The vibration sounded like the far-off rumble of a train. Then it hit him. The initial shock wave passed over his face, nearly knocking him flat. He turned away to protect his camera lens from the blast and noticed the pilot gesturing. The man’s mouth was contorted, eyes frantic. Get back! Now! Luckily the engines were still running.
Jude dragged his gear, spitting grit out into the wind. He flung himself into the aircraft. It shuddered and lifted off in a steep vertical ascent.
“Are we going to make it out?” he asked.
The grim-faced pilot did not offer any promises.
Volcanic vapor was changing from dark gray to pure white. The cloud soared a quarter of a mile into the sky. All around, scalding steam and ash were roiling the air.
Sweat streamed down Jude’s face. With the buzzing of the rotors, he felt like he was sitting in a microwave.
He had once heard a wives’ tale that during the famous eruption of Mount Vesuvius, people’s brains boiled and exploded out of their skulls. True or not, it felt like his brain was about to do that right now.
Suddenly, the helicopter blades became labored, and the gears started to grind. Debris was infiltrating the motor. Jude looked over and saw the pilot’s jaw clench, his hands in a white-knuckled grip on the controls.
The atmosphere was now barely breathable as the mephitic gases reached poisonous concentrations. The stench was awful, and the lamb dinner started to climb in his esophagus.
They careened sideways and dropped a couple of feet. Jude smacked his head against the doorjamb. His vision broke into kaleidoscopic shards. When he reached up, his palm came away, red with blood.
The sight of it startled him. They might die. A jab of fear chased his mind toward the dark side of panic. So he raised the camera and fired off a couple of shots—not for the pictures, but to steel himself against the loss of control.
The volcano was now actively erupting. Brilliant orange sparks were licking up out of the earth, and the cone was glowing red, throwing up huge splatters. Crimson streaks of molten magma were coursing down the side of the mountain, glowing in the dark.
This was going to be a disaster of epic proportions.
ANACAPRI, ITALY
On Sunday morning, Charles Bonnard tiptoed out of the bedroom carrying his shoes. He silently closed the door with one last look. Princess Victoria was asleep under the covers. The only visible part of her was a tousled head.
He slipped out of the house through the long corridor and went outside. There, just outside the door, he stopped, balancing on one foot and then the other, to brush off the soles of his feet and put on rope-soled espadrilles.
The morning air was cool. It felt good to be outside again after being confined for two days. The main piazza of Anacapri was deserted. Sinclair and Cordelia mentioned that a police car had parked here, but now it was nowhere to be seen.
Birds were screaming in the trees. Were they always so loud? Or was it just last night’s wine?
Passing by the Hotel Caesar Augustus, he traversed the side streets, until he reached the footpaths that led outside the village. Within a few minutes, he was walking along the cliffs.
The local hiking route led high above the sea. It was a simple track of trampled dirt and loose stones. The Bay of Naples was below, a vast stretch of cobalt blue, glimmering in the sun. There was a nice breeze, and he could smell the earth as it warmed up.
The confinement of being housebound with Princess Victoria was mentally exhausting. It had been a wearing couple of days. His own fault really, although it was she who had initiated the affair.
He had only told Sinclair half the story.
About two months ago in Paris, he and Victoria had indulged in an impulsive and torrid one-night stand. Not that he planned it that way. The princess had invited him to join her after midnight in her hotel room. He’d arrived, assuming they’d have a cozy little drink and maybe a stolen kiss. And, at first, it was perfectly innocent. They sat together on the settee, flirting, making small talk.
He didn’t suggest anything more. After all, she wasn’t like any other girl. But then suddenly, she stood up, reached behind her neck, and undid the halter top of her dress. The silky folds slipped to the floor.
She was naked underneath.
He should have stopped it right then and there. She was too young for him. But he couldn’t resist. A real princess wanted him. And not just any princess—it was Victoria, the darling of Europe. And he was flattered.
Then came the shock of his life. The day after they slept together, Victoria was finished with him. She never got in touch and never returned his calls. The reality dawned on him slowly. He had only been a diversion for her, a fling and nothing more.
The sting of rejection had been acute. For three weeks, whenever he saw her picture in the newspaper, he would turn away. This kind of thing had never happened to him. Though he certainly had many girlfriends, all of his past relationships had been tender and respectful. He had always found casual relationships to be repellant.
His self-esteem suffered a blow. He became restless and irritable and didn’t want to remain in Paris. When August came, he decided to go to his house in Capri to nurse his wounded ego.
Thinking about it now, Charles walked faster and faster. He climbed along the path, until he suddenly became breathless with exertion and stopped.
Looking up into the azure sky, he inhaled deeply and tried to quell the anxiety. It was a beautiful day. The morning haze had burned off, and the sun was rising in the sky. Capri had always been his place of solace. He came here to relax and take stock of his life.
He should be doing that now.
Except Victoria had invaded his island, shattering his peace of mind. He read about her arrival in the local papers and was determined not to let it rattle him. He planned to simply avoid places where she might go.
Little did he expect to find her sitting in the dark hallway of his house one night when he came home. As he opened the door, she was a pale face among the ancient artifacts.
Before he could react, she threw her arms around his neck, saying she missed him and thought about him all the time. All the bitterness melted away in an instant. He had misread the situation. She cared for him after all.
Still, the pain of the past few weeks made him cautious.
“V, I don’t think you should be here,” he said, removing her arms from around his neck.
“It’s fine. Nobody saw me.”
“But they’ll be out looking for you,” he objected.
“No, Brindy will cover for me. We can be together for the whole week.”
“A week!”
“Yes. Please. Let me stay with you, Charles.”
“No, I think it’s too dangerous.”
“Well, I can’t leave now,” she said stubbornly. “Too many people are around. I’ll have to wait until it’s dark before I can go back.”
Of course that was pure manipulation on her part. She could leave any time she wanted to. But he didn’t argue.
“Maybe just for dinner …” he demurred.
About halfway through the evening, he realized she had no intention of leaving. That night he called Sinclair and dropped a hint that “someone special” was spending the week.
Initially, Sinclair seemed enthusiastic on the phone. But, upon seeing the princess, his disapproval was a harsh dose of reality. Even Cordelia was politely doubtful about his royal liaison.
And they were right.
It was only a question of time before the media found out that Victoria was secretly seeing an older man. The girl’s reputation would be destroyed, and their lives would be turned into a circus.
Last night, after speaking with Sinclair out by the pool, Charles joined Victoria in the bedroom. Determined to cut it off, he told her with brutal honesty that they should stop seeing each other. She needed to stop sneaking around and marry an eligible prince.
It was an obligation. For the good of her country.
But she simply laughed and said that her parents had selected horrible partners for her. All the men bored her. They were dolts. She’d rather die than marry one of them.
Then she enumerated all his sterling qualities: his looks, his charm, his worldly sophistication, punctuating each remark with a kiss. After that, his resolve had faded.
Charles reached the end of the walking trail. The dirt track turned into pavement, so he started down the narrow street toward the town.
This couldn’t continue. He’d go to the café to think about the right words to say. This morning he was going to tell Victoria goodbye.
VILLA SAN ANGELO, ANACAPRI
Out on the terrace, John Sinclair checked the BBC News app for information about the volcano. The video was impressive. Eyjafjallajökull was now in full eruption, and ash was coming out of the cone like black paint from a giant spray can.
Air travel was turning into a nightmare. The wind and jet stream were disseminating particles into the atmosphere some 20,000 to 40,000 feet above the Earth. The debris cloud was sweeping eastward toward England and Northern Europe. In another few hours, Norway would be unreachable by air.
So far, fifteen European countries had put restrictions on flights. The UK Civil Aviation Authority was warning that in the next twenty-four hours, all but non-emergency traffic in British airspace would be shut down.
This quashed Sinclair’s plans for remaining in Capri. They had to leave the island before they were stranded.
He took the ring out of his pocket and looked at the brilliant sparkle in the sunlight. His proposal would have to wait. He wanted to show Cordelia the island. Capri had always been a special spot for him, and he had spent many summers exploring the ruins.
The archaeology here was fascinating. The historian Tacitus had written about Capri, particularly the period when the emperor Tiberius had moved his court. The emperor had feared assassination in Rome and had fled here to construct his palace, the Villa Jovis, overlooking the Bay of Naples. After that, Capri became known as the “Imperial Island.”
One of Sinclair’s favorite pastimes was to wander through the ruins of the ancient palace and sit on the warm marble fragments, conjuring up what it must have been like to live in those days.
Charles built his own house on a nearby precipice, calling it Villa San Angelo, after a local legend. Some old women in the nearby village claimed that Archangel Michael often frequented the exact cliff where Charles now lived. They had seen a winged creature staring out to sea. Sinclair didn’t really believe the wives’ tale, but the proximity to the ancient ruins made Charles’s villa one of Sinclair’s favorite places on earth.
Cordelia stepped out onto the terrace, interrupting his thoughts. She had a light blue robe over her nightdress. Her hair was tousled, her feet bare. Padding over, she sat on an adjacent lounge chair, nursing a cup of coffee.
“Anybody up yet?”
“I guess it’s just us,” Sinclair replied.
He palmed the ring and put it in his pocket.
“What were you checking?” she asked, assuming he was putting away his phone.
“BBC News. The volcano. It looks like we can’t stay.”
“Is it that bad?”
“Yes. We should get back to London while we can. They may close down airspace for quite some time.”
“Why don’t we stay until it clears up? Charles won’t mind,” she said, relaxing back with a sigh.
He looked over at her; she was radiant, even without makeup.
“I can’t get stuck here indefinitely. I have some important meetings in London next week. And we have that big gala for the Herodotus Foundation. I need to get organized for that.”
“Oh, right. I forgot,” she said, leaning back and closing her eyes, as if determined to absorb every last ray of sun.
“The weather won’t stay as nice as this,” he cautioned. “It might get cloudy.”
“You’re right. I suppose the air quality will deteriorate here as well,” she said.
He looked over with regret. “I’m sorry, Delia. We’ll just have to come back to Capri some other time.”
VILLA BRINDISI, CAPRI
The Contessa Brindisi stood on the balcony of her house watching the Bay of Naples. It was a rare moment of leisure, away from her famous Brindisi Luggage Company in Milan.
Ever since childhood, she had come to this house to spend a month in the summer. The villa was one of the most beautiful on the island, a large white structure of graceful architecture with terraces and balconies and a view out over the water.
August was always a time of enjoyment, but this year everything seemed different. The threat of ashfall from the volcano was worrying everyone. And her household was in turmoil because of her royal houseguests. Princess Victoria and her younger brother Prince Karl brought their security teams with them. Big Norwegian men crowded her kitchen, annoying her housekeeper.
Worst of all, the arrival of the princess generated a flock of paparazzi at her gate. Hordes of tourists lingered in the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of the girl. Of course their efforts were futile. Victoria was still up at the villa with Charles Bonnard.
The Norwegian guards were confident they could locate her without a fuss. They were quietly searching the town, convinced she would turn up. It wasn’t the first time Victoria slipped away. Of course, the Royal Palace had not been notified. At least not yet.
Brindy helped Victoria plan the caper. The princess only packed a small bag to visit Charles, per Brindy’s suggestion. Travel light, she said. And Victoria agreed.
The rest of Victoria’s luggage stayed at Villa Brinidisi. One of the large suitcases held her evening gowns and jewelry, including a valuable sapphire necklace. This was the bag the princess used when she attended a gala in Rome. It was foolhardy to leave it lying around. The contents were priceless.
Brindy walked into the guest room and opened Victoria’s valise on the luggage rack. Everything was neatly folded. She felt along the sides of the suitcase, looking for the necklace box, pressing her hand down on the silky folds of the dresses. Her fingers came into contact with something hard—a black leather case. She opened it.
The sapphires were still inside!
They were supposed to be stolen by now. Salvatore Mondragone’s thief was instructed to take the necklace while everyone was out of the house.
Brindy walked quickly to the living room and dialed the phone. The normal rough voice answered. It was Tito, disgruntled as usual.
“The necklace is still here. Why didn’t your man take it?” she asked.
“He couldn’t get through the paparazzi. There were too many people outside the gate. We’ll have to try another time.”
The contessa’s voice grew aggressively louder. “If you want that necklace, you have to hurry. The princess is coming back to the villa today.”
“I thought she would be away all week?” Tito asked.
“No. She has to go back to Norway. The volcanic ash is causing a problem with the flights.”
“OK, we’ll send Renato back.”
“Just so you know, I held up my end of the deal,” she said firmly. “Any mess-ups were on your side.”
There was a dry, mirthless laugh.
“I wouldn’t take that attitude, Contessa. People don’t tell Cyclops that he screwed up.”
“Hey, he’s your boss, not mine,” Brindy replied.
“Salvatore Mondragone is everyone’s boss. And if you make a deal with him, you deliver.”
Detective Jaccorsi walked through the narrow streets of Capri. The village was empty, except for the stray cats sniffing at trash bins. The retail shops would be shuttered until noon, but the café was open, and a few grizzled men sat nursing their morning espressos in silence.
Every Sunday, Jaccorsi came to the island to visit his mother. For the past fifteen years, she had been the cook and housekeeper for the young Contessa Brindisi. This morning, Jaccorsi would make the trip over to the house for breakfast
. But it was still a little too early to show up.
He had been on the island since last night to investigate the murder at the Hotel Caesar Augustus. After sleeping in the cramped little precinct, he was wearing the same clothes from the day before. It wasn’t comfortable, but at least he could count on a good meal.
He walked through the silent streets, enjoying being back on the island of his youth. Glancing over at the town café, he saw Mr. Charles Bonnard at one of the little tables, drinking a double espresso. They knew each other as passing acquaintances.
Jaccorsi approached to question him about last night.
“Ciao, Mr. Bonnard,” he said, walking up.
“Good morning, detective. You’re up early.”
“I’m on my way to Villa Brindisi.”
Charles frowned, confused.
“Are you part of the princess’s security detail?”
“No, nothing to do with that. I’m going to see my mother,” Jaccorsi explained. “She’s the housekeeper.”
“Oh, of course. How could I have forgotten? Do give her my best.”
Jaccorsi gestured to the opposite chair. “May I sit down?”
Charles nodded. “Please. Would you like some coffee?”
Jaccorsi shook his head. “No, thank you. I just wanted to ask … did you notice anything unusual up near your house last night?”
Charles sat up straighter.
“Not really. I was with some friends. We didn’t go outside, except on the terrace.”
“I see.”
“An investigation?” Charles asked.
“Nothing important,” Jaccorsi said, standing up again. “One of the guests at the Hotel Caesar Augustus had a heart attack. Just a routine matter.”
“Oh,” Charles said.
They both knew that was a fabrication. Medical emergencies didn’t require follow-up questions. Murders did.
There was an awkward pause.
“Well, it looks like the summer season is ending early,” Charles remarked. “I hear a lot of people are leaving today because of the volcano in Iceland.”
Summer of Fire Page 5