Isaac Bell still believed that Reginald had masterminded the theft while he and I were employed at Rolls-Royce Limited.
If so, was he also the masked man who’d held up the train and killed the engineer and brakeman? The embezzlement, I could almost believe—the work of a brash man who’d gotten in over his head with gambling debts—especially after Isaac had found proof that the books had been altered. Someone had stolen the money. But murder? All to facilitate the theft of engine parts that Mr. Rolls and Mr. Royce were counting on to finish the half-built Silver Ghost in order to enter it into the Olympia Motor Show instead of the stolen Grey Ghost?
As preposterous as it sounded, I dared not mention it to my father, his health being delicate. I tried to put it from my head that night as I called on Miss Atwater, ignoring the strange palpitations of my heart when I thought of her.
We ate dinner and took in an operetta, both enjoying ourselves enough that Miss Atwater agreed I could call on her again. She lived in the caretaker’s cottage behind the orphanage with her brother and his wife. Neither of us wanted the night to end, so I dismissed my carriage, deciding to walk her home. As we strolled down the sidewalk, I sensed the presence of someone behind me. When I looked back, I saw nothing but shadows.
“Is something amiss?” she asked.
Emboldened by the possession of my father’s brass-handled cane, and wanting no harm to come to Miss Atwater, I gathered my courage. “Wait here. I’ll be but a moment.”
I left her at the corner, certain that what I saw in her blue eyes was unwavering trust. Turning back, I gripped the heavy cane and retraced my steps, hoping to discover the source of my unease. Whatever had caught my attention was nowhere to be found, and I chided myself for being so jumpy, certain that my imagination had conjured sounds where there were none. “’Twas nothing,” I said, turning back to her.
But the street was empty.
I ran to the corner, searching frantically, looking at the railroad tracks, wondering if she’d crossed over to the orphanage. “Miss Atwater?” I called out.
I heard a rustling and started to turn. And then I felt a sharp pain as someone hit me over the head.
42
The following morning, Chad and Oliver took a train north to Milan while Sam and Remi made the almost three-hour drive to Rome to meet with Georgia’s contact. Sam turned onto Via Appia Antica, the car bouncing over the cobblestones as they headed up the hill. Neither of them had been to their friend’s restaurant since it had moved from its original setting among the ancient columbaria crypts, and Remi was curious if the new location, on the same road, would have as much character.
About three miles in, the tomb of Caecilia Metella, built in the first century B.C., loomed up ahead, the tower overlooking the gardens of the new restaurant. Sam parked the car, and he and Remi walked up the graveled drive, stopping as a tall, dark-haired man carrying a bottle of sparkling wine in a bucket of ice burst out the kitchen door.
“Scusi,” the man said, almost stepping past them until he made eye contact. “Remi! Sam! Wait here, I’ll be right back,” he added, his Italian accent thick. Paolo Magnanimi continued past them into the garden, where customers sat at white-cloth-covered tables, some set beneath large white umbrellas, others in the shade of the trees.
When he returned, he shook Sam’s hand, gave him a big hug, then kissed Remi on both cheeks. “I was very happy to see your names on the reservation list.”
“It’s been too long,” Remi said. “I’ve missed your tiramisu.”
“But not me?” Paolo replied, with a laugh.
“That goes without saying.”
“Come. I have your table ready.” He led them across the lawn to a table set apart from the others. Pink roses grew at the base of the stone ruins that ran the length of the parklike grounds. Paolo pulled out a chair for Remi, while Sam took the chair next to hers, sitting so that his back was to the wall. After exchanging pleasantries, Paolo left to see to his other guests.
Forty-five minutes later, with no word from Georgia’s contact, Sam and Remi decided to order without him. They’d just finished their meal when he finally arrived.
Luca, as he introduced himself, was dressed in a custom suit, the crisp white shirt open at the collar. He was in his late forties, his brown hair peppered with gray. “I had hoped to be here before now,” he said, sitting in the chair next to Sam’s, his dark eyes darting from side to side as he took in everyone seated around them. “I tried calling your mobile but couldn’t get through. I was told you wouldn’t leave without me, so I came as soon as I was able.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sam said. “You’re here now. Have a bite to eat.”
“I wish I could, but I really do need to get going.”
“At least stay for the tiramisu,” Remi said. “It’s my favorite in all of Rome.”
As if on cue, Paolo appeared with a third serving of the dessert, which he placed in front of Luca, before picking up Sam’s credit card. Luca took a bite, his eyes widening. “Oh, that is good.” He took another bite, finished it off, before sitting back, with a sigh, grateful for the espresso served along with it. “Makes me wish I’d been here for the entire meal.”
Sam moved the conversation back on track. “Our friend was telling us that you have information on an upcoming auction of an early-model Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost?”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way. I took the liberty of looking into your backgrounds on the internet. You seem like a nice couple, unlike the people who generally attend. They don’t care much about where the car came from or returning lost property to its rightful owner. In fact, some of them are as likely to kill to get what they want as they are to pull out their checkbooks.”
“We’re extremely careful,” Sam said. “Is documentation provided?”
“Not for this auction. The less documentation, the better. The success depends on the absolute anonymity of the buyers and the sellers. The broker who handles these transactions would never reveal the information. This is, how do you Americans say it? The big league.”
“How do we get in touch with this broker?”
He studied Sam a moment as though weighing his decision on what he should say. “It’s ten thousand euros cash, in denominations of twenties, just to walk in the door—if you have an invitation. The latter I can get you for another ten thousand. I prefer mine in hundreds. Easier to carry.”
“That’s a pretty steep price,” Sam said.
“Take it or leave it.”
“We’ll take it. Where do you want to meet?”
“If you have pen and paper . . .”
Remi handed both to him, as Paolo walked up, whispering something in Sam’s ear. “I’ll be right there,” Sam said. Paolo smiled, stood back a few feet as Sam turned to Luca, saying, “What time?”
“Half past nine. The auction starts at ten.”
“Until then.”
“The address,” Luca said, handing pen and paper back to her. “Thank you for the tiramisu. I’ll see the both of you tonight. With the cash.” He pushed his chair back, stood. “If I didn’t mention, it’s black-tie.”
“Ten thousand euros?” Remi said, after he left.
“A small price if it gets us the information we need,” Sam said, as Paolo again walked up, now holding a small machine. He showed Sam the receipt it had printed. “Declined?” Sam said. He handed Paolo a different card. That was also declined, as was Remi’s.
Paolo gave them an apologetic smile. “Sometimes these machines are finicky.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe some computer glitch somewhere.” Sam paid with cash instead.
“We better call Selma,” Remi said, taking out her cell phone. “If anyone can figure it out, she can.” Her call wouldn’t connect. “Luca did say he couldn’t get through to us. Maybe we’re too far out from the city center. You try,
Sam.”
He did. Same result. “Hate to bother you, Paolo. May I borrow your phone?”
“Of course. Right this way.”
Sam and Remi followed him across the lawn. Remi waited outside, while Paolo showed Sam the phone, then left to attend to customers. Sam returned about five minutes later, his expression diplomatically neutral.
Paolo saw him, walking over. “Is everything okay?”
“Just a mix-up at the bank. Glad I had enough cash to cover lunch.”
Remi gave Paolo a hug. “The meal, as always, was fabulous. And I absolutely love your new location.” She waited until they were well out of earshot before asking, “Did you find out what was going on?”
“Not even close. I spent the last few minutes with one of the credit card companies, who informed me that I’d canceled that card about an hour ago. I assured her I hadn’t.”
“She didn’t believe you?”
“Even worse, she didn’t believe I was me.”
“How is that possible?”
“Not sure. I couldn’t reach Selma or Lazlo. Busy signal.”
Remi held up her phone as they walked to the car, hoping to find some connection. “This doesn’t make sense. They’ve worked here before.” She looked over at Sam. “What do you mean, a busy signal? We have call waiting . . .”
“Exactly.”
“What’s going on?”
“It’s time we find out.”
43
Sam unlocked the car doors, opening Remi’s, before walking around to the driver’s side. He started the engine, the air conditioner blasting, then took off down the road, going over all the possibilities of how and why their cards were declined.
Not quite the same, but what came to mind was that Oliver and his uncle had suddenly found themselves destitute, which was what led to them selling off their possessions and putting Payton Manor on the market. While Oliver had naturally assumed that his uncle was somehow responsible, Sam now believed otherwise. “I hate to say it, Remi. There’s only one reason I can think of that all this is happening.”
“That would be . . . ?” she asked, holding her cell phone at various angles, still trying to get a signal.
“Every account frozen, no access to money or credit. Sound familiar?”
She looked up in alarm. “You’re saying someone hacked our accounts? How vulnerable are we?”
“Right now, our biggest problem is being stuck in a foreign country with no assets. If that’s the case, it could take days or weeks to sort through it all.”
Remi’s moment of panic was over, her expression turning to one of determination. “If they’re targeting us, we’re on the right track.”
“Or it could just be that we’re helping the Paytons, and someone wants to stop us.”
“Or both. We definitely need to talk to Selma.”
“And if we can’t get in touch with her? We need to get into that auction. We need cash.”
“And the proper clothes to get into a black-tie affair.”
“I’d say a quick trip to the airport. Get some money, our satellite phone, and clothes from the jet that’ll get us into the auction. We’ll figure out what’s going on from there.”
When they arrived at the airport, what they didn’t expect was to find their jet locked in a hangar with no sign of their crew. When they tried to get access, a uniformed security guard was called, the young man standing quietly behind a dark-haired female clerk who was hesitant to tell them the jet was being held for non-payment and any access forbidden until the bill was paid.
“How?” Sam asked. “It was paid before we arrived.”
“My apologies, Mr. Fargo, but the account has been frozen, and the credit card charges reversed. When we tried to contact you by mobile, you didn’t answer. We had no choice. Unless, of course, you are here to make the payment?”
Something he couldn’t do, since neither he nor Remi had a credit card that would work. “Any chance we can get on the jet?”
“Unfortunately, it’s beyond my control.”
“We’ll get the money,” Sam said. “Once I know the jet’s safe. And my crew.”
“They haven’t been in touch? Your pilot assured us he’d be in touch with you to straighten this entire matter out.”
Sam and Remi exchanged worried looks, Sam saying, “Can you at least show us the jet? How do I know it’s still there?”
The young guard stepped forward. “I’m sorry, Mr. Fargo, but until payment is made, I’m going to have to ask you and your wife to leave the airport. We would appreciate if you did so quietly.”
Sam didn’t know Italian law. Whether the lockdown of their jet was standard procedure for unpaid bills or manipulation by whoever had hacked their accounts mattered little, their inability to access their aircraft was going to make life a lot harder—probably the very reason behind it.
Short of storming the hangar—not an option with the number of armed guards stationed at the airport—he thanked them for their time. As he and Remi started to turn away, she reached over, placing her hand on Sam’s arm. “What about my medication?”
He looked over at his wife, her expression so open and vulnerable, he almost believed she was in dire medical need. Sam turned to the security guard, doing his best to appear worried about her health. “Can you at least escort my wife onto the plane to get her pills?”
The guard eyed Remi, then the woman behind the counter, who gave a slight nod. “Just make sure that’s all she removes,” the woman said.
“Let me get my cart,” the guard said. “I’ll drive you out there.”
When he returned with the electric cart, Sam started to follow Remi, but the woman held up her hand. “Sir, you’ll have to wait here. I’m bending the rules enough by allowing your wife onto the plane. Please don’t make me lose my job.”
He walked across the gray linoleum tiles to a row of hard plastic chairs to wait. Fifteen minutes later, the guard and Remi returned, Remi wearing what looked like a black silk scarf draped artfully around her neck.
“Grazie,” Remi said to him. She took Sam’s arm, and the two left.
Sam regarded the very long scarf around her shoulders, noting the Valentino label just visible in one of the folds. “No suit or black tie?”
“One slinky gown and the satphone was all I could manage without him noticing. The petty cash box was empty.”
“Hopefully, the crew took it. We at least know they’ll have enough to survive on for the next few days. Their credit cards are on the same business account as ours.”
“Where do you suppose they are?”
“Sitting in some air-conditioned hotel, sipping prosecco, attempting to contact Selma to get this straightened out. Which is what we need to do as soon as possible.”
“Sipping prosecco?”
“As tempting as that part of the plan is, we might want to hold off until we figure out what’s going on.”
The two walked out, the heat hitting them full force when they left the cooled building, waiting for the shuttle that would transport them to the parking lot. “I don’t get this,” Remi said, once they were in their car. She untied the dress from around her neck, tossing it into the backseat. “How could it happen?”
“Does it matter?” He backed out of the parking space, the wheels squealing on the slick concrete as he turned. “We move on.”
He paid the parking fee, waited for the cashier to wave him through, then pulled out into traffic, noticing a black Mercedes right behind him. He made a lane change. The Mercedes did the same. “Time to check that satphone.”
She turned it on and tried to make a call. “Nothing.”
No doubt about it. Whoever targeted them had covered all the bases. They were definitely pros, maybe someone with military or counterterrorism experience. Sam sped up to get around a van. The Mercedes did the
same. He checked his rearview mirror, just able to make out the silhouette of the man driving it, recognizing the flattop haircut. “Unlock that glove box and get your gun. We’re being followed.”
44
Sam’s attempt to lose the Mercedes failed when a second car, also a Mercedes, this one dark blue, pulled up behind them. The two cars kept a steady pace.
Remi placed her gun in the center console, shifted in her seat to see who was behind them. “That’s the same man who followed us from Payton Manor to Chad’s mother’s house.”
He let up on the gas, hoping for a better view. When he looked in the mirror, he recognized Bruno’s ruddy face. Sam sped up. “You know what I find fascinating about this?”
“Fascinating? Not a word I’d associate with suddenly being destitute and being followed by whoever these people are.”
“Interesting, then?”
“Much better word choice,” she said, watching the side mirror.
“Someone hacks our account, we head to the airport, and they’re there, waiting for us.”
“I don’t find that fascinating or interesting. I find it disturbing.”
“They knew we’d be coming here. Our jet’s here. All they had to do was wait in the parking lot, and there we were.”
Remi looked over at him. “You are going somewhere with this? Or just pointing out that we’re in trouble?”
“If they’ve hacked into our accounts, our phones, our credit cards, they have access to every charge we made. When we tried using the credit cards at Paolo’s restaurant, they knew exactly where we were.”
“Why didn’t they just follow us from there?”
“That’s what I was wondering. If I had to guess, the hack was very recent.” He checked his mirrors. The two cars were keeping apace but maintaining their distance. “If that’s the case, there wasn’t enough time for them to get to the restaurant.”
The Gray Ghost Page 18