“It sure wasn’t,” Luca agreed. “Karl, why aren’t you studying to be a scientist? You love all this geological stuff so much.”
“My parents won’t let me. I have to go into banking to help Norway with its financial situation when my sister takes over the throne.”
“That stinks,” Luca said with feeling.
“It sure does.”
They stared up at the portico ceiling for a while in silence.
Karl yawned. “You know, if I don’t get up now, I’m going to fall asleep. We should go.”
As they walked back down the hallway, Luca noticed that another visitor had come into the villa. The man held his camera close to his face, snapping pictures. Once or twice he stepped back to take a wide shot.
“Let’s get out of here,” Karl whispered. “I don’t want to turn up in anyone’s vacation album.”
“Yeah, that would be hard to explain,” Luca laughed.
Renato scrolled through his viewfinder to look at the photos of the two boys. Herculaneum was the perfect stalking ground—so many places to hide. He stared at the features of the blond kid in playback. These photos matched the Internet images of Prince Karl exactly. He’d use these pictures later for ransom. Kidnapping the boy would be tricky, but hiding him in the underground caverns of Naples for a couple of days wouldn’t be a problem. Then, once he got the money, he’d move on to Rome, or even America. Somewhere beyond the reach of Salvatore Mondragone.
NAPLES—PALERMO FERRY
On the six o’clock Naples–Palermo ferry, Luca Brindisi and Prince Karl dangled their arms over the railings. The craft was now out in open water, and the wind was brisk. Renato observed them from the snack bar, and both boys were clearly visible through the window. Karl was talking nonstop, and the pale dark-haired boy looked a little queasy as the ferry bounced around.
They were traveling down the Mediterranean coastline to Sicily, an island located just off the tip of the mainland of Italy. For now, the ferry was hugging the shore until it passed the island of Stromboli, and then it would skirt by the Strait of Messina, and finally dock at Palermo.
The wind was in their faces as they stood on deck. The day had been scorching, but out on the water, it was surprisingly cool.
“I just love living like this! I feel so free,” Karl shouted in high spirits.
“I can’t believe we got away without anyone stopping us,” Luca observed.
“See how easy it was?” Karl bragged.
Karl angled his body to feel the salt spray. When he turned back, he noticed Luca was shivering.
“We better get some heavier clothes if we’re going to climb Mount Etna,” he remarked.
“I’m not so sure …” Luca said, worrying about the volcano.
“Do you feel nauseous?” Karl asked, thinking he was seasick.
“No. I’m a pretty good sailor,” Luca lied.
“Well, in a few minutes, we’re going to pass by one of the most interesting volcanoes in the world. Stromboli.”
“I’ve never seen it,” Luca admitted.
“I’ve only read about it. The island of Stromboli is the top of a volcano, and most of it is underwater.”
“Cool,” Luca smiled. “Won’t it be too dark to see it?”
“No, it erupts all the time. They call it ‘The Lighthouse of the Mediterranean.’ Jules Verne put it in his book Journey to the Center of the Earth.”
“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” Luca said.
“I first read it when I was thirteen. After that, all I wanted to do was become a volcanologist.”
Karl broke off, suddenly pointing at something on the horizon.
“There it is!”
Luca turned around and shouted in excitement. “Wow!”
As the ferry moved closer to the island, they were able to get a better view. Velvety green slopes rose up to form a perfect little volcanic cone. At the top, a continuous spray of orange sparks lit up the sky. Every few minutes, a little puff of smoke billowed out.
“It’s so small, it looks like a toy,” Luca observed.
“I just love it,” Karl said. “See the little village at the bottom?”
In the fading light, Luca could just make out a tiny beach and a cluster of small white houses. The ferry passed close by, and he could see a few cows in the pasture.
“How can they live there!” Luca said, astonished. “I’d be terrified.”
“I know. Stromboli’s been continuously active for the past 1,400 years,” Karl told him.
They watched as the orange sparks sprayed up like a welder’s torch. Every once in a while, the fire fountains of basaltic lava shot up in large incandescent sheaves of flame. The colors were spectacular—deep garnet, blazing orange, golden yellow. The flames off-gassed continually with a whooshing sound.
“It’s like the soundtrack for a war movie,” Luca shouted.
“I read that eruptions are louder on Stromboli than other volcanoes because of the high gas content.”
“I wish I had a camera.”
“You don’t want a camera. This is living, man!” Karl yelled.
They stood watching as the ferry passed by. The other side of the island looked completely different. Instead of meadows, there was a dark streak of black ash and lava.
“The locals call it Sciara del Fuoco, the Stream of Fire,” Karl said.
“Cool,” Luca said.
The stood and watched until the volcano passed out of sight.
“Let’s go inside,” Karl suggested. “I’m starving.”
They walked into the café, ordered prosciutto sandwiches, and sat gazing out at the water. Both boys were oblivious to the man right behind them. Renato sat nursing a coffee and listening to Karl outline plans for their arrival in Sicily. The Camorra gangster heard every word.
ROYAL SPORT TRAINING CENTER, OSLO
Princess Victoria lay on her stomach squeezing the stock of a .22 caliber rifle against her shoulder, aiming at a metal knock-down target. After five rounds, she put the gun down and ran a lap around an oval track, then came back to fire from a standing position.
This was standard biathlon training. The Olympic event emphasized cross-country skiing and shooting. It had been originally devised by Norwegians to hone their hunting skills during their long, frozen winters.
Victoria knew she was preforming badly this morning. Her pulse was highly elevated and her aim way off. She missed her target three times.
Managing adrenaline was key. During the skiing portion of the contest, participants would drive their heart rates up to 180 beats a minute. Yet, to accurately fire a rifle, her pulse needed to be half that. Forcing the heart rate lower took a lot of mental and physical skill.
“I’m terribly sorry,” Victoria apologized to her coach.
She took a towel from the bench.
“We all have our good days and bad,” he said diplomatically.
“Tomorrow will be better,” Victoria promised, wiping her face.
“We will try running laps. It may help with your breath control.”
“All right. I’ll see you in the morning,” Victoria said, putting on her training jacket.
She pushed through the double-glass doors of the sports center and climbed into her chauffeur-driven Mercedes.
The streets of Oslo were shadowy and dark. An overcast day turned into light rain. When they reached the palace portico, Victoria jumped out and strode inside.
A long, narrow passage led to private royal apartments. She walked softly on the crimson carpet. Her mother and father had a suite of rooms on the first floor, and she and Karl had smaller accommodations upstairs.
As she walked by the security office, she heard people shouting in anger. She recognized their voices. Incredibly, her father was in a blazing row with the security guards.
“What’s going on?” Victoria asked as she entered the room.
Queen Ingrid turned to her, distraught.
“Your brother is missing!”
>
“He left Capri?”
“Yes, he’s gone somewhere with the Brindisi boy.” Her mother turned to her with worried eyes. “Go up to your brother’s room and see if you can find anything. And don’t tell anyone about this.”
“What am I looking for?” Victoria asked, confused.
“Maybe he left something lying around that would give us a clue.”
Victoria nodded and left the room. She immediately took the lift upstairs to her brother’s private apartment on the third floor. Entering cautiously, she found the suite deserted. The living room had the disheveled look of a scholar’s lair. A cognac-colored calfskin couch was piled high with books, and an original Biedermeier writing desk was laden with paraphernalia—the detritus of a scientific mind.
Even at his young age, Karl was a dedicated naturalist. The desk held a microscope and a box of glass slides. There was an anemic-looking plant labeled with a Latin botanical name, clearly unsuited to the climate of Norway. A stuffed otter lolled on its back, its row of little pointed teeth horribly bared in a permanent grimace.
Victoria picked up a book titled Arachnid Advice—Keeping a Tarantula as a Pet. Suddenly, a rapid flittering movement caught her attention, and she jumped. But it was only Karl’s iguana in its octagonal glass terrarium surrounded by fiddlehead ferns.
She let out a nervous chuckle and continued to look around. A page of a notebook was filled with doodles that resembled volcanoes. She sighed. Who could fathom the mind of a fifteen-year-old boy?
Just as Victoria was about to leave, she caught sight of his map and a couple of posters on the wall. There was a publicity glossy of a handsome man autographed in thick black pen: “Life’s a Blast, regards, Jude Blackwell.”
A topographical chart was marked with colored pins indicating all the major volcanoes he wanted to climb: Kilauea, Hawaii; Popocatepetl, Mexico; Erta Ale, Ethiopia; Chimborazo, Ecuador.
The largest was of Mount Etna, under which Karl had written “taken by the Advanced Land Imager, NASA’s Earth Observing-1 satellite.”
She focused on the photo. Mount Etna was on the island of Sicily, surrounded by the dazzling blue Mediterranean. In the high-def image, the slopes of the volcano were blackish-green, similar to the skin of an overripe avocado. A white plume of smoke flared up from the summit. A chart of “Seismic Signatures” resembled an electrocardiogram in which the patient was having a heart attack—the lines oscillating wildly. It was dated July of this year.
Victoria immediately realized the implications of what she was seeing. The volcano was only a short boat ride away from Capri, and Karl would certainly want to see it.
MOUNT ETNA, SICILY
Jude Blackwell stood in the center of the scientific monitoring center weighing the odds of whether Mount Etna would erupt. There were increasing signs it would happen.
This was one of the most explosive volcanoes in the world. Mount Etna was a so-called composite volcano, which meant that it had formed along the edges of a tectonic plate. As one plate moved against the other, the lower one would melt, creating magma with heavy concentrations of silica. That molten liquid would be thick, and the volcano chamber would plug up easily. Enormous pressure would build up until the final eruption.
The problem was, it was almost impossible to tell exactly when that would happen. The only way was to monitor the distortion of the ground; a slight bulge could be discerned as the magma rose to the surface.
Jude had plenty of experience with composite volcanoes, and he knew they often gave very little warning. So right now, timing was everything. If he ascended while the volcano was simply off-gassing, the pictures would be magnificent. But if he miscalculated, he wouldn’t be around to talk about it.
It would take a couple of days to map out his route and prepare his gear. But Jude made up his mind—he was going for it.
PARIS, FRANCE
The leaves on the trees hung limply, and the streets were empty. August in Paris was always like this—the summer doldrums. Businesses were closed. Everyone was away on vacation. The Cote d’Azur and the beaches of Saint-Malo and Deauville were crowded, but, unfortunately, Charles Bonnard and his family were stuck in the city.
Charles offered his mother and sister the use of his little villa in Capri, but the ash from the volcano curtailed all travel. Besides, the end of the summer was always a busy time for his sister, Clothilde. Her fall collection was only a week away, and she was busy making the final arrangements for the runway show. Madame Bonnard kept herself busy as well. She went out to play cards with her friends and have lunch every day. Charles was left alone with his dog, Watson.
A week ago, he would have tried to sneak off to see Princess Victoria. But ever since the scandal broke, they had not spoken.
Bored and restless, he decided to take a walk. He and Watson left the house, crossing the street to go into the Luxembourg Gardens. It was the former grounds of the historic Medici chateau, with acres of shaded paths. He started a semi-jog, passing by the marionette theater. There was a slight breeze, and the water jets in the large central fountain dispersed into white plumes in the air.
The dog kept pace effortlessly. Watson was a wolfhound, one of the largest breeds in the world. As they trotted, the enormous beast looked up at him intermittently, his eyes filled with adoration.
“Come on Watson, let’s run,” Charles said as he picked up the pace.
They rounded the ornamental fishpond and took off down an allée of chestnut trees. His cell phone rang. He saw it was Brindy calling and turned it off. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his private affairs over the phone.
Charles was suddenly aware that his dog was no longer with him. He turned, and Watson had stopped, his tongue lolling.
“OK, boy. Let’s go back.”
They retraced their steps home, passing through the interior courtyard. The Bonnard house was a typical Paris hôtel particulier—a white limestone mansion in the Haussmann style with a slate mansard roof. As was usual, there was an interior cobblestoned courtyard where the family parked their vehicles. Madame Bonnard’s little green Peugeot was gone. That was a relief. He’d finally get some peace.
Inside, Charles walked up the broad marble steps to the second floor and unclipped the leash. He gave Watson a pat. The wolfhound looked up, shaggy fur partially obscuring liquid brown eyes.
“Good dog. Now stay off the furniture.”
Watson dropped down on four paws and headed toward his favorite couch in the grand salon. Charles walked down a silent corridor and knocked lightly on his sister’s door.
“Entrez,” a female voice said from within.
He stepped inside. No matter how often he came here, there was always a moment of wonder. His sister, Clothilde, was one of the most celebrated fashion designers in Paris, and her studio was breathtaking. It was creative chaos. Every wall surface was pasted with cuttings from magazines: fashion shoots, glossy magazine covers, tear sheets from catalogues and art books. A large worktable had been pushed against the window, and she was bent over, sketching.
Many years ago, Clothilde had been the toast of Paris because of her beauty and vivacity. She was tall and angular, with hauntingly ethereal features and a cloud of blond hair. As slim as a model, she was the most successful fashion designer of her generation.
Her life changed when a horrible accident left her partially paralyzed. She was still an acclaimed designer, but her life diminished considerably. She now lived at home with Maman and didn’t go out socially anymore. Charles constantly pleaded with her to look up old friends and get out to parties, concerts, and theater. But her work was everything to her now. She claimed she didn’t need all the rest.
Now, as she sat at her drafting board, her infirmity was not immediately apparent. A visitor would need a second glance to notice the state-of-the-art wheelchair.
“Salut, chéri,” he said as he strode in. He kissed her on the cheek then went to claim his usual spot. There was an old upholstered chair by he
r worktable. He always had to examine it first to make sure there were no straight pins in the cushions.
This room had always been a refuge for him. His mother was a martinet about the rest of the house, but this was a sanctum sanctorum where he and Clothilde could talk freely. No one entered without Clothilde’s permission.
“I was hoping you’d drop in,” Clothilde said. “A woman named Victoria called.”
Charles sat bolt upright.
“Where is she?”
Clothilde wheeled around to give him a slip of paper.
“I have no idea. It’s a new cell number, she says.”
Charles stared at it, frozen with indecision.
“Who’s Victoria?” Clothilde asked.
“I’ll explain later.”
Charles dialed the number, and Victoria picked up on the second ring. Her voice was very quiet.
“Call me later,” she whispered. “I’m at a reception and can’t talk.”
“When?”
“Around seven tonight. I’ll be alone.”
“Is anything wrong?” he asked. “Tell me quickly.”
“Yes. Luca and Karl are missing. Charles, it’s awful! And Brindy’s grandmother was murdered in Rome.”
“Oh my … that’s horrible!”
“Brindy thinks it might be a Camorra revenge killing. The boys might be in danger. I’ll explain more later.”
Charles hung up and stared at the floor.
“What is it?” Clothilde asked.
He looked over at her, his mind spinning.
“Can you keep a secret?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I can.”
“Remember the magazine article about John Sinclair being Princess Victoria’s lover?”
“Yes. I was very surprised …”
She stopped and gasped, her eyes enormous.
“Was that the same Victoria who called here?”
“Yes.”
“Princess Victoria called you?” she repeated, incredulous. “Why?”
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