“Don’t tempt me, lady,” the man said, reaching for his canvas satchel.
She squeezed the nozzle as hard as she could, the rubber hose jerked with the force of the water, and a high-pressure stream caught him in the chest.
He sputtered in astonishment and then started toward her.
She pointed the nozzle directly at his face, shooting him in the eyes and forcing water up his nose. He staggered back with the impact of the blast and then slipped on the wet pavement and nearly fell.
With a murderous look, he turned and hurried off toward Grosvenor Square. Constrained by his heavy limp, it took him a while before he disappeared into the trees. She got a good look at him. His clothing was soaked, and the shock of white hair hung like seaweed on his head.
Just then the front door opened.
“Delia!” Charles gasped. “What are you doing?”
“I shot him,” she said, too shaken to move.
Charles grabbed the hose away from her as if it were a dangerous toy.
“Delia, what if he had a gun? This hose wouldn’t have protected you.”
She looked up at him.
“It doesn’t matter. How’s Kyrie?”
It was five o’clock in the morning, and Cordelia was slumped in the waiting room chairs at Streatham and Wallace Veterinary Surgery in Mayfair. The young veterinarian, a woman named Harriet, had been quietly reassuring. It was good that they detected the poison early. Kyrie had a better chance of pulling through.
The vet administered an emetic—apomorphine—to make the dog vomit. But the antifreeze had already entered her system. They tried other antidotes—activated charcoal to absorb any remaining xylitol in her gastrointestinal tract, an IV of fluids, including ethanol—but so far there was no real indication of whether Kyrie would make it.
Charles came in and tossed his raincoat on the chair.
“I just finished up with the police,” he said. “The house is secure.”
“We need to get John back here right away,” she said.
He came over and sat down.
“The police want to talk to you tomorrow. But from your description, they think they know who it was. Not too many people look like that.”
“Who was it?” Cordelia asked. “Why do you think he broke in?”
Charles sat up straighter, pulling his jacket down.
“It wasn’t a robbery. The police went all through the house and found nothing disturbed. You’ll have to inventory all the valuables, of course. But nothing appears to be missing.”
Cordelia sank back in her chair, bewildered.
“What was he looking for?”
Just then, Harriet emerged from the waiting-room door. “Kyrie’s vitals are returning to normal,” she said. “She’s going to recover.”
“Oh, thank …” Cordelia broke off, overcome with emotion.
“I am very glad to hear that,” Charles said, standing and picking up his jacket.
“Can I see her?” Cordelia asked.
“Not right away. She’ll have to stay for a few days while we monitor her kidneys.”
“Please. Just for a minute,” Cordelia begged.
“I’m afraid not—” the vet began.
Charles interjected. “Delia, why don’t I take you back home, so you can get some rest. I have a few more things to tell you.”
“Of course,” she conceded. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
They thanked the vet, gathered up their things, and went outside to Cordelia’s Range Rover. She climbed into the driver’s seat, buckled her seatbelt, and turned to Charles.
“OK. Who was it?”
Charles looked grave.
“A Camorra boss named Tito. He works for Salvatore Mondragone in Naples.”
“I know that name, Mondragone. John told me they crossed paths once, when he recovered some stolen antiquities. Apparently there were a few threats exchanged, and Mondragone told John to stay out of his turf.”
Charles pressed his mouth into a tight line.
“We should tell Sinclair right away. This might be some kind of warning for him to back off and stay away.”
“You think so? I can’t imagine how they would know Sinclair is in Naples.”
“I have no idea,” Charles said, rubbing his face with exhaustion. “But I do know that Mondragone is one of the most dangerous men in the world.”
NAPLES, ITALY
Sinclair hung up the phone and tried to quell the urge to fly straight back to London. It was stupid of him to have left Cordelia to fend for herself. Having a dog in the house was not enough protection. And Charles was no match for the Camorra.
He ran a hand through his hair, wishing he could leave right now. But that was not possible. If he didn’t get the necklace, his name might never be cleared. And the minute he stepped back into the UK, Scotland Yard would detain him. This little hunting expedition would have to pay off, and quickly.
He and Luca now sat in the little pizzeria where the boys had eaten before. Karl had only a vague recollection of where he had sold the necklace and couldn’t give them any specifics. The prince said he was so frightened at the time, he couldn’t remember the name of the store or even the exact street where he had gone.
Karl’s parents whisked him away to Norway, so Luca was now trying to remember where they had been. He and Sinclair went to the same pizzeria and stopped for a bite to orient themselves
“Who was that on the phone?” Luca asked, tucking into his pizza. “Is everything OK?”
“Yes,” Sinclair said distractedly. “My dog is sick, but she’ll be fine. Now look around and tell me. Where did Karl go to sell the necklace?”
“It was up there, by the corner,” Luca said. “Now I remember.”
“So Karl went that way?”
Luca nodded. “Yes. He was only gone about ten minutes.”
“Then we need to find the nearest jewelry store from that point,” Sinclair said. “I don’t think he would have shopped around.”
Sinclair assessed the risk. Apparently, the Camorra was on to him, and now Luca was here—a dangerous situation. This was a rough neighborhood near the Piazza Garibaldi—Camorra territory. Sinclair swiveled around to examine the establishment where they sat. The man serving the counter wore a stained apron and an indifferent expression, but his eyes were watchful.
At a glance, it was easy to see that the street held the normal menace—a dozen or so thieves invisible to all but the trained eye. A ragged man shuffled. He had the haggard look of a long-time addict. Two thugs were riding a Vespa, spooned together on the single motorcycle—clearly on a purse-snatching mission. The boy riding in the back would be carrying a short, curved knife for cutting the shoulder straps.
Sinclair was familiar with this type of milieu. The governments of Greece, Italy, Turkey, and Egypt often commissioned him to find artifacts that had been pillaged from ancient sites. The last time he was here, it was to recover a priceless Etruscan vase. At that time, Mondragone warned him to stay away from his territory.
But this time, the hunt for missing valuables was personal. The chief problem was that the sapphire necklace could have already been broken up. The stones may have been removed from the settings and sold individually. Still, he had to try.
“Finished?” he asked Luca, indicating the pizza.
“Yup.”
Sinclair pushed back his chair. “What do you remember about Karl on that day? Was he upset?”
“No,” Luca said. “Not at all. He told me he went to a bank.”
They started walking, and Sinclair noticed a small bakery on the corner.
“Let’s ask in here about a jewelry store.”
He pulled open the door and smiled at the woman behind the counter.
They had planned in advance to let Luca do the talking. Sinclair’s attempts at Italian tended to drift into classical Latin, and his archaic vocabulary often caused confusion.
Luca inquired about a jewelry store. The old woman lumbered to
the front window, pointed down the street, and waved her hand twice, speaking in Neapolitan dialect.
“She says there is one just two blocks away,” Luca said.
Sinclair frowned.
“I’m having second thoughts about you coming with me. Why don’t you go back to the pizza shop and wait.”
Luca turned to him, his expression drooping with disappointment.
“I’m probably safer with you. You don’t want me sitting out on the street by myself, do you?”
Sinclair acquiesced. If Mondragone’s men were around, it would be better to keep Luca close by.
“All right. But do exactly what I tell you.”
“I promise.”
“I’m going to pretend to be an American tourist. I’ve hired you to translate for me. Got it?”
“Let’s go,” Luca said and flashed a brilliant smile.
The jewelry store windows were filled with gold chains, small charms, and trinkets—keepsakes for tourists.
“Ready?” Sinclair asked.
“Yes,” Luca said with a grin.
The boy seemed to be enjoying the lark. Sinclair felt a twinge of affection. He missed Luca tagging along with him. But now was not the time for sentiment; this required his full focus. He pushed his feelings down and continued to examine the window of the shop, planning his approach.
Undoubtedly everyone on this street paid for protection and traded information for favors from the Camorra. He and Luca were probably putting themselves in danger, but there was no other way to get the necklace back.
Sinclair took a deep breath and turned the doorknob. A bell clanged, and the proprietor stood up—an older man in a threadbare but neatly-pressed shirt. The shop smelled slightly of dust and silver polish. The man smiled tentatively and Sinclair began the charade, speaking slowly as Luca translated.
“I am looking for a necklace for my wife.”
The man waved in the direction of the cases.
“Please take a look.”
“I would like something with sapphires.”
There was the tiniest shift in the eyes—a wariness. The man explained that he didn’t usually carry stones. He pulled out a few dusty trays of jewelry, gnarled old hands picking up cheap 14K gold trinkets. Finally, the shopkeeper held up a gold heart with a small diamond suspended from a chain.
“This is very beautiful,” the old man told Luca, hoping to make a sale.
Sinclair shook his head.
“I was thinking of something more like this.” Sinclair reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the tear sheet from a magazine. Victoria had been photographed wearing the necklace at a gala in Rome.
The old man stood staring down at the paper for a full thirty seconds, then looked up at Sinclair with a closed face. It was a good attempt at composure, but his eyes could not hide the shock of having been discovered.
“Maybe you know where I could get something like this?” Sinclair probed.
“I could ask around,” the man said slowly. “What is your price range?”
“Fifty thousand. Cash.”
The eyes wavered. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Sixty,” Sinclair bartered. “If you could find it in the next hour.”
The man looked around and ran his palms down the sides of his slacks.
“I can inquire.”
“I’ll wait.”
“It will take more time,” the old man said.
“No, an hour. Not more.”
“You would pay cash? Euros? Dollars?” the man ascertained.
Sinclair nodded. “Either.”
He had 50,000 in euros and 50,000 in US currency in a canvas expedition satchel over his arm.
“Come back in an hour.”
VIA NAPOLI, ITALY
When the tall American and the young Italian boy left, the proprietor walked to the door and flipped the sign to “Closed,” then went behind the green curtain to open the safe.
He took out the box and opened it. The necklace looked more rare and precious than he first remembered. Why had Renato never returned to collect his loot? Clearly, the sapphires were intended for Salvatore Mondragone.
If he sold the necklace, Renato would be furious. The thief had told him to put it away until he collected it. But now Renato had disappeared. What should he do? This was too much for him to handle alone. It would be better to have Mondragone deal with the American. He picked up the phone and called.
“It’s Bartolomeo,” the old man said. “I have a sapphire necklace for the boss. Renato gave it to me. But now an American is here asking for it.”
NAPLES TRAIN STATION
Sinclair and Luca sat in the large, modern train station, attempting to blend in with the throngs of travelers. Sinclair looked over at the kid. What kind of logic had passed through the boy’s brain to run off like that? Was he that unhappy at home?
“So, Luca,” he asked gently. “Why’d you go with Karl?”
Luca looked up guiltily. “He said it would just be for a day or so.”
“It was a very dangerous thing to do.”
“I can handle myself,” Luca argued. “I’m not a baby anymore.”
Sinclair sighed.
“Remember that industrialist whose son was kidnapped a few years ago? Kidnapping is a profitable business in Naples.”
“Is that why the guy had a gun?”
“Yes, Luca. He probably recognized Karl. Especially after he turned up with priceless jewels.”
“Well, stealing the necklace wasn’t my idea. Karl did it.”
“It doesn’t matter; you were involved in a criminal act.”
“I’m sorry,” Luca said. “I really am. Don’t be mad at me.”
“I’m not mad. I just worry about your safety. And I’ve wanted to ask you about the man on the mountain? Was he Italian?”
“Yes. His name was Renato. He followed our guide and joined our group.”
Sinclair looked around at the crowded terminal.
“He was probably Camorra. Italy seems a bit dangerous right now for your family. When does school start?”
Luca brightened.
“Not for another two weeks. How about I come with you to London?”
Sinclair considered. That would solve the problem. If the Brindisi family were being targeted, Luca needed to leave as soon as possible.
“Fine. And your mother should get out of Italy also. At least for a while.”
“What’s happening to Karl?” Luca asked.
“He’s back in Oslo with his parents. I don’t think you’ll be able to see him.”
“I felt sorry for him being cooped up all the time.”
Sinclair nodded, draining his coffee. “I know. Frankly, I think the whole royal family is sad. Victoria seems desperate to break out, too.”
“Well, now she’ll be tied up when that bambino comes,” Luca said, pushing back his chair.
Sinclair’s eyes widened.
“Bambino? What baby?”
“Didn’t you know? The princess is going to have a baby.”
“Who’s the father?” Sinclair asked, astonished.
“Charles Bonnard.”
“Who told you that?” Sinclair demanded urgently.
“Who do you think?” Luca grinned. “My mom.”
VIA NAPOLI, ITALY
Sinclair and Luca entered the jewelry shop, knowing the negotiation had suddenly become more dangerous. Sinclair was fully prepared for any eventuality. Dealing in the black market had its uncertainties.
As they entered, the proprietor beamed an ingratiating smile. That was suspicious in itself. Sinclair advanced cautiously, keeping Luca well behind him and scanning the shop for another presence. The green curtain at the back was a worry. But it didn’t reach the floor, and no shoes were visible beneath the folds.
“Have you found the necklace we are looking for?” Sinclair asked.
The proprietor of the shop nodded.
“Yes, I have. But you will have to
go to the dockyard to collect it.”
Sinclair paused. “Who gets the money?”
“Bring it with you. And be at Dock C-8 at midnight. Someone will meet you.”
NAPLES, ITALY
At exactly midnight, John Sinclair walked through the chain-link gate to the dockyard and noticed that the guard booth was empty. The quay was so much larger than he would have imagined. It looked as if it were a city in itself, with streets and alleys formed by the enormous crates.
Rows of containers were stacked in a rainbow of colors and labeled—MAERSK, HANJIM, CHINA SHIPPING. Exotic scripts were scrawled on the ridged aluminum. They were spiky characters spelling out names of companies in the new industrial world.
He started toward the water, making no sound. A hollow feeling of fear gripped him momentarily, and he had to push it away. Anxiety would slow his reactions, and he needed all his faculties if he were dealing with people like this.
This dockyard was Mondragone’s turf. Of course, he had dispelled the naive illusion that this was going to be a simple transaction. Recovering stolen goods was inevitably confrontational. Consequently, he’d dressed for battle: a dark T-shirt and loose cargo pants, rubber-soled sneakers—footwear that would allow him to run or fight, whichever was required.
The Naples dockyards were 24/7 operations. Loading was going on all around him. Huge cranes swung overhead, and there was the continuous boom of gigantic metal boxes as they were dropped onto the cargo dock. He expected to see workmen, but the cranes were robotically maneuvered as if by some invisible remote control.
His instructions were to walk to the very end of Dock C-8 to where the NS da Guia, a Portuguese registered coastal freighter, was tied up. He found it easily. The name of the vessel was visible on the hull, but no one was in sight.
He waited, alert to danger. The sticky sea mist rolled in, thick with the acrid scents of motor oil, diesel fuel, and industrial materials. Overhead LED lights emitted a harsh white glare, casting shadows under every object.
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