Detective Jaccorsi tied his cream silk necktie and adjusted the knot. It was going to be a hot one, and at only 8:00 a.m., the weariness of the day was already upon him. The apartment phone rang—it was his cousin from the police precinct in Rome.
“They need you,” his cousin said.
“Who needs me?”
“My boss. They’re going after Mondragone. The prime minister is outraged. He’s given orders that Mondragone should be stopped, no matter what. Agents from the US and Britain are coming to help.”
“An international effort?” Jaccorsi asked.
“They’re going to shut down the money laundering and get him on financial fraud.”
“How?”
“They’ll bankrupt him first. But they need your help.”
“My help? I don’t know anything about finance. I told you not to get me involved. Someone will see me if I come to Rome. I don’t want Cyclops to go after my mother.”
“Don’t worry,” his cousin assured him. “They don’t need you in Rome. You are going to meet the Brits.”
“Where?”
“London. The order comes from the GDF.”
Jaccorsi blinked in surprise. The Guardia di Finanza was the Italian government’s special agency that dealt with financial crime and drug enforcement.
“So Mondragone is connected with the UK? I thought he was just here in Naples.”
“No, he runs most of his international operations out of his house in London. That’s where he does all his global business … you know, money laundering … with New York, Switzerland, Cyprus, you name it.”
“But I don’t know anything about international finance. Why me?”
“Your department cleans up his messes every day. Nobody knows how he operates better than you.”
“Well, I guess that’s true.”
“You should expect a call today from the GDF. I just wanted to give you a warning.”
“Right. Thanks.”
Jaccorsi hung up the phone and stared at his pale face in the mirror. He was now going to make an enemy of one of the most powerful criminals in Italy.
ROYAL PALACE, OSLO
Princess Victoria slipped the ice blue chiffon gown over her head and turned to her assistant to fasten the buttons down the back of the dress. Tonight was a formal occasion—an official state dinner with the Prime Minister of Japan.
The princess looked at her reflection in the mirror and was surprised at how serene she appeared—a young woman just back from vacation. There was still a pink sunburn across her nose from spending the afternoon lounging on the terrace in Capri.
“All done, your Highness.”
“Thank you.”
She walked over to put on the thick, red grosgrain ribbon. The ceremonial sash would be worn crosswise over the bodice of her gown, along with the Cross of the Order of St. Olaf.
“Will you have the aquamarines, your Highness?” her assistant asked.
“The sapphires, please.”
“If you wish.”
Hostility was apparent in the woman’s tone of voice. Victoria and her “personal dresser” had never gotten along. And now, with the scandal in the papers, her assistant’s displays of contempt had gotten worse.
The assistant disappeared into an enormous wall safe the size of a walk-in closet. She soon emerged with a flat necklace box and a smaller one on top for matching earrings. All of Victoria’s tiaras and necklaces were in velvet-lined cases. There were additional jewels downstairs in the Palace Treasury for elaborate ceremonies, coronations, and weddings.
“Here they are,” she said, placing them on the dressing table.
Victoria absently reached for the larger box. The last time she wore this necklace was at the gala in Rome, just before she met Charles in Capri. That seemed ages ago.
Victoria opened the case, then shut the lid and handed it back.
“Did you change your mind your Highness?”
“No. You gave me the wrong box. This one is empty.”
The assistant opened it, her jowly face trembling in astonishment.
“The necklace is gone!”
“Well, it can’t be. I just wore it last week.”
“Yes, I know,” she nodded. “I unpacked your jewel case when you came back.”
“And the necklace was there?”
“I assume so. I just put the box back in the safe.”
“You should have looked.”
“Did you have the necklace with you in Capri?”
“Yes.”
“Could it have been left at the Contessa’s villa?”
“No, of course not.”
“Was it … stolen?”
“How?”
“While you were off visiting your American friend, Mr. Sinclair.”
Victoria seethed at the impudence.
“No. Security was tight. And I never even opened that suitcase. It only had my formal wear.”
“Well somebody took it.”
Victoria felt her heart sink. It was enormously valuable, a gift from the Queen of England to the Princess of Norway in 1830. The gems themselves were irreplaceable, an unusual color—deep indigo mixed with royal purple.
“Should we ask the Contessa Brindisi?”
“How can I do that? It would be like accusing her.”
“Well, it’s either that, or we will have to notify your mother.”
Victoria frowned and shook her head.
“Please bring me the aquamarines. I don’t want to be late for dinner.”
ROYAL PALACE, OSLO
The Queen of Norway looked up and saw Princess Victoria’s personal assistant standing in the doorway.
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, but I think you should be informed.”
“Of what?”
“It’s the sapphire necklace, your Highness. The one that was given to Queen Astrid?”
“Yes? Does it need repair?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s missing. It was stolen in Capri.”
“Stolen!” the Queen exclaimed. “By whom?”
“I suspect it may have something to do with Mr. Sinclair.”
The queen stiffened at the comment. Discussing her daughter’s romantic fling was not something she would normally do with one of the palace staff.
“What makes you think that Mr. Sinclair was involved?” she asked in her most austere tone.
“Princess Victoria seemed very reluctant to report the loss.”
The queen stood up and walked her to the door. “You were right to come to me with this. I’ll look into it.”
“I thought you should know, your majesty,” the woman said smugly.
“I will count on your discretion. Please say nothing to Princess Victoria. I don’t want to give her a reason to contact Mr. Sinclair again.”
LONDON, ENGLAND
Two Metropolitan Police detectives walked up to John Sinclair’s townhouse and banged the heavy brass knocker. There was no response. For the next few minutes they surveyed the morning traffic. Then, one of the detectives checked his watch.
“He’s probably at work. We should come back. Perhaps later this evening?”
“Let’s give it one more minute,” the other replied, looking out over the neighborhood.
Just then, a slight young man in a white tunic opened the townhouse door.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Is a Mr. Sinclair available? We’re from Scotland Yard.”
“I’m afraid he’s traveling at the moment.”
“Where is he, exactly?”
“He didn’t give me a destination. I am happy to convey a message when I hear from him.”
“When would that be?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
“You are telling me that Mr. Sinclair has left with no word of when he will return?”
“That is correct, sir.”
“And he is your employer?”
“Yes, he is.”<
br />
“And who might you be?”
“I am Malik Akçam, Mr. Sinclair’s personal assistant.”
“Well, Mr. Akçam, perhaps you had better come with us. We’re going to need to take a statement from you.”
The man turned pale. “Is that really necessary?”
“Yes. It is. Now, is there anyone else who lives here besides Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yes, this is Miss Stapleton’s house.”
“And her connection to Mr. Sinclair?”
Malik paused, thought about it, and then answered with perfect accuracy.
“Mr. Sinclair and Miss Stapleton are usually together. But now she is alone.”
Cordelia Stapleton walked down the steps of Scotland Yard apprehensive about the questions she just answered. They wanted to know about her relationship with John Sinclair and clearly assumed she was covering up for him. The senior officer had regarded her with frank disbelief.
“You have been living together for how long?”
“Two years.”
“And Mr. Sinclair leaves without giving you a phone number?”
“His cell sometimes doesn’t work. Sometimes the digs are too remote.”
“And you don’t find that suspicious?”
“Why should I? He’s an archaeologist.”
“And he doesn’t leave a hotel number?”
“He usually stays in a tent.”
“In a tent?” the policeman had asked.
Cordelia shrugged. It did sound absurd when you said it out loud.
“He usually tells me where he’s going.”
“I see. Any reason why he didn’t this time?”
“We had a disagreement.”
“About what?”
“About Princess Victoria.”
“So he is acquainted with the princess.”
“He only just met her last week.”
“And now he’s disappeared with her necklace,” the policeman concluded, lifting an eyebrow.
The two policemen had exchanged looks. The older, heavier policeman leaned forward and spoke gently.
“We will need your permission to search the house.”
“Of course,” she agreed. “But you won’t find anything.”
At 2:00 p.m., the front doorbell rang, and Cordelia walked across the marble foyer to answer. The policemen from earlier that day were on the doorstep, their avuncular manner gone.
“May we come in?”
“Yes, of course.”
They wiped their feet on the mat before stepping inside.
“We’ll start in his bedroom.”
She led them up the stairs, feeling foolish. This whole thing was so preposterous.
Sitting on the bed, she watched them go through the drawers of Sinclair’s dresser. She viewed the procedure with emotional calm, totally confident they’d find nothing. They lifted shirts and socks out in neat little piles, running their hands along the wood, looking for hidden compartments. They must do this often. There was a real system to it.
It was funny, but you could tell a lot about a person from the contents of their dresser drawers. Sinclair’s things were arranged with military precision, stacked in neat piles—light blue and white Swiss-made boxers, Pantherella merino wool socks in black, brown, and navy. His pajamas were all white 160-thread count cotton, custom-made by Luigi Borrelli, with mother-of-pearl buttons and a thin band of sky blue piping on the cuff and around the collar.
The contents of a black cuff link box were examined and put back. There was a small leather case that held Sinclair’s father’s watch. His cell phone, left behind, drew an eyebrow raise. One of the policemen removed her love letters to Sinclair, written on pale-blue Smythson stationery, tied with a bit of string.
“Those are mine,” she said, and they gently tucked them back in the drawer.
She waited, wondering how soon they would be done. There was work to do. With the volcano erupting, the media had been calling her for comments about climate change. Thankfully, all the tabloids were leaving her alone. Apparently, they had moved on to other stories.
“What’s this?” one policeman asked, holding out a small red-leather jewelry box.
“I’ve never seen it before,” she replied.
“It was here in the shirt drawer,” he said.
“Well, I have no idea.”
He opened it slowly, and then turned the box around, so she could view the contents. There, nestled on a satin pillow, was a square-cut diamond engagement ring. It sparkled in the light from the window.
Cordelia got up to look at it more closely.
“May I?” she asked, reaching for it.
The policeman nodded. She took it out and slid it onto her finger. The band fit perfectly.
He planned to propose.
A thousand emotions coursed through her—surprise and delight. And mostly regret. Cordelia looked up at the inspector, her eyes swimming with tears.
“I’ve never seen it before.”
A flicker of sympathy passed over his face.
“We’ll be taking this along as evidence. If it’s not stolen property, then we’ll be returning it to Mr. Sinclair, of course.”
She nodded mutely, slid it off her finger, and handed it back to him. Then she walked out of the room toward the circular staircase. On the second-floor landing she leaned on the banister, determined not to cry.
HERCULANEUM, ITALY
Prince Karl and Luca stood in the hot afternoon sun, looking down at the ruins of the ancient Roman town of Herculaneum. The city had been destroyed during the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in AD 79, along with another more famous town, Pompeii.
“Should we hire a guide to give us a tour of the site?” Luca asked.
“No, let’s keep a low profile. I’ll buy a book at the kiosk.”
Luca and Karl walked down the steel suspension ramp, their footsteps clanging on the metal. As they descended, the excavation pit of the archaeological dig stretched out before them like a gigantic 3-D map.
Once on the lower level, all signs of the modern world dropped away. Suddenly, they were walking down a two-thousand-year-old street paved with marble. There were houses, shops, and a market square with a fountain, all still intact.
Luca looked around, agog.
“Its almost feels like a movie set,” Luca said.
“Yeah, except it’s real.”
Karl consulted his guidebook and then went over to examine some words carved onto a wall.
“Look, this is Latin graffiti. It’s about a local politician.”
Luca grinned. “I guess they didn’t have spray paint back then.”
“I can’t believe this is still legible,” Karl said, squatting down.
“You know, I always heard that Herculaneum was much better preserved than Pompeii. But both cities were destroyed when Vesuvius erupted, right?”
“That’s right,” Karl affirmed
“So why is Herculaneum in better condition?”
“Pompeii was downwind from the volcano and everything burned.”
“But not here?”
“No. Herculaneum was hit by a mudslide. That preserved everything.”
“Incredible,” Luca said, poking his head into the doorway of an abandoned structure.
Inside was airless, with a pungent scent of herbs. The floor was packed earth, and there were intact clay amphorae still on the shelves. Luca came back outside and looked around in awe.
“That must have been a shop. It feels like everyone just stopped what they were doing and left. Like a ghost town.”
“I know. Creepy isn’t it?” Karl agreed.
They stood for a moment, deciding what to do next. Wavy lines of heat radiated off the white marble surfaces of the buildings and pavement.
Karl pulled out his water bottle, took a long swig, and handed it over. Luca didn’t drink but poured it over his head until rivulets ran down his cheek and dripped off his jaw.
“You look like you’re melting,” Karl l
aughed.
“It must be 110 degrees,” Luca said, using the bottom of his T-shirt to blot his face. “Let’s find some shade.”
“I think there’s a house along here,” Karl told him, consulting the guidebook.
At the end of the main street was a large classical villa with columns. As they entered, the temperature felt several degrees cooler. Karl and Luca walked around a large square atrium with twenty-foot ceilings and a small pool, or impluvium. The pool, now dry, would normally be filled by rainwater falling through a hole in the roof.
They made their way through the villa, sticking their heads into the various rooms on the way. The triclinium, or dining hall, was painted with scenes of abundance—gods and goddesses, fish and animals. The walls were the deep oxblood color known as “Pompeii red.” The colonnade encircled a lovely interior garden. It was a beautiful private oasis, in full bloom.
“Let’s just rest here for a while,” Luca said, shrugging off his backpack.
He lay down on the mosaic floor, using his backpack as a pillow. Karl looked down at him and laughed.
“Make yourself at home, why don’t you.”
“Ahh … this is perfect. You should try it.”
They stretched out side by side.
Karl read from the guidebook. “It says they replanted the same flowers that were originally here by analyzing the roots in the soil.”
“Looks like pomegranate trees and some kind of roses.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I like archaeology,” Luca mused. “John Sinclair used to take me to his digs like this when I was young.”
“Was that fun?”
“Yeah, except his digs were just chunks of rock. This feels like we’re visiting someone’s house.”
“Wouldn’t it be great if we could stay overnight?” Karl fantasized.
“Yeah. We could sleep right here. But it’s a little sad, knowing that the people died.”
“That’s not true. Most of the residents of Herculaneum escaped.”
“They did?”
“This was a really wealthy town, so people sailed back to Naples.”
“So what happened in Pompeii? Everybody got killed, right?”
“Yes. Pompeii was a real working city, and the people stayed to protect their businesses. That wasn’t a good decision.”
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