a valiant attempt that ended in failure, as all three men went down. That made nine so far. It was good progress, but he had to keep moving.

Sweeping around to the other side of the fort, Nathan found another stairway heading down. On the second floor, he came to a billiard room, with a full-sized table covered in red felt. The next room along was a library, with bookcases floor to ceiling filled with ancient tomes. No people were in sight. Further down the hall was a solid security door, with a keypad and security camera to one side. As Nathan approached, the door slid open. Somebody was watching, apparently, and that somebody wanted Nathan to continue. Past this door was a small antechamber. The perfect trap. A chill ran down Nathan’s spine. The hunter was now the hunted. He’d only taken a few steps in the opposite direction when he felt a sharp pain in his backside. Reaching around with one hand, his fingers grasped the tail of a dart protruding from one butt cheek. By the time he pulled it out, he was woozy. Two seconds after that, the world began to spin. His legs turned to rubber and Nathan collapsed to the ground as his world went black.

Chapter Twenty-Three

The screams of the madwoman echoed in Nathan’s brain as the lights in his head came back on. He was lying flat on his back and unable to sit up. The best he could manage was to open his eyes. Everything was blurry and unfocused. He was on a hard, cold surface. He tried to turn his head, but passed out once more. The next time he woke up, he felt a tingling in his extremities as the tranquilizer began to wear off. With a concerted effort, he was able to scoot slowly across the floor. Nathan pushed himself up into a seated position with his back against a wall. The screaming had ceased. In front of him was a door made of rusted iron bars. Nathan was locked in one of the cells, down in the dungeon. He could hardly think straight, but one thing occurred to him. His adversary had wanted him taken alive, either to question him, or torture him, or both. “Daniela!” he croaked.

“I’m here...” Her voice was weak, but nearby.

Nathan didn’t know what else to say. He’d failed her. He’d failed them both. “I’m sorry,” was the best he could manage. “I wanted the happy ending.”

Sorrento didn’t answer. There was nothing much to say. Sergio Bellini had won. He would have his auction and sell the artifacts to a rogue’s gallery of billionaires, then murder Nathan Grant and Daniela Sorrento both. Most likely the girls, too, if not here and now, then in time. All of the cards were in Bellini’s hands. Nathan placed his head in his hands.

For the next hour, the only sound was the ranting of the madwoman, but then boots echoed down the corridor. Three figures appeared in front of Nathan’s cell. Two were from Bellini’s security detail. The third was the man himself, sporting one of his trademark double-breasted suits, with a watch on his wrist that could probably buy an apartment in Rome. He was not a happy man. Bellini gave directions to his men, who disappeared back up the hall. Nathan and the mogul faced each other through the bars. Neither said a word. The next sound was the scraping of metal on stone. The bodyguards returned, dragging the iron maiden with them and then propping it up in front of the cell. Bellini reached for the door to the contraption and swung it open. He placed a thumb on one of the spikes. “That is sharp,” he said.

“Get it over with, then,” Nathan replied.

“I will, certainly.”

“I have nothing to tell you. It wouldn’t save me if I did.”

“It could possibly save you some pain.” Bellini swung the door slowly, then slammed it the rest of the way shut. “The amount that you endure is up to you. Who sent you here?”

“Save your breath, Bellini.”

“It was Abbas. Wasn’t it?”

“You’re not getting anything out of me.”

“He has made a powerful enemy. Perhaps if I give you a demonstration, it will encourage you to be more forthcoming.” Bellini nodded to his men. One of them went away. He returned shortly, this time with another guard, dragging a stunned Gordon Klein with them.

“What is this?” said Klein. “I had nothing to do with anything! It was him!” Klein nodded toward Nathan. “He did it all!”

“But he was your guest, Mr. Klein. You brought him here.”

“I didn’t want to, they made me do it!”

“Who is they, Mr. Klein? It was Adnan, was it not? You can tell me.” Bellini opened the iron maiden.

“What is that? Why am I here?”

“Tell me. Was it Adnan who put you up to this?”

Nathan knew full well, Bellini was going to murder Gordon Klein and there was no stopping it.

“Yes, it was Adnan! He made me!” Klein called out.

“And why did he do that?”

“Because of Isabella! He wanted to find her, that’s all!”

“Isabella? I see.”

“He was worried about her. If you call and tell him that she’s all right, it will all be fine!”

“It is far too late for phone calls, Gordon. Debts must be settled.”

“What debts? You want money, is that it? How much? Tell me, I will make the arrangements.”

“Not money, no.”

“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Klein looked from the iron maiden to Nathan, trapped in his cell. “You’re going to make me watch!”

“No, Gordon,” said Nathan. “I’m afraid they’re going to kill you. To make me watch.”

Klein’s mouth hung open, eyes wide as saucers. His mind was unable to process what was happening. “He’s kidding, right?” he said to Bellini.

“Oh, no,” said Bellini. “In this instance, Signor Grant speaks the truth.”

Klein absorbed these words for a beat and then tried to bolt, but the bodyguards held tightly to either arm. The third guard produced a syringe from a small case and held it up, pressing the plunger just enough to expel any air bubbles.

“What are you doing, what is that?” said Klein. “What do you want? Anything at all, just tell me what you want!”

Bellini nodded to the man with the syringe. “Proceed.”

Two guards held Klein in place while the third leaned close, poked his arm with the needle, and administered the contents.

“It’s only enough to take the fight out of him,” Bellini said to Nathan. “He will retain full command of his senses. He will see all, feel all.”

“You can’t expect to get away with this,” said Nathan. “It will catch up with you.”

“Perhaps, but today is not that day.”

Klein went limp in the men’s hands. His eyes, those terrified, disbelieving eyes, remained open.

“Put him in,” said Bellini.

Nathan, too, wrestled with the reality of what he was witnessing. The men tilted the contraption backward, lowering it to the floor, where it rested there like a steel coffin. They lifted Klein’s body and placed it inside. Klein couldn’t move, nor even make a sound louder than a desperate whimper.

“Go ahead,” said Bellini. “Slowly.”

The men swung the door closed until the spikes rested on Klein’s chest and abdomen. Would they really go through with it, or was this all an elaborate prank? The answer came quickly. The bodyguards pressed down, sending the steel spikes into their incapacitated captive. Wails echoed through the dungeon, but not from Gordon Klein. These were the cries of the madwoman in the other cell. Bellini nodded to his men and they pressed harder, putting all of their weight into it and driving the spikes clear through their victim. Blood oozed out of the corners of the steel coffin. Gordon Klein was dead. And still the young woman’s desperate screams continued.

“Somebody shut her up!” Bellini snapped. His main lieutenant pulled out a firearm and moved to the girl’s cell. Three shots rang out and the dungeon went silent.

“Is it worth it?” Nathan said. “All of this, the murder, the cruelty? For what, money? Power?”

“You are in no position to judge me, Signor Grant. You are in a position to die.”

“Then get it over with. I’m not going to tell you anything.”

“Nor must you. Signor Klein gave me all that I needed. You are here at the behest of Adnan Abbas.”

Nathan closed his eyes and tilted his head back. It wasn’t the loss of his own life that he regretted, it was Sorrento, and all of the other young women, and the women to come the next time Bellini threw one of these events. Nathan could plead for Daniela Sorrento’s life, he could try to talk Bellini out of his evil ways, but those pleas would fall on deaf ears. Bellini had won, and the only thing left for Nathan to do was get through these last minutes on earth, and the pain he would endure in a medieval torture device at the hands of a madman.

Bellini gestured to the iron maiden. “Open it,” he said to his men. In response, two of them leaned down, one at each end, and swung up the lid. Inside, the body of Gordon Klein was an unrecognizable mass of punctured flesh, with mixed-up bits of organs protruding from gaping holes. The expression on his face was one of shock and surprise, with eyes wide open and mouth agape, as if he went out not quite believing what was happening to him. “Get Klein out of there,” Bellini said to one of the men. “I have arrangements to make.”

“Si, Signor Bellini,” said the man.

Bellini turned back to Nathan. “I will be back for you, never fear. In the meantime, you may reflect on what awaits you.” The mogul took two of his men and exited the dungeon, leaving the third to struggle with Klein, lifting the dead body from the contraption and dragging him away across the stones. Nathan had long known that his life might one day end in violence, accepted it even, but not like this. “Daniela?” he called out, but all he heard in return were quiet sobs.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Approaching footsteps signaled the end of the line. Nathan was still trying to come to terms with this when a lone figure appeared before him: Isabella Palermo, wearing her party dress and clutching a small purse. Her expression was tired and worn, with the weight of the world dragging her down. She cast her eyes at the iron maiden, and the blood spread across the floor. “Please do not assume that I am proud of my complicity,” she said.

“Does it matter what I think? In a few more minutes I won’t be thinking at all, ever again.”

“You don’t understand, Signor Grant. You can’t understand.” Palermo turned away from the gruesome scene, shifting her gaze to her feet. “I was nothing. I came from nothing. Sergio Bellini discovered me, lifted me from poverty and made me a star. This life of glamour, red carpets and premieres, it was him.”

“Not Abbas?”

“No. Not Adnan, it was Sergio. What he gave, he can take away. He can ruin me. I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

A tear rolled down Palermo’s cheek. She could turn it on for the cameras, no doubt, but this time her despair seemed authentic.

“It’s not too late for you to redeem yourself.” Nathan approached the cell bars. “Remember the girl you used to be, when you were still a child, filled with dreams. What would she have done?”

“You’re asking that I betray him.”

“I am asking you to save an innocent life.”

“Are you innocent, Mr. Grant? Are any of us innocent?”

“Not me. Signorina Sorrento, in the next cell. She’s done nothing. Please. You’ve got to help her.”

“He would have me killed. Just being here, speaking with you, I am risking my life.”

“Listen to yourself. This man is a monster. The time has come to choose a side. Are you with the monster, or against him?”

“He will win in the end. He always wins.”

“Please. I’m begging you, Isabella. Can you help her? Can you get her out?”

A wistful expression crossed Palermo’s face. She took one step further away and then held her purse in two hands and unsnapped a latch. Reaching in, she pulled out a large, ancient iron key. Nathan shot a hand through the bars, but she kept it just out of reach.

“Isabella,” Nathan pleaded. “There’s very little time.”

“Please, Signorina,” came the voice of Daniela Sorrento. “Don’t let us die here. Not like this. I beg you.”

Palermo looked from Nathan, toward Sorrento’s cell, and to the gruesome sight of the iron maiden on the floor. Slowly, she held one hand forward. Nathan reached out again and took the key from her fingers. He slid it into the lock on his cell door, turned it twice around, and swung the door open. Moving into the corridor, he passed Palermo and then unlocked Sorrento’s door with the same key. Daniela swept into his arms in a terrified embrace.

“Come with us,” Nathan said to Palermo.

“No. It is too late for me.”

“It’s not. To stay here is suicide, you said so yourself,” he tried one last time.

“Go,” she replied.

Nathan wasn’t going to stick around and argue. “Goodbye, Isabella.”

“Goodbye, Nathan Grant.”

Nathan put one arm around Sorrento’s shoulders and ushered her along the corridor, past a cell where the young woman lay dead in a bloody heap. At the far end of the row was the mutilated body of Gordon Klein. Nathan turned for one last look at Isabella Palermo, glamorous star of the Italian screen. “Thank you,” he said, then led Sorrento through the door and away, past the other torture devices and up the stairs.

On the main level, they made their way to the bar, where this time they were met by the clutch of young women sitting around on the couches, Sofia included. Nathan had to get them out of there, every single one, and the only way he could think of was aboard Bellini’s yacht. If he could get these women onto it, and commandeer the vessel, they might stand a chance. Two dead guards were still sprawled on the floor, and Nathan patted one down, removing a loaded Sig Sauer 9mm pistol. “Tell them, they’re coming with us,” he said to Sorrento

“Ragazze, venite con noi,” Sorrento translated.

None of the young women moved an inch, either from shock or disbelief. Nathan moved to Sofia. “You trust me, don’t you?”

“Ti fidi di noi?” said Sorrento.

“SÌ,” Sofia replied.

“Digli di venire,” Sorrento continued. “Tell them to come.”

Sofia gazed at all of her contemporaries. “Venire.,” she said. “Andiamo.” The girls began to stand, one by one.

“Pronto,” said Nathan.

It was eerily quiet when Nathan poked his head out of the compound’s front gate. Where was everybody? Some distance away under a star-lit sky, he spotted the yacht, tied to the pier with the engines running. Near the gangway, two crewmen in blue coveralls stood beside a pair of wooden crates. The men lifted one of the crates and began to carry it aboard.

Sorrento joined Nathan’s side. “Those crates,” she said. “The artifacts!”

“That’s the least of our worries.” Nathan looked to the rest of the women, sheltering in the doorway behind them. If Bellini was transferring the artifacts on board, then the man himself would be on board, and if Bellini was on board, then at least some of his remaining men would be with him. That represented a threat, but also an opportunity. They didn’t know Nathan was free, and armed. Of course, he had the safety of Sorrento and the young women to consider. It might be better to hole up on the island and put in a call to the Montenegrin Coast Guard. Before Nathan had a chance to fully consider the best course of action, Daniela Sorrento took matters into her own hands. Without a word, she darted out of the fortress and began to run, straight for the yacht. “Hey, hold up!” Nathan called after, but there was no stopping her. “Shit,” he said next, as she reached the pier. Sorrento took a quick look inside the remaining crate. Nathan turned to the young women. “The rest of you stay here,” he said, then took off after Sorrento. He reached the pier himself and then realized that the girls were right on his heels. At any moment, the two men would come back for the last crate and find the whole group of them standing on the pier. “What are you doing?” he said to Sorrento.

“We’ve got to stop them!” she replied. “Before they get away!”

Remaining on the pier was out of the question, and retreating en masse to the fortress was equally untenable. That left one option. “Get on board, hurry!” he said. Sorrento didn’t need convincing. She rushed up the gangway, with Nathan right behind and the rest of the girls following after. Crewmen’s voices echoed along the passageway to the right. “This way.” Nathan led his charges down a stairway to the bottom deck, then continued aft until they came to a galley. Two cooks, a man and a woman, stood at a counter chopping vegetables.

“Chi sei?” said the woman. “Who are you?”

“We need a place to hide,” said Nathan. “Please.” The cooks put down their knives. One looked to the other, they shared a few words in Italian, and then the man led them forward into a large pantry, filled with foodstuffs crammed onto shelves. The young women went in first. “Tell them to stay here,” Nathan said to Sorrento. “That goes for you, too. I’ll be back when it’s safe to come out.”

“What will you do?”

“I don’t really have a playbook.”

“What if?…” She couldn’t finish the sentence. What if they shoot you? What if you never come back? Nathan didn’t have time to calm her fears. He slid the pantry door shut and moved back through the galley. Clutching the pistol in one hand, he moved forward along the passageway to a second stairway and went up one deck, then another. He emerged in a dining room, with a long table in the center lined with heavy wooden chairs. Nobody was here. Through a window he saw the stone fortress, looming up in the darkness. On the ramparts, the silhouette of a lone figure emerged, a svelte woman in a party dress. It could only be Isabella Palermo. She stood at the edge of the wall surveying the scene, the moon, the sea, the stars. “Don’t do it,” Nathan said to himself, but it was of no use. This would be the last view her eyes would ever see. Palermo stepped forward into the void. Her body fell, down, down, down. Nathan quickly turned away, just before she smashed onto an outcrop of jagged rocks below. Whatever suffering she’d endured in this lifetime was over.

Nathan had no time or emotional bandwidth to ponder this development. He continued aft into an adjoining cabin. This one had plush couches, low tables, and a long bar. Stacked haphazardly in the center was the collection of crates, some tipped over on their sides. Nathan moved to the nearest one and knelt down, lifting the lid for a closer look. Inside was the golden statue of an ibis, with head and legs of bronze. Bellini’s men would be back at any moment with the last crate. Nathan moved to the bar and ducked down behind it. The yacht shuddered beneath him as the engines wound up and the boat got underway. The two crewmen entered the room, chattering away in Italian. These voices were followed by a third. Sergio Bellini’s. Nathan rose from behind the bar and pointed the Sig Sauer. Before him stood Bellini, with an Egyptian urn in hand. Standing tall beside him was one of his henchmen. Behind them, the two crewmen, lowering the final crate to the deck. At the sight of Nathan, Bellini’s face dropped in disbelief. For Nathan Grant, it was a moment of truth. He could end this whole thing right now, but even after everything Bellini had done, shooting these men would be murder. Nathan had no qualms about that, from a moral perspective. It was one thing, however, to dispose of a nameless, faceless bodyguard out the window and into the sea. It was another thing entirely to kill one of the most powerful men in Italy. Investigations would be opened. Nathan Grant would likely end up in front of a judge, with the outcome stacked against him. The ideal option would be for Bellini to go on trial, to answer for his crimes. For that to happen, he had to be taken alive. “Put down the urn,” Nathan said.

“You surprise me, Signor Grant. I have underestimated you.”

“Let me see your hands, all of you, in the air,” said Nathan.

Bellini placed the urn back into a crate. All four men raised their hands, including a begrudging henchman.

“I can make you a very rich man,” said Bellini. “Do you know how much these objects are worth? Choose one. I will give you whichever you’d like, take your pick.”

“Nice try.” Nathan came out from behind the bar and moved forward, approaching the henchman first. With one hand clutching the Sig Sauer, he used the other to pat the man down, removing a pistol from beneath his coat.

“What do you want?” Bellini tried again. “Anything you can dream of, I can provide. Money, cars, women. All you have to do is say it.”

At these attempts to buy Nathan off, a deep revulsion set in. Nathan thought of Carla Gualtieri. In his mind’s eye, he saw Alessandra, dead in the bathtub. He pictured the young women hiding in the pantry two decks below. Gordon Klein, and no doubt countless other victims. Even if Nathan got the man in front of a judge, better than even money said Sergio Bellini would walk. That was the kind of power he had, the kind of influence that extravagant sums of money could buy. The bottom line, it dawned on Nathan, was that Sergio Bellini had to die. That was the only clear path to justice. “Let’s go, outside, all of you.” Nathan used his gun to motion them forward.

“You are making a mistake, Signor Grant. You cannot imagine the consequences.”

“Move.” Nathan pointed the gun between Bellini’s eyes. The four men started off across the cabin, then exited a doorway to an outdoor deck. They continued past a speedboat and two jet skis in a rack. All four men lined up at an aft railing with the Adriatic Sea churning below. “Open the gate,” Nathan ordered a crewman. The man complied, unlatching a section of the rail and swinging it inward. “Jump,” Nathan said.

“Sir, I cannot swim,” said the man.

Nathan lifted a flotation cushion from a couch nearby and tossed it to the man. He gave another cushion to the other crewman. “Jump,” he repeated.

The two men looked at each other, then the gun pointed at them, and the first man stepped off the deck, dropping into the sea below with a splash. The second man followed suit. Bellini and his bodyguard knew that they wouldn’t be given the same consideration. In a last-ditch effort, the henchman lunged forward. Nathan fired two shots into the man’s chest and the man dropped to his knees, then collapsed to one side on the deck. Bellini’s protector, his best bodyguard, was dead. There was no hiding the media mogul’s fear. He could dish out the terror, but he wasn’t used to taking it. “Turn around,” said Nathan.

“You will shoot an unarmed man?” said Bellini.

“You’re a disgrace. Turn around, I won’t ask again.”

Bellini turned to face the sea, his back toward Nathan as a warm, Adriatic breeze blew through the air. Behind them, the lights of Cevsky Island grew smaller with the distance. Ahead somewhere in the dark would be the coast of Italy. “You will pay for this,” said Bellini.

“Right now it’s your turn.” Nathan pressed the barrel of his gun into the back of the Bellini’s head. The man might prove correct about the ultimate consequences, but Nathan was beyond caring. He pulled the trigger and blew the man’s brains out. Bellini toppled through the gate, free-falling into the dark waters below before disappearing beneath the waves. The great Sergio Bellini was no more.

Nathan put his gun on the deck, then dragged the henchman to the edge and shoved him over. That was it. Game over. He lifted the pistol and stood at the rail, inhaling the salty air. It was a beautiful summer evening. He still needed to figure out how he might possibly explain away any of this away, but for this one moment all he felt was relief. He would allow himself this moment to savor it. It didn’t last long. From the corner of his eye, Nathan spotted a small, swift boat approaching from the bow at full speed. Police, perhaps? Coast Guard? Pirates? Whoever it might be, Nathan didn’t like it. The boat drew closer, swinging around to pull up beside the yacht. A captain stood at the helm, steering the smaller vessel over choppy seas. Spread out from bow to stern were five men holding Kalashnikovs. Beside the captain, an unarmed man chomped a cigar, the tip glowing red as he puffed away. The man lifted a microphone from the console and took the cigar from his mouth. “Preparati a salire a bordo!” the voice of Giuseppi Romano echoed through a loudspeaker. “Prepare to be boarded!”

The gunmen spotted Nathan and didn’t wait for instructions. At least two of them opened fire. Nathan dove to the deck and shimmied away, leaving his pistol behind. It seemed he just couldn’t catch a break. He slid under the speedboat cover to hide, then scooted around to the opposite side of the smaller vessel. “Rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat,” the man sprayed the yacht with lead, tearing into the tender and everything nearby, but leaving Nathan unscathed as he crouched behind the outboard motors. His legs felt wet, but this wasn’t blood. A liquid drained down and soaked into his pants. The fumes gave it away. This was gasoline. One more shot and the whole thing was likely to ignite. The fuel flowed across the deck before spilling into the sea.

Nathan crawled out from under the cover on the far side, out of the line of sight. Giuseppi Romano was here for the artifacts. As far as Nathan was concerned, he could have them. Just take them and go. In the meantime, Nathan needed a good place to hide. He made his way to a stairwell and descended once more. At the bottom he continued aft all the way to the engine room, where an engineer sat monitoring a panel.

“Who are you?” the man shouted.

“We’re under attack,” Nathan answered. “We need to hide.”

The engineer processed this quickly, then waved Nathan forward. They went past a pair of enormous diesel engines and came to a storage room filled with cans of paint, solvents and tools. Nathan and the engineer moved inside and the man swung the door closed behind them. “What is happening?” The engineer spoke with a Slavic accent. He was skinny and sallow, with wisps of hair on top and gray curls on the sides.

“Pirates,” said Nathan. “I’m afraid we’re being robbed.”

The engineer took an empty bucket, turned it upside down, and sat. “They should know better than to make an enemy of Sergio Bellini.”

“Indeed.” Nathan flipped another bucket and sat beside him. “Where are you from?”

“I am Polish. Gdansk.”

“You’ve worked for Bellini a long time?”

“Some years, yes.”

“I bet you’ve seen a lot.”

“Me? No. I see my engines, my panel. That is all.”

“You married?”

“Yes.” The man took a pack of cigarettes from one pocket, along with a lighter.

“No!” Nathan held out a hand and then pointed to his pants. “Gasoline. I’m soaked in it.” He didn’t mention the added fact that they were in a room full of paint and solvents. The engineer sniffed at the air, his nose picking up the telltale fumes. He put the cigarettes away.

“Do you have any weapons down here?” said Nathan. “Any guns?”

“No, not here.”

“Pity.”

“You work for Bellini? Security?”

“Yeah.”

“You have no guns?”

“Not at the moment.”

“I would very much like a smoke.”

“Let’s hope you get a chance for another one.”

“I should find another job,” the engineer said, “where I can be home at night, not gone all the time.”

“Your wife misses you?”

The engineer laughed. “Not so much. For her, it is better this way.” The man’s head tilted back as he listened to something.

“What?” said Nathan.

“We’ve shifted to neutral.”

A few minutes later came footsteps, and then the door burst open. On the other side were two of Romano’s men, Kalashnikovs in hand. Nathan and the engineer raised their arms.

“Come,” said one of the men.

“Sure,” Nathan replied. “Just take it easy.”

Nathan and the engineer were escorted back to the upper deck, where more of Bellini’s crew members were gathered. Romano oversaw the operation. Nathan and the engineer were thrown in with the other crew members and moments later, Daniela Sorrento and the rest of the young women emerged, along with the cooks. Altogether, sixteen people were huddled together.

“Look who we have here.” Romano stood before Nathan, then looked to Sorrento, incredulous.

“Good evening, minister,” Nathan replied.

“Signor Grant, you have a habit of showing up at the most inopportune times.”

“Next time I’ll make a reservation.”

“Of course, there will be no next time.”

“Take the artifacts, Romano. You’ve won.”

“Not while there are witnesses.”

Daniela Sorrento moved to Nathan’s side, wrapping her arms around him and burying her face against his chest.

“Signorina Sorrento, I am sorry to see you mixed up in all of this,” said Romano.

“It’s one thing to be a thief,” said Nathan. “Being a murderer is another thing entirely.” Between Nathan’s feet, a rivulet of gasoline flowed from the tender to a gutter along the rail. Nobody else seemed to notice.

“Everybody to the rail!” Romano shouted. His men pushed and jostled their captives toward the same open gate. “You may choose,” Romano announced. “Jump, or be pushed, but overboard you will go.”

Sofia was first up. She took a look at these men, pointing their automatic weapons at her, and tilted her head back with chin in the air. Nobody was going to steal away her dignity, even in death. She stepped to the edge and leapt off. One by one went the rest of them.

“I can’t!” said a cook.

Romano stepped forward and shoved the woman into the sea, then turned to those remaining. “Anyone else prefer a push?”

The last few jumped, leaving only Nathan and Sorrento remaining. The minister pulled a lighter from one pocket, along with a fresh cigar. He bit off one end and stuck it in his mouth. “Goodbye Signor Grant,” he said. “Good riddance to you.” Romano flicked open the lighter. A yellow flame shimmered in the night as he lit his cigar and took a few puffs, the tip glowing orange-red.

“Go ahead, Daniela, I’ll be right behind you,” Nathan said.

“How chivalrous.” Romano held the cigar in one hand as he slid the lighter back in his pocket.

Daniela Sorrento spat in his face. “You’re a disgrace,” she said. Before he had a chance to respond, she leapt off into the sea.

Romano used his free hand to wipe the spittle from his face. “For you, I will take no chances,” he said to Nathan, then turned to his men. “Shoot this one.” The minister stuck the cigar back in his mouth. He faced Nathan just a few feet away, with a smug air of satisfaction. At last, everything was going his way. One of his men stepped forward and raised a rifle to Nathan’s head. Before he got off the shot, Nathan lunged forward and swiped the cigar from Romano’s lips. He flicked it in the air across the deck and then launched himself backwards. The burning orange ember landed in the stream of gasoline as Nathan fell through the air. In an instant, the fuel ignited, racing across to the speedboat and then, BOOM!, the tender exploded in a fireball as Nathan plunged ten feet into the dark Adriatic. By the time he’d scrambled back to the surface, gasping for breath, the top deck of the yacht was engulfed in flames. “Boom!” came a second explosion, and then “Boom!” again as the jet skis blew up.

“Daniela!” Nathan called out, but he couldn’t see her, or hear her. The yacht moved past, roiling him in its wake. As it continued away, the flames spread through the upper cabins, licking at the bridge. By the flickering orange light, Nathan began to swim, back and away toward those who’d jumped before him, but the others were spread across a vast stretch of water. Nathan found a crew member, treading water in place. Together, they found one of the girls. The yacht by this time was listing heavily to the port side and adrift, with the engines shut down. “Daniela!” Nathan continued to shout.

“Nathan!” she replied from a distance.

“Where are you! Keep calling!”

“I’m here! I’m here!”

Nathan took off, making his way toward the voice. By the time he reached her, the yacht was keeling over on its side, the fire lighting the night and casting a glow on Sorrento’s bobbing head.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Yes. I am fine.”

Nathan was filled with a wave of relief as he joined her side. “I thought I might have lost you.”

“I can swim. For how long, I am not sure.”

“You’ve got to hang in there. Somebody will have seen it. Rescue boats will arrive soon.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

The glow on Sorrento’s cheeks dimmed as the yacht sank, dipping below the waterline, gone forever to the bottom of the sea. All that remained was a field of debris, spreading out in all directions. Nathan located a flotation cushion and pushed it under Sorrento’s arms. Within a few more minutes, a rescue craft appeared. Of the sixteen innocents who had gone into the water, only seven survived, plucked from the sea and whisked toward the coast. Giuseppi Romano was among those who would never be seen again.

“The artifacts,” Sorrento said to Nathan as they sat huddled under blankets. “They’re gone.”

“But we’re still here. That’s what matters most, don’t you think?”

Sorrento didn’t answer. For her, perhaps it wasn’t in the end.

Chapter Twenty-Five

At long last, Nathan’s home renovation projects were complete. Not only did he have a new living room, windows, roof, and furniture, he also took the initiative to re-do his entire kitchen. When he first bought the place, the kitchen was quaint, with some old-world charm, but for practical purposes that didn’t really cut it. Now he had a new oven with an induction stove-top, plus updated cabinets, counter tops, and a modern refrigerator. To make room for it all, he extended the space ten feet further into what had been the back garden. After all of the expenses, he still had twenty thousand euros left of Isabella Palermo’s money in his bank account. He thought of Palermo as he stood at the range, cooking an omelet in a brand new frying pan. She’d turned out to be all right. It was a shame how she went out, but a woman like that wouldn’t have fared well in prison. Perhaps it was for the best, in the end.

With a quick flick of the wrist, Nathan flipped the omelet into the air and cooked the other side until it was ready, then slid it onto a plate. He set this on his wooden table, one of the original furnishings he’d opted to keep, then lifted a cappuccino from the counter and sat down for breakfast. His next cappuccino would be the real thing, direct from the source. Today he was heading back to Italy for the first time in eight months. A small part of him worried that he still might be arrested. Nobody besides Nathan knew the real story of what happened to Sergio Bellini, or Giuseppi Romano. Neither body was ever recovered. Nathan wouldn’t have gone back to Italy at all if it weren’t out of respect for the new Minister of Cultural Heritage, Signorina Daniela Sorrento. She’d invited him to her first big opening, and Nathan knew it was important to her. After all they’d been through together, it seemed a fitting way to wrap things up, and when the minister herself invites you to an opening, you go.

Nathan savored his omelet, crisp on the outside, creamy in the middle, with cheese, scallions and bell peppers. Not half bad. He drank down his coffee, then washed the dishes and went to pack. It was only one night, to attend the soirée in Rome and fly back first thing in the morning. He could pack light, though he would need to check his tux. He’d heard the Prime Minister herself might show up. The event would be held at the Palazzo Altemps, a fifteenth-century mansion housing artifacts from the Roman National Museum, only a few short blocks away from Abbas’ villa on the Piazza Navona.

Besides his tux, Nathan packed a toiletry bag and one spare set of clothes. He drove to the airport in Marseille, parked his car in the garage, and was in Rome by early afternoon. His hotel for this trip was a few blocks further on the opposite side of the piazza, close to the river. Nathan checked in and then took a walk across the Ponte Umberto I and up around the Vatican, taking in St. Peter’s Square and the basilica. He had an early dinner alone in the Trastevere neighborhood, then returned to his hotel to change for the big event.

Daniela Sorrento had graciously agreed to meet Nathan thirty minutes prior to the opening for his own private tour. Outside, a pair of spotlights swept back and forth across the night sky. Giant banners displayed images from what had become known as Hadrian’s Egyptian Collection, including the golden ibis, and the pharaoh’s funeral mask. A red carpet led from the cobblestone street, past a throng of paparazzi, and through an arched doorway. This was the type of treatment Isabella Palermo once enjoyed. Tonight, it was Daniela Sorrento’s turn. She stood waiting for him at the top of the stairs, dressed in a formal red gown. A mix of emotions swirled through Nathan’s core. Pride, relief, gratitude. Sometimes in life, it seemed, everything worked out the way it should.

“Welcome back to Rome.” Sorrento offered a warm smile as Nathan climbed the steps to meet her.

“Thank you, Madame Minister.” He took her hands in his and leaned forward to kiss her on one cheek, then the other.

“I owe the title to you, no doubt.”

Nathan held up one hand. “I’d never take credit for that, but it’s wonderful to see you.”

“Would you like to take a look inside?”

“Absolutely.”

“After you, then.” Sorrento gestured toward the door and a security guard accompanied them as the pair made their way inside, down a corridor, and through an interior courtyard. They passed a bar, along with tables covered in white cloths. A clutch of servers in uniform stood to one side, waiting for the first guests to arrive. Sorrento led Nathan into an exhibition hall, where glass cases displayed the glittering objects Nathan had last seen on Bellini’s yacht. Each piece had a description card, written in Italian and English.

“Impressive,” said Nathan. “How did you pull this together in such a short amount of time?”

“It was a monumental effort, but I am proud of our team.”

Nathan moved to the first case. Inside was the golden ibis that he recognized, with bronze head and feet. “Were they damaged in the sinking?”

“We moved very quickly. Within three weeks, all of the artifacts were safely recovered. A conservator set to work on them right away. Any damage was minimal.”

The next case held the knife, with an iron blade and golden handle. “There is one thing I’ve never quite understood,” said Nathan. “Why did Bellini take you to the island? Why not just kill you along with Alessandra when he had the chance?”

“He needed me for my expertise, to test his scheme.”

“I don’t understand. It’s not as though you were going to help him, not under that kind of duress.”

“Bellini never had any intention of parting with these items, you see. That night on the island, he displayed the genuine articles for all of his guests to examine. For the auction, he had forgeries created. The real items would be spirited away on his yacht. The forgeries would be sold in their place. He showed these to me, these fakes, to see if he could pass them off to an expert.”

“And were you fooled?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Must we revisit that horrible experience? I would rather put it behind us.”

“Fair enough. Tell me this, though, what happened to Adnan Abbas?”

“I am told that he returned to Dubai. I doubt that he will ever again set foot in this country.”

“I had the man pegged entirely wrong. He wasn’t such a bad guy, it turns out.”

Sorrento stopped at the last case in the exhibit, the pharaoh’s golden death mask. Nathan took a good long look at it. What dramas this man must have faced in his lifetime, and now again in death. “Thanks for the tour,” said Nathan.

“It is my pleasure. Thank you for coming.”

“Tell me this, what about your boss, Tommaso Cardona? Did you find him?”

“His body was located, brutally murdered, his head removed.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“He spoke with the police, but Sergio Bellini had ears everywhere. When he found out, Tommaso was killed.”

“I guess that’s what happened to poor Enzo Rossi.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. I won’t take any more of your time. I’m sure you have a lot of important people to meet.”

“I never aspired to this position. I am an archaeologist, not a bureaucrat.”

“You’ll do great, I have no doubt.”

“I am relieved that these objects found their way to the museum for all the world to see.”

“How did Bellini know they were there in the chamber, at the Villa Adriana? For two thousand years nobody had any idea. What changed?”

“Technology. A graduate student working on his dissertation examined the site with ground-penetrating radar. His research was funded by Bellini.”

“What happened to the grad student? He couldn’t have approved of this scheme.”

“Unfortunately, nobody has heard from him.”

“I see.” Nathan didn’t have to say it. They both knew the grad student likely suffered the same fate as Tommaso Cardona. And Enzo Rossi, too.

“From here the objects will go to Cairo,” said Sorrento, “on permanent loan, back to where they belong. We owe you a debt of gratitude.”

“Have dinner with me sometime and we’ll call it even.”

“That would make me very happy.”

Nathan gave her a smile, hoping they could actually make it happen. For now, the prospect was enough. The guard accompanied them back down the hallway and out the door. A phalanx of paparazzi were assembled behind a velvet rope on either side, held back by security. Down on the street, a black limo pulled up to a stop and a valet opened the rear door. An attractive couple in formal wear climbed out to flash bulbs popping and shouts from the peanut gallery.

“Goodbye, Daniela,” said Nathan.

“Goodbye, Nathan.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek, sending an electric spark down his spine. And just like that, it was over. Daniela Sorrento was off to greet the new arrivals. Nathan walked down the front steps and away, through the ancient streets of Rome. Despite the tourist crowds, it wasn’t such a bad place. Nathan would make that dinner happen, and maybe another after that. Was there potential here? He didn’t want to get ahead of himself, but one thing was for sure. With all of this craziness behind them, he could enjoy spending a little more time around here.

Congratulations, you made it!

Well done, you’ve made it through another episode in the Nathan Grant thriller series! I hope you enjoyed this one. Next up, Nathan is off on an adventure in the lovely city of Budapest. To stay updated on the latest news and new releases, sign up for my newsletter at kennethrosenberg.com. To drop me a comment, you can reach me via email at kenneth@kennethrosenberg.com.  Thanks, and I’ll catch you next time!

- Kenneth Rosenberg