Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  “I’d love to hear more about it,” he said, opening his umbrella in the hallway. “I’ll just leave this here to dry, if that’s OK.”

  “Sure. By the way, John’s back from Italy. I tried to call you, but there was no answer on your cell.”

  “I’ve been dealing with the lawyers.”

  “Oh, how’d that go?”

  “I’m happy to report that Sinclair’s off the hook. Victoria called and said she found the necklace.”

  “Oh, that is wonderful. I want to hear all about it. Come on downstairs. We’re cooking.”

  “Mon Dieu, you cooking! Surely we haven’t come to that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. Sinclair is doing most of it.”

  Charles vaulted down the stairs and sauntered into the kitchen.

  “Ulysses has returned,” he said. “So how did it go?”

  “An apt analogy,” Sinclair said, focusing on his chopping.

  “V made the call about the necklace; you’re in the clear,” Charles said.

  He walked over, took an olive, popped it into his mouth, then poured a glass of wine. There was still no response from Sinclair.

  Charles tried again. “So seriously, how’d it go in Italy?”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine? That’s it?” Charles asked. “No complications?”

  “Plenty. I’ll fill you in later.”

  Cordelia picked up her glass and took a sip. “OK you two. Hurry up and get dinner on the table. I’m starving.”

  “I’m hungry, too,” Luca said from the floor.

  Charles looked around to see Luca on the other side of the counter tussling with the dog.

  “Luca! What are you doing here? Running away again?”

  “Sinclair said I could come with him to London,” Luca countered defensively.

  The adolescent stood up and brushed the dog hairs off his clothes. Charles looked at him with a skeptical smile.

  “What does your mother think about you staying here?”

  “She likes it. She wants Sinclair to be my stepfather.”

  Cordelia blinked with astonishment. Sinclair still didn’t look up. He continued slicing the onion as if he hadn’t heard.

  Sinclair, Cordelia, and Charles sat around the kitchen counter finishing their lemon sorbet. Sinclair gave everyone the details about the dangerous struggle with Mondragone at the dockyard. He pulled the envelope out as he told the story and poured a small gold ring out on the counter.

  “It’s rare, but not priceless,” Sinclair told them. “A nice Roman artifact, actually—probably from the ruins in Capri, if I had to guess.”

  “It’s strange he would be carrying that around,” Charles observed.

  “Why would Mondragone have kept it in the same envelope as the necklace?” Cordelia asked.

  Sinclair shook his head. “I really have no idea. I guess I’ll just turn it in to Scotland Yard and let them deal with it.”

  He picked it up and put it in his pocket. Cordelia looked at Sinclair, hesitating a moment.

  “What is it Delia?” he asked. “You look like you have something on your mind.”

  “Well … it’s just … are you sure he’s dead?”

  Sinclair shrugged. “He most likely drowned.”

  “Shouldn’t you report it to the police?” Charles asked.

  “No. The Naples police are absolutely complicit.”

  “How do you mean?” Cordelia asked.

  “They’ve allowed Mondragone to terrorize their city with impunity. I feel no moral obligation to speak to them.”

  “Funny there has been no mention of anything in the papers about Mondragone’s death,” Charles said.

  Sinclair nodded. “I expect it will take time. You know, identifying the body and such.”

  “You mean, if the body turns up. The propellers on those container ships could chew a man up pretty quickly,” Charles pointed out.

  “How horrible,” Cordelia said, making a face. “I can’t believe we are talking about this.”

  Sinclair turned to her. “You know, Delia, we should be careful for a while. I don’t think Mondragone’s men will come after us, but we can’t be too careful.”

  “You know, there is the possibility they won’t come after you. One of the rival clans may claim responsibility for killing Mondragone,” Charles said, leaning both elbows on the counter.

  “One could only hope,” Sinclair agreed. “You should have seen his face as he fell. He looked like a wild animal.”

  “Don’t think about it,” Charles soothed him. “We should all just try to forget about it as best we can.”

  Sinclair nodded and straightened up.

  “You’re right, Charles. Now how about that coffee?”

  He turned around to get the cups, and the fragrance of fresh-brewed espresso wafted over from the stove.

  “So, what else has been going on while I was away?”

  “The Herodotus Foundation has a full schedule.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have everything in hand,” Sinclair said, transferring the demitasse cups to the counter.

  Charles accepted his coffee and added a spoon of sugar.

  “Yes, now that you mention it, tomorrow’s the gala. And you’re giving away a lot of money.”

  LINNAEAN SOCIETY, PICCADILLY, LONDON

  Burlington House was ablaze with light, and a line of limos discharged their elegant passengers into the center courtyard. Formally dressed men and women made their way up the broad staircase to the central hall where waiters circulated with trays of champagne. The noise level was rising rapidly as hundreds of people arrived. Even the British royals were expected to put in an appearance.

  This was the Linnaean Society’s annual gala to announce new scientific grants. Sinclair’s Herodotus Foundation was hosting the event. The main ceremony would be in the hallowed room where Charles Darwin first explained his theory of evolution. Of course all this was the magic of Charles Bonnard, who put it together.

  Sinclair stood at the top of the stairs, elegant in his tuxedo, welcoming the guests. And Cordelia was the belle of the ball, greeting friends from the Explorer’s Club of New York and the Royal Geographical Society of London.

  “Darling, you look gorgeous tonight,” Sinclair murmured as he paused from shaking hands.

  He surveyed her new dress. The green taffeta gown was embroidered with ferns and orchids all around the hem of the full skirt.

  “I thought you would like it. I can’t believe this crowd. What a turnout!”

  Charles wandered up to them, Perrier in hand. “This receiving line is endless. How many people have you greeted so far?”

  Sinclair turned to him. “Several hundred. I guess you would call it a success, but Charles, tell me honestly, isn’t there a way to give out these grants with a little less fanfare?”

  “It’s my job to make you popular. You’re doing fine. Keep smiling.”

  Charles held out his hand for Cordelia. “I’m going to take Delia away for a moment to catch her breath.”

  “Take me with you also,” Sinclair joked.

  Cordelia squeezed his arm, in sympathy. “I’ll be back in a moment, John. Enjoy your adoring fans.”

  “I will. You and Charles go ahead; have fun.”

  Cordelia giggled as she walked to the other end of the room.

  “Sinclair hates all this social hobnobbing. He’d so much rather be out on a dig.”

  Just then, there was a commotion at the door, and Charles craned his neck around. “Oh, fantastic. Prince Harry is arriving.”

  “John will probably take the opportunity to slip away,” she observed. “He hates that kind of fuss.”

  “In the meantime, what should I get you?” Charles asked. “Champagne?”

  “That would be wonderful. I’m parched.”

  “Don’t move a hair; I’ll be right back.”

  Delia watched Charles retreat to the bar and join the line for service.

  A man spoke up behind her. “
Well, now that you’ve gotten rid of your date, you can say hello to me.”

  She whirled. A ruggedly attractive man was standing there in elegant black tie, a glass of lager in hand. She almost didn’t recognize him.

  “Come on, Delia. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  “Jude Blackwell!”

  “De-li-a,” Blackwell intoned, lingering over her name. His gaze held hers as he raised the glass.

  “It’s been a long time,” he said. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I can’t believe you’re alive, Jude. I thought Iceland would surely be your last assignment.”

  He grinned and reached for her hand. His fingers were warm and the palm calloused.

  “Does my miraculous survival earn me a lucky kiss?”

  She laughed and pulled away. “You will have to accept my heartfelt congratulations instead.”

  “Always playing hard to get,” he said, shaking his head.

  He reached over and took her hand again, pulling her closer. His eyes held hers as he spoke.

  “So, all kidding aside, I’ve been thinking. If I settled down in London, would you consider having dinner with me from time to time?”

  “No, Jude, I am seeing someone … John Sinclair,” she demurred.

  “John Sinclair!” he blurted. “I thought you—”

  Another voice interrupted, “Blackwell, nice to see you. I didn’t expect to run into you again so soon.”

  Cordelia turned to see Sinclair reaching over to shake Jude’s hand. She flushed with confusion. Did they know each other?

  Jude gave her a rueful smile and explained. “Small world. I just met Sinclair in Sicily.”

  Sinclair filled Cordelia in on the story. “Jude was kind enough to help Luca and Karl get off of Mount Etna. In the middle of an eruption, I might add.”

  Cordelia stared, astonished.

  “I had no idea you saved Luca. Thank you so much,”

  “No thanks necessary. I did what I had to. Luckily, it worked out.” Sinclair spoke again. “The King and Queen of Norway have also asked me to convey their warmest regards. I hear they are sending you some kind of medal.”

  “Oh, no kidding? Well, that will be something to brag about,” Jude laughed. “And what’s become of the errant prince?”

  “Karl is now under strict supervision. As might be expected.”

  “Not a bad kid,” Blackwell said. “He has a real head on his shoulders. He was telling me all his dreams about becoming a scientist.”

  “Well it’s not likely he’ll be allowed to, considering his social rank,” Sinclair said ruefully. “His future is rather limited.”

  “A pity, he has potential.”

  “Yes. Well, Karl and Luca are alive because of you,” Sinclair said, returning to the original subject. “So thanks, once again.”

  “Hey, don’t mention it,” Jude said, edging away to join another group. “Anyway, nice seeing you again, Sinclair … take care, Delia.”

  Sinclair’s eyes followed him, then he turned back to Cordelia. “You two seemed friendly.”

  “Yes, we met years ago.”

  Despite her best efforts she felt a blush creep up her neck. Sinclair noticed, and his eyes narrowed.

  “I hope you weren’t encouraging him.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Maybe because he was holding your hand.”

  She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye.

  “You’re not the only one with a past, you know.”

  “Delia,” he said warningly. “Let’s not get into all that again.”

  “You started it, John.”

  “What do you want me to do, watch you flirt with Blackwell right under my nose?”

  “Well, you’ll have to get used to the fact that I know plenty of attractive men. The double standard is over.”

  At that moment, Charles ambled over. Cordelia accepted the champagne flute and took a long sip, regarding Sinclair over the rim of the glass.

  Charles swiveled from one to the other, sensing a sudden change in mood.

  “Why do I get the feeling I missed something?”

  The electronic squeal of a microphone cut through the noise.

  “Is this thing on?” someone said into a microphone.

  As everyone turned, the director of the Royal Geographical Society was bending forward trying to get the attention of the crowd. The program wasn’t due to begin for another half hour.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, fellow scientists, a brief announcement if you please.”

  The crowd hushed.

  “The volcano advisory office in London has just informed us that Iceland has entered a second phase of eruption. There are now two volcanoes. Katla and Eyjafjallajökul are both now classified at a level seven.”

  A silence fell over the room. Then people broke into groups, murmuring.

  “I don’t understand,” Charles said. “What does that mean, Delia?”

  She explained. “We really should ask Jude. He knows so much more about Iceland than I do. But the VAAC office in London monitors Iceland. And I know Katla has been a worry of theirs for years.”

  She turned and beckoned Jude over. He took another swig of his lager and rejoined their group.

  “How bad is this?” Sinclair asked.

  Jude took a deep breath and exhaled, his face somber. “It’s bad. Katla is one of the biggest in Iceland. And historically, it tends to show increased activity whenever Eyjafjallajökul erupts.”

  “What does ‘level seven’ mean?” Charles asked.

  Jude rubbed his chin in a weary way.

  “Let me put it this way: the Volcano Explosivity Index (VEI) refers to the amount of debris that is ejected from a volcano. There hasn’t been a ‘seven’ in about two hundred years. The last time was Mount Tambora in 1815.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “The ash blocked the solar rays, and it set off a volcanic winter on a global scale.”

  “Could that happen this time?” Sinclair asked, appalled.

  “Actually, I’m thinking this eruption might be as big as the Laki disaster in 1783.”

  “What happened then?” Cordelia asked.

  “Millions died all through Iceland, the British Isles, Scandinavia, and Europe. I believe the final death toll was six million. It was mostly respiratory failure from the volcanic ash, and when the crops failed there was widespread starvation.”

  “So you think this eruption will be a global disaster?” Sinclair asked.

  All Jude’s humor was gone, his expression grim. “Well, I’d venture to say it’s going to be a major problem.”

  Salvatore Mondragone edged closer to Sinclair. The room was so crowded he could easily blend into the mob of people. This was an exclusive event, but Mondragone was not impressed. As far as he was concerned, the mission of the Linnean Society—to promote the natural sciences—was for crazy rich people who wanted to go off into the jungle with a butterfly net and an aluminum canteen.

  He was all about business. And now that Sinclair had been linked to inquiries into his financial dealings, he wanted to know more. Did the American archaeologist work for MI6? Archaeology would be a perfect cover. He could go to any country and travel wherever he wanted with no questions asked.

  But, if not the Special Intelligence Service, then who? Perhaps Sinclair was a free agent, hired by the British Government to gather information about the Camorra? Had he been tasked to kill the top bosses? Even the sapphire necklace seemed suspicious. It could have been sold on the black market for the purpose of entrapment.

  There was only one thing to do. Sinclair would have to be eliminated. But London was not Naples, and assassinations had to be planned carefully.

  Mondragone flagged the waiter for another glass of Pellegrino and squeezed the lime wedge into the glass. He was not drinking alcohol; it wouldn’t do to mix hard liquor with painkillers.

  His body was still suffering contusions from that fall at
the dockyard. His feet smashed onto the water first, and luckily his shoes bore the brunt of the force. But now, several days later, his ankles were as bruised as if he had landed on concrete.

  Mondragone circled around and watched Sinclair and his girlfriend laugh together as if they hadn’t a care in the world. And only one emotion consumed him—a burning desire to kill the man.

  Sinclair walked to the podium to make a few remarks as the round of clapping died down. After a quick scan of the crowd, he located Cordelia standing by herself toward the back. Charles and Jude were conversing nearby.

  Facing the spotlight, he couldn’t see much; the backlight haloed everyone’s head, and their faces were indistinct. But suddenly a silhouette seemed familiar, and his heart skipped a beat.

  It couldn’t be Mondragone, could it?

  The man turned toward Cordelia and made a remark. She nodded and smiled at the pleasantry. Sinclair abandoned the microphone and pushed through the bystanders with near-frantic urgency. When he reached Cordelia, the man had disappeared. People were murmuring in confusion.

  “Aren’t you supposed to do your speech now?” Cordelia asked.

  He brushed past her. “I need to ask Charles something.”

  Sinclair pulled Charles aside and spoke quietly.

  “We have to get her out of here!”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Charles hissed. “You’re supposed to announce the grant.”

  Sinclair leaned forward and whispered.

  “I can’t … he’s here.”

  Charles widened his eyes.

  “Mondragone?”

  “Yes. He’s come to finish it.”

  Charles reacted swiftly.

  “I’ll take care of Delia. You go make the announcement as if nothing were wrong.”

  “How can I do that, Charles?” Sinclair demanded. “We are all in danger.”

  “Don’t worry. Security is tight. Prince Harry is here. Mondragone won’t risk it.”

  “But what about Delia? He was just talking to her.”

  “I’ll get her outside. You can join us as soon as you do the awards.”

  Sinclair noticed Jude Blackwell lingering and grasped his arm. “We have an emergency.”

  “What’s up?” he asked, as he put his glass on a waiter’s tray.