He dialed a home phone. A sleepy voice answered.
Jaccorsi spoke. “Hello, Leonardo? It’s me.”
His cousin’s voice was immediately cautious.
“What’s going on?”
“You know our local Camorra boss, Mondragone?”
“Are you talking about Cyclops?”
“Yes. He just killed a guy in Capri. They’re telling us to say it was a heart attack.”
“Capri? That’s strange.”
“It was a 9mm to the forehead.”
“Of course it was. I’ll pass it along to my chief.”
“Just don’t say my name.”
“Of course.”
Detective Jaccorsi put down the receiver. Nobody had heard the conversation, but it still gave him chills. He stood up and paced around the little office, working his neck to get the kinks out.
It was too late to go back to the mainland; the last ferry had left. So, he’d get a good night’s sleep and start his investigation early.
He pulled off his tie and unlaced his shoes. The pants and shirt went carefully over the chair to be worn again tomorrow. A shame the suit would be wrinkled, but maybe his mother would offer to press it. Finally, clad only in his boxers and undershirt, he padded over to the jail cell and stretched out on the cot.
The air was cool now, and he pulled up the blanket for warmth. The scratchy wool smelled slightly of dust. But no matter; just lying down was bliss. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but the vision of the ugly little hole in the man’s forehead just wouldn’t go away.
VILLA DEL MARE, TORRE DEL GRECO, ITALY
The most powerful crime boss in Naples was getting ready for his midnight meetings at the dockyards. Salvatore Mondragone always worked at night while others were asleep; it was safer that way.
He had just taken a shower and finger-combed his wet hair in the bathroom mirror, surveying his own naked flesh. His body was strong and muscular, his abdomen flat. In thirty years, the scale hadn’t budged, but his skin still bore traces of violence from decades ago.
All across his pectorals, fourteen ridges of raised tissue looked like little worms, the mark of a serrated knife. He ran his thumb over a welt near his sternum. They had missed his aorta by a quarter of an inch.
Enemies had tried to kill him. Miraculously, he had survived and spent the next six months hunting his assailants down, putting his trademark bullet between their eyes.
That vendetta had established his criminal identity as “Cyclops.” People never said his name out loud. They simply touched the space between their eyebrows.
His army of foot soldiers roamed the streets, pistols tucked inside expensive black leather jackets. Fleet-of-foot in Adidas sneakers, or zipping around on motor scooters—they were a cloud of flies, alighting on unsuspecting victims. It was his own private army, and tonight, a dozen of them would accompany him to the dockyards.
He walked into his wood-paneled dressing room and selected one of the 200-thread count, double-twisted Egyptian cotton shirts. Next, came the right-handed, custom-fit chamois holster and the Glock.
A slim gold watch went on his wrist. The timepiece had been stolen from the King of Spain. Pilfered articles delighted him, especially if they came from royalty.
It reinforced his sense of entitlement to be using objects that had been handled by kings and queens.
For that reason, he always employed a personal thief. Renato Balboni was sent out to fetch whatever Mondragone desired. Just this evening, he had ordered his henchman to steal two valuable objects from Capri:
One, a Roman betrothal ring owned by a guest at the Hotel Caesar Augustus.
The other, a beautiful sapphire necklace belonging to Princess Victoria.
NAPLES, ITALY
The nine o’clock Capri passenger ferry plowed through the oily water. The sun was sinking as the boat approached the main dock in Naples. An aluminum gangplank slammed into place, and the crowd surged forward. Most were clutching plastic souvenir bags.
Renato Balboni walked in the middle of the pack.
He was disguised as a tourist, a killer among innocents, and wore a dark T-shirt, camp shorts, and running shoes. His pistol was in the plastic souvenir bag, along with a guidebook of Capri. Renato was responsible for the corpse on the floor of the Hotel Caesar Augustus.
He thought back to the events of the afternoon.
“Is someone expecting you?” the manager of the hotel had asked in a haughty tone.
“No,” Renato had said, giving an icy glare.
The clerk’s eyes widened, but he bravely tried to uphold the standards of the hotel.
“All visitors must be announced, sir. Who shall I say is calling?”
Renato reached over and jabbed the man’s forehead, clearly enunciating the name that most people would never say out loud—“Cyclops.”
It had the desired effect. The manager took a blank key card and punched in the door code for the Vesuvius Suite.
What followed had just been business.
On the ride up to the fifth floor, Renato pulled on a pair of thin, black leather gloves. He’d been instructed to shoot the man in the forehead. That would serve as a warning to the authorities not to investigate too carefully.
His victim was standing, admiring the view. The man must have noticed some movement, because he turned in surprise. Renato fired, and there was a dull thud as a bullet pierced the man’s skull.
The gold signet ring was in the safe.
Stealing it was easy enough. But there was another item he was supposed to get while he was in Capri—a sapphire necklace belonging to Princess Victoria of Norway.
It should have been a simple break-in at the Contessa Brindisi’s villa. The princess had gone off somewhere, and her guards were out looking for her. So nobody was at the house.
But when he reached the street, about fifty paparazzi were standing around waiting to take pictures, so he couldn’t even approach the gate.
Now back in Naples, Renato dashed across the Via Nuova Marina and headed into the labyrinth of streets, cutting through an alleyway behind the commercial district. Laundry lines were strung above; forgotten bed sheets wafted in the dark. At the back door of the Trattoria il Molino, voices were raised in a kitchen dispute.
These were his streets—he had been recruited as a child to be a Camorra drug runner. Since the age of six, he had ferried narcotics in his school backpack. The vials were color-coded: green for heroin, red for cocaine, white for crack.
His lost youth didn’t matter. There was always plenty of money, and he basked in the reflected glory of Mondragone. It was like being an aide-de-camp to a famous general.
Renato had earned the sobriquet “Thief of Princes” on a recent trip to London. He had managed to amass a haul of jeweled tiepins, gold buttons, watches, and cuff links from St. James’s Palace, all belonging to Prince Charles. Mondragone loved wearing them.
Renato dialed a number, and a rough voice answered.
“Tell him I got it,” Renato said.
“The necklace?”
“No, just the ring.”
“Wait. You were supposed to steal the necklace, too!”
“I couldn’t get near the place.”
“He’s not going to like that.”
“Do you want the ring? Or not?”
“Yeah. Meet me. And be sure you’re on time.”
VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI, ITALY
It was nearly midnight. Cordelia stirred a spoonful of sugar into her espresso. The dinner was delicious. Charles prepared a light meal, perfect for a sultry evening. Now they were all seated around the table, helping themselves from a ceramic serving bowl of tiramisu.
Suddenly, Sinclair’s cell phone rang. He checked the number.
“Sorry, I have to take this. It’s my team in Iceland.”
He stood up and stepped away from the table.
“What’s going on in Iceland?” Charles asked.
Cordelia answered. “A h
uge volcano is erupting. It just started this afternoon, but they think it might impact air travel over the next few days.”
“Is it serious?” Victoria asked.
“They think so. It’s Eyjafjallajökull. Do you remember the eruption back in 2010? I’m sure Norway was affected.”
“Vaguely,” the princess said. “I cant quite …”
“Volcanic ash went up into the jet stream. International air space was shut down for a week. Every airport in Europe was closed, and people were stranded all across the continent.”
“Oh, yes. I remember,” Charles said. “I was stuck in Paris. So do you think that will happen now?”
“Well, John and I have been monitoring the situation all afternoon. They’re saying the debris may hit Northern Europe.”
Victoria frowned. “I better check with my staff in Norway. I might have to fly back home.”
Charles’s face fell. “This all seems very sudden.”
“Volcanoes can be unpredictable, even when they are monitored,” Cordelia said. “Most people don’t realize that volcanoes erupt constantly. There are fifty or sixty volcanic eruptions a year. More than once a week, on average.”
“One a week?” Charles said. “Why don’t we hear about them?”
“The majority occur in remote areas. Very few people are affected.”
Sinclair came back to the table.
“Sorry about that. I moved my team back to Reykjavik. That’s about eighty miles away from the eruption zone, so they’re safe for now. I’ll fly them back to London if it looks like the airport is about to close.”
Cordelia nodded.
Charles passed the bowl of tiramisu for everyone to have seconds.
“All this talk about volcanoes reminds me of what Victoria and I were discussing this afternoon.”
“What was that?” Sinclair asked, helping himself to the dessert.
Charles turned toward Victoria.
“V, why don’t you tell everyone about your new philosophy.”
“Oh, yes. It’s called the Theory of the Four Elements.”
Victoria leaned forward, wisps of blond hair escaping from her chignon.
Cordelia marveled, once again, at her beauty. No wonder Charles was so enthralled with her.
“The four elements are the basis of all life,” Victoria intoned, her voice taking on a mysterious cadence. “Everything in the world is made up of these elements.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Cordelia said.
“Each person is either earth, air, water, or fire. I’m fire, for example.”
“Fire?”
“Yes. This afternoon Charles identified my element right away.”
Cordelia glanced over at Victoria. What an unscientific theory. Why would anyone give it any credence? But Charles was mesmerized. His gaze stayed riveted on Victoria’s face.
The princess continued breathlessly. “It’s fascinating. Everyone in Oslo is talking about it.”
“Is it like a zodiac?” Cordelia asked, pretending to play along.
“Horoscopes are just superstition. What I am talking about is an ancient philosophy.”
“Absolutely,” Sinclair interjected.
Cordelia flashed him a look. Was he buying into this also?
The princess zeroed in, sensing her skepticism.
“I like to keep an open mind about these kinds of things,” she said to Cordelia.
Cordelia swallowed her pique and replied civilly.
“I do … within reason.”
“Personally, I try to study all kinds of philosophies: Tibetan Buddhism, Japanese Shinto, Hindu transcendental meditation. I think it’s important to open your life to all kinds of new things.”
Cordelia nodded and retreated into silence. Victoria was blathering. There was no way to have a rational discussion with her.
Cordelia reached over and helped herself to another spoonful of dessert. A huge lump of tiramisu quivered on her plate, and she spooned it down, oblivious to the calories. The mascarpone dissolved on her tongue in a cloud of sweetness. Tiramisu translates as “pick me up,” because the cake at the bottom is soaked in coffee and cocoa. It was certainly giving her new energy. Suddenly she felt absolutely alert. And that made things worse. Her mind was whirling as the conversation droned on.
Sinclair was leaning forward on his elbows, listening to Victoria intently. His white shirt glowed in the candlelight, the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscled arms. He was always tan and fit from shoveling dirt at his archaeological digs. Tonight, he looked more handsome than ever.
This week was supposed to be a special time for them both, filled with sightseeing, shopping, swimming, and long walks along the cliffs. Sinclair loved Capri and had promised to show her the ancient Roman ruins. It was going to be a private, romantic getaway. How many of those precious days would they have now, with Victoria and Charles around all the time?
Cordelia spooned down the last of her dessert. The two men were still focused on the discussion. Rather than be rude, Cordelia picked up her coffee cup and started listening. The monologue had progressed to the heights of religious rapture.
“So you see, the four elements are necessary for the universe to be balanced.”
Cordelia took a sip of her coffee.
“Why don’t you give us an example,” Charles suggested.
Victoria beamed, only too happy to proceed.
“So let’s say the four of us are perfectly compatible: earth, water, fire, and air. Now, if too many people were fire, for example, something terrible would happen … the earth would …”
“The earth would what?” Cordelia said. “Spontaneously combust?”
Victoria stared. There was complete silence at the table. It was meant to be a funny remark. But Cordelia’s derision had inadvertently come through.
Charles looked at her with hurt eyes. Sinclair didn’t glance up. He sat for a moment with a slight frown and then turned toward Victoria. The way he angled his body away from Cordelia seemed to be a rebuke.
“I find it astonishing to hear you describe the cosmogenic theory of the Four Classical Elements,” Sinclair said gently. “You realize that Empedocles proposed the same theory.”
The princess managed a weak smile and grabbed the lifeline Sinclair had thrown her.
“I’m sorry … is that a philosopher?”
“Yes. You are basically framing the same theory as Empedocles.”
“So what did he say, exactly?” Charles asked.
“Precisely the same thing. Empedocles believed that four elements—earth, air, fire, and water—constitute the physical world.”
Cordelia sat in silence, her face flaming with embarrassment. Sinclair was trying to make amends for her gaucherie. Making a mockery of the princess was unforgiveable.
Charles cut in again. “Victoria says I’m wind.”
Cordelia pressed her lips together, determined not to say a word. Not a peep. But her mind still rebelled against the skewed logic of the conversation. Sarcastic quips tumbled around in her head.
Charles was wind, and Victoria was fire. So, combined, were they hot air?
“I’ve never heard of Empedocles,” Victoria admitted. “I had no idea that this theory came from a particular school of thought.”
Sinclair smiled. “It’s Greek. Pre-Socratic. About 430 BC. Empedocles was a major figure of his age.”
“Sinclair knows everything about ancient cultures,” Charles declared.
“Did Empedocles become emperor?” Victoria asked.
Sinclair shook his head. “No. Philosophers were outside the power structure in those times. They functioned as oracles.”
“So what happened to him?” Victoria asked.
“One version of history says he threw himself into the volcano at Mount Etna to prove to his disciples that he was immortal,” Sinclair said.
“That must have been painful,” Charles laughed.
Victoria smiled. “Well, now that I know the origins of Empe
docles’ theory, I am definitely going to read more about him.”
Sinclair regarded the princess with a gracious smile. “I’d be happy to suggest a few books, if you like.”
“I would love that.”
Cordelia stretched. Wasn’t it time to move on? Her chair scraped back, signaling her desire to end the discussion.
Sinclair took the hint and drained his coffee and stood up. He extended a hand to help her from her chair. As they came face to face, he brought her fingers to his lips. Their eyes connected. She tried to convey her regret for being so rude to Victoria.
He planted a kiss on the back of her hand. All was forgiven.
Then he turned to the others. “Now I ask you—why are we talking about ancient history on a beautiful night like this? We should live in the moment.”
“Exactly,” Charles agreed, jumping to his feet. “What shall we do now?”
Victoria replied. “Let’s have a bottle of wine out on the terrace.”
Cordelia stood outside watching the moonlight glimmer on the Bay of Naples—a brightly lit, romantic seascape.
But Sinclair was still inside, chatting with the others. Their comments were barely audible. Someone made a joke and she heard Charles laugh. Then there was the low rumble of Sinclair’s voice, deep and sexy, and everyone laughed again.
Sinclair knew how to keep things light. He was sophisticated and intellectual, with just the right touch of humor. They had been together for two years. He was the only man she had ever felt entirely comfortable with.
They lived in London—a Mayfair townhouse that had been in her family for many generations. Right from the beginning, he fit in perfectly. They would spend entire days together. He would putter around, humming opera, pulling down texts, and researching his ancient sites. She would plan her expeditions.
She had two bases of operations, one in the States for marine research, and another in London where she worked with the Royal Geographical Society on deep ocean exploration.
Sinclair often served as a consultant to the British Museum. But primarily he funded archaeological digs all over the world through his Herodotus Foundation.
Summer of Fire Page 3