The Royal Bastard

by Nicole Burnham

  “That’s Italy for you,” Rocco said, raising his glass. “Here’s to an unplanned night in Rome.”

  “With the Russians on our tail.”

  He pulled back and made a face. “I’m not toasting that.”

  “All right, fine.” She raised her glass. “Here’s to an unplanned night in Rome and a delicious dinner.”

  “Better.”

  He lightly clinked his glass to hers. Rich flavors of cherry, plum, and spice filled her senses as she took a sip.

  “This is fantastic,” Rocco said, giving the label a quick glance. “It’s not one I’ve had before.”

  It was new to Justine, too, and she made a mental note of the winery. For the next half-hour, she savored the meal. Never would she have pegged this as takeout food. It was the perfect blend of strong and subtle flavors. The heft of the gnocchi and the light texture of the artichokes hit the spot after a long day riding the train and walking through Rome.

  A chorus of cheers rose outside the window, followed by the sound of dozens of voices raised in song.

  “I recognize that one,” Rocco said. “The Scots must be doing well.”

  “If they’re in a good mood, it’ll make it easier for us to slip out.” She set down her fork. Now that she was done eating, her mind went back to the dilemma at hand. “You seem to think we’re safe here, but I’m not so sure. If the Russians weren’t on the train, how did they know we’re in Rome? No way Karpovsky’s appearance is coincidence.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said as he stacked the empty containers and returned them to the takeout bag. “If one or both were in Ancona, it’s possible they either saw or figured out which train we boarded. They could’ve come a different way—on a different train or by car—and arrived shortly after we did.”

  “But how would they know to come to this particular part of Rome?” It didn’t make sense. “Karpovsky was only a few blocks from here. You’ve been very careful to cover our tracks. Private boat to Split, cash for our ferry tickets…it’s like he’s a homing pigeon.”

  An odd look crossed Rocco’s face. He paused in the middle of refilling Justine’s wine.

  “What?”

  “I bet that’s exactly what it is. Damn.” Rocco set down the bottle with a thump, then strode across the room to his backpack. He unzipped the sides and flipped it over on the bed, dumping clothes and toiletries across the bedspread. Several thick, legal-sized manila envelopes and a cornflower blue box that looked like a jewelry case also fell out.

  “I was joking, Rocco. He couldn’t have put any kind of GPS device in your bag. He hasn’t been near us since you packed it in the villa.”

  “I carry this bag to work every day.” He ran his fingers along the back of the bag, then opened a hidden zipper to reveal a padded slot perfectly sized for his computer. He withdrew the laptop and set it on the bed beside the rest of his belongings. “It’s possible Radich put a tracer on here. He only would’ve had to brush up against me in the elevator or the kiosk line outside my office. A few seconds and presto, he has a way of tracking me. It could’ve been done days or weeks ago.”

  Justine moved to the side of the bed. “You really think so?”

  “Best explanation I have.” He ran his hands over the surface of the backpack as he checked it inch by inch. Angling his head toward the pile on the bed, he asked Justine to inspect the clothes. “I wasn’t exactly taking my time when I packed. If there was some kind of GPS device on the surface of the bag, it could’ve come off and gotten stuck to them.”

  Justine nodded, taking the items one at a time and searching for anything out of place. As she finished each piece, she folded it and set it to the side. Other than mud on the leg of the slacks Rocco had worn the night they’d fled through the city, all appeared in order.

  “Bingo.”

  Rocco spun the backpack to show Justine a thumbnail-sized clear sticker adhered to the lower outside edge. Only upon closer inspection, it wasn’t so clear. Tiny, almost invisible wires ran through it.

  “That’s so small. You think that’s it?” she whispered. “It blends right in.”

  That brought a wry grin to his face. “I doubt it can hear us. But yes, I suspect it’s some type of tracking device.”

  “Then the Russians know exactly where we are. They’ve known ever since we left the villa.”

  “Which means they’re probably within a block of us at this very moment.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rocco gently peeled the offending sticker from his backpack and stuck it on the edge of the nightstand, taking care not to smash any of the pin-thin wires. As Justine watched, he lifted the backpack once more, tilting it for a better view under the room’s antique chandelier.

  “It may not be the only one,” he told her. “If I were Radich, knowing that it could fall off or be damaged, I’d have placed a backup if given the opportunity.”

  “Right. I’ll go through the rest of the clothes.”

  Rocco’s jaw worked as he and Justine continued their examination in silence. How could he not have suspected they were being tracked, given Fabrizia’s description of Radich’s skills? A man of Radich’s education and resources would have access to the best in technology, and it wouldn’t have taken much effort for the man to move behind Rocco and place the sticker anytime in the last few months.

  Rocco ground his teeth as he finished his inspection of the backpack. Radich probably knew every time Rocco had left the house with the bag…which was every time he left the house, period, given that it contained his computer. He’d even taken the backpack to his mother’s funeral, locking it in the trunk of the car so he could guarantee its security during the graveside service. The only time it hadn’t been in his possession these last few months was when he’d gone to Justine’s apartment to warn her, only locking the computer in the safe at the last minute when he’d decided to walk instead of drive. Now that he thought about it, that’d been a godsend. If he’d had the backpack with him that night, Karpovsky and Radich would’ve known he was at her apartment. He and Justine would never have escaped.

  And to think that, for a brief moment, he’d believed Justine’s sighting of Karpovsky might be a product of fear and imagination.

  Rocco glanced at her as she held one of his T-shirts to the light, checking every square inch for signs of another sticker, then folded it and put it on the stack. If he knew anything about Justine¸ it was that she faced her fears without flinching. He’d seen it in the way she’d attacked ski runs in questionable weather conditions, and then in the determined set of her jaw when her orthopedic surgeon told her that regaining the strength necessary to compete at the Olympic level was a long shot, given the severity of her injury and her age. He’d witnessed it as she fought off Karpovsky in the alleyway, then felt it in the determined set of her shoulders when he’d held her in the bushes behind the convent, with the two armed Russians only feet away. Despite her pain, despite her fear, she’d remained tough, physically and mentally. He should’ve known the moment she’d entered the hotel room that the sighting wasn’t a figment of her imagination. She wouldn’t have been so intent on taking action if there was any doubt in her mind.

  “Nothing,” she said once she finished inspecting his shaving kit, then set it alongside his folded clothes. “What about the envelopes and this box?”

  “If the exteriors are clean, then they’re fine. The papers came from my safe. Mostly work-related documents or those connected to my mother’s will and estate. The box I received just after her funeral. Radich wouldn’t have been able to access any of it.”

  While he repacked his clothing, Justine scanned the outside of the envelopes and the box, then handed them to him without asking further questions. They did a quick check of her belongings, since what she’d borrowed from Lina had been stuffed in his bag, but found nothing.

  Simultaneously, their gazes went to the sticker affixed to the edge of the nightstand.

  “We have to assume they know wh
ere we’re staying. They may even know which room,” Rocco said. “Since they haven’t made a move yet, I suspect they’re waiting until they don’t have an audience.”

  “Meaning we should get out of here before the bars close and the rugby fans return to their hotels.” Justine flexed her fingers as she stared at the tracking device. “What do we do about that thing? Leave it?”

  “If they’re watching the bed and breakfast and spot us leaving without it, they’ll know we’ve discovered it.” Rocco went to the window to discreetly study the scene outside, then gestured for Justine to join him.

  “It’s even more crowded now.” She squinted through the tiny slit Rocco had created at the edge of the curtain. “Looks like the French have arrived, but the Scots and Irish are still here.”

  “Pack up. We’ll go down, join the crowd, and work our way inside the pub.” He pointed toward a narrow alley at the back of the pub, where a man in an apron sat on an empty beer crate and smoked a cigarette. “There must be a rear exit. Let’s stick the tracking device on one of the tables or under the bar, then we’ll shoot out the back.”

  If Karpovsky and Radich believed they’d gone to the pub for dinner and to watch the rugby tournament, the pair would keep their distance until closing time at two a.m. It would buy them several hours.

  “Is there enough room in your backpack for me to squeeze in my things? If we’re both carrying bags and they spot us, it might look suspicious. But they’re used to seeing you with yours.”

  “Good thinking. If it doesn’t fit, I’ll leave behind enough clothes to make it fit.” He shifted the curtain for a better view of the square. “When we get to the pub entrance, pause to look at the menu as if we’re debating whether or not to stay for dinner. We’ll go inside, dump the tracker, then make our way toward the back. When we exit, let’s take the alley in the direction of the cathedral. Then we’ll cut toward Repubblica and take the Metro toward the river. We can cross to Trastevere and try to find another bed and breakfast there. I know of a few that are out of the way.”

  Justine’s hand came to his shoulder. “We’ll be fine.”

  He let go of the curtain and spun to face her. His heart soared at the trust that filled her eyes. He framed her face between his palms and ran his thumbs over the supple skin of her cheeks before giving her a brief kiss.

  “I’ll make sure of it.”

  * * *

  On another day, under other circumstances, Rocco would’ve relished time spent in the boisterous pub. Behind the bar, a half-dozen bartenders worked nonstop, filling glasses from a long line of taps. Two waitresses edged through the crowd, serving an eclectic mix of pub-style and Italian fare to those who were lucky enough to secure a table. The stark contrast between the happy patrons cheering on their rugby teams and the solemn echo of the nearby Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore’s bells reminded him of what he loved about living in southern Europe. Rome embraced the modern while celebrating and honoring its centuries-old heritage. It enticed visitors to discover its museums and cathedrals, then linger late into the night in its restaurants and bars.

  Tonight, however, Rocco had one mission in mind: getting out as quickly as possible.

  Justine had played her role perfectly as they’d strolled out of the front entrance of the bed and breakfast. She’d smiled at the man working behind the front desk in the tiny lobby, then held Rocco’s hand as they slowly walked around the building to the square, as if they felt secure and carefree. Conscious of any eyes that might be upon them, they paused outside the pub, looked over the menu, and debated the choices before meandering their way through the crowd. Justine even told him that dinner at the bar would be fine if they couldn’t get a table. All she wanted to do was hang out, enjoy a beer, and watch sports in a laid-back atmosphere.

  He feigned searching for a table, using it as an excuse to scan the patrons. There was no sign of either Radich or Karpovsky. Aiming for the back of the room, he was surprised when Justine tugged on his arm. “Here, Rocco,” she said as he turned. “These men are leaving and offered us their table.”

  “Really?” he asked near her ear, though he kept a smile on his face. The men beside Justine were gesturing to their table and grinning at her in admiration. They sported the French team colors and, judging from the number of empty glasses on the table, had finished at least three rounds of drinks.

  The man in the center, a robust blond with bright red cheeks and pale blue eyes, leaned toward Justine. “You are the American skiing champion, yes? Justine Flyte?”

  “You are more beautiful in person,” the man to his right said. “We’re big fans. This one” —he elbowed the big blond— “is a ski instructor. He’s brought us to watch ski races for years.”

  “You made it fun,” the third man said as he pushed the glasses to the edge of the table to make space. “All that” —he put his palms together and made a swishing sound as he imitated the motion of a skier going downhill— “it is better to watch when one is so talented as you.”

  Justine expressed gratitude for the compliment, answered a few questions from the ski instructor about technique, then laughed with all three about a downhill race she lost by a tenth of a second to a famous French rival. As the men skirted the table to leave, the ski instructor held up his phone. Recognizing that he wanted a photo, Justine nodded and leaned in so he could snap a photo of himself and his friends with her. They thanked her, the blond man pulled out a chair so Justine could sit, then the group finally left.

  “Sorry about that,” Justine said once Rocco edged around the table to take a seat beside her. A few of the other patrons looked their way out of curiosity, but soon turned their attention back to the television screens. “I know it wasn’t part of the plan, but I didn’t want to be rude when it was obvious they recognized me.”

  “No problem.” He shot a look at the departing Frenchmen. “You still get that much?”

  “No.” She didn’t need to add, not since the accident. It was written all over her face. In that moment, Rocco was grateful the men hadn’t asked about her injury or if she’d be competing again. He could see from the animated way she’d responded to their questions that her love for the sport itself hadn’t dimmed. If she could get back on her skis tomorrow, she would. Yet she didn’t complain, didn’t wallow. His admiration for her jumped another notch.

  He scooted his chair closer to hers. “You miss it?”

  She considered that for a moment. “Sometimes, but not for the reasons you’d think. People outside the sport are familiar with my name, but don’t necessarily know what I look like. When I’m on television, I’m usually under a helmet or wearing a hat. So the people who do recognize me are the ones who want to talk shop, like those Frenchmen. Or those who live near World Cup event sites and see the same competitors year-in and year-out at their hotels and restaurants.”

  “Guess that explains why you were surrounded whenever I stayed with you at event hotels,” he mused.

  “Or met me in a certain Garmisch bar.” She grinned, but a beat later, her smile faded. “I know it made you uncomfortable, and not simply because you were trying to keep your paternity secret. You’ve never been the type to court attention.”

  “It’s not that I mind being around large groups. I’m perfectly comfortable in a crowd.” He shot a purposeful glance around the packed space. “It’s hype that bothers me.”

  She arched one slender brow in understanding. “I can’t imagine what it’s like for A-list actors and actresses. Or well-known international athletes like David Beckham or Lionel Messi, who are so famous they can’t grocery shop or take their kids to a playground without being stopped. It’d drive me crazy to have that lack of privacy, never mind the fact it’d get in the way of the job.”

  “Then there’s royalty.” He kept his voice low. “That’s a whole different level of fame.”

  “It is. But to do their jobs well, they need to be known. Favorably, of course, but an unknown monarch can’t get much accompli
shed.”

  He supposed that was true, assuming one wanted to spend every moment surrounded by a staff of hundreds, unable to go for an impromptu evening stroll or a night out at the movies, at least not without a cadre of security.

  His train of thought was interrupted when a boisterous group of college-aged Italians entered the pub, filling what little available floor space existed near their table and blocking it from view of anyone standing near the entry.

  “The Frenchmen did us a favor when they recognized you and offered us the table,” Rocco noted. “Anyone who saw us enter will believe we’re staying awhile, but now that we’re behind this bunch, it’s almost impossible for us to be seen. When there’s a noisy moment in the match and everyone’s distracted, let’s make our move out the back.”

  “Sounds good. In the meantime, I’ll decorate the underside of the table.” Justine raised a mischievous eyebrow as she peeled the sticker from where they’d replaced it on his backpack, then stuck it to the bottom edge of their table. Less than five minutes later, a controversial call by a rugby official resulted in a steep rise in volume in the bar. Rocco nudged Justine, then hefted his backpack over both shoulders and eased around the table and past the Italians. Justine slipped her hand into his to keep them from being separated as they sidestepped their way through the crowd. Energetic cheers and the scent of freshly poured—and occasionally freshly spilled—beer permeated the space. Televisions over the bar and mounted on the walls blared the match call. A waitress balancing four steaming dinners on a tray held high over her head wiggled her way past them, then behind a knot of Irishmen to serve a packed table.

  No one seemed to notice them. Everyone’s focus locked on the television screens or on their compatriots as they debated the call.