by Cathi Stoler
“Our friend is scheduled to arrive at nine a.m. the day after tomorrow on his private jet from England and will be landing at Islip Airport. He plans to go directly to the city to a private residence at the Stanfield Hotel.” He recited the details like a sycophant hoping to get into her good graces.
“And?”
“He’ll be bringing a very special item with him.”
The man is maniacal. Rebecca listened to the elation that now filled his voice, replacing the hatred of just moments before. She glanced at Lior, who was still stone-faced, his energy as focused as a laser splitting open a diamond.
“At least the money we paid your associate was well spent,” Alexandra told her stepson.
“Yes, it was.”
“What do you plan to do next?” she asked like a teacher leading a small child to the right conclusion.
“Why to pay him a visit, of course.”
“Good. Let me know when our business is done.” She ended the exchange.
Yuri shot another look at Rebecca, who shook her head no.
“Lior? Lior?” she called his name, bringing him back to the present. “We should get this information to Elan as soon as possible,” she said, thinking of their section head in Tel Aviv and his private instructions to her about this mission.
He’d taken her aside before he left New York and told her to shadow Lior’s reports of the team’s activities with those of her own. They were to be sent directly to him. The tacit understanding was that she was not to mention his directive to Lior. She’d wondered about it at the time but hadn’t questioned her superior, who hadn’t felt the need to explain himself. Rebecca knew that Tel Aviv wasn’t happy with the stunt Lior pulled at the Delrusse gallery. They felt it was a rogue move, dangerous and unnecessary. She was beginning to realize that there was much more involved with this mission than she’d been led to believe. And it all seemed to revolve around the man in front of her. “Lior,” she called again, to the figure who was still sitting silently, deep in thought. “Elan will want to hear this.” She chose her next words carefully. “So he can decide how to proceed.”
Lior rose from the table and moved around the room, stopping at the window. He placed his hands on the frame and leaned his long, wiry body toward the panes of glass, which reflected his image in shimmering waves. He stood that way for several minutes, gazing outside into the early afternoon sunlight. Rebecca let out a small, hopeful sigh. Good, I’ve gotten through to him; he’s considering what I said. Then, he turned and looked at her, and she knew she was terribly mistaken.
His eyes held her in place like nails on the lid of a coffin. “No, Rebecca,” he shook his head slowly and deliberately. “Not on your life.”
Without realizing it, her hand slid protectively over her stomach as his words sunk in. The icy shard had returned, stronger and more insistent than ever.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Upper East Side
New York City
Laurel was draped across her overstuffed living room couch, the lights dim, the glow from the flat screen TV coloring her face with flickering shadows. Every ten seconds or so, she’d press the remote’s last channel button, surfing between the Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson and Late Night with Jimmy Kimmel. Brad Pitt was the featured guest on one, Bruce Willis on the other. Both were promoting their latest films, a psychodrama and a shoot ’em up action flick.
She sighed and hit the button again. Laurel had spent the last several hours waiting for Aaron to come to his senses and call her back. TV had been a last resort in trying to lower the tension level a notch and distract her from reliving her lunch with Monica and her disagreement with Aaron.
Laurel looked back up at the screen. Brad was showing that killer smile. A flick of the button and she caught Bruce giving Kimmel his famous action hero sneer. How do I choose? Laurel mused, pushing thoughts of Aaron to the back of her mind as she cruised back and forth between these two hot-bodied, handsome hunks. Blond or bald? Washboard abs or bulging biceps? She tucked a stray wisp of silky dark hair back into the scrunchie that held her ponytail and tugged at the bottom of the old, comfortable tee shirt she’d tossed on as pajamas. I’m sure either of them would run right over in a heartbeat if he saw me now, she told herself. Or, maybe run the other way, her meaner, inner voice taunted.
Both stations went to a commercial break, and Laurel took the opportunity to head for the kitchen and rummage around in the fridge. Gathering up an apple, a jar of peanut butter, and a knife, she made it back just in time to hear Bruce telling Kimmel how he and Demi were still such good friends and how much he liked her new, younger husband Ashton Kutcher. Yeah, I’ll just bet, smirked Laurel slathering peanut butter onto a slice of apple and popping it into her mouth. No one likes to be replaced by a younger model, not even Bruce Willis.
Actually no one likes to be replaced period. She flashed on Aaron. It was nearly 1:30 in the morning, and he still hadn’t called. They’d spoken briefly after her lunch with Monica and that conversation had morphed into an argument in record time. Laurel felt it was more of a debriefing than a conversation and told Aaron to back off. He told her he was only trying to do his job and protect her friend. What was that supposed to mean, she’d asked. Nothing, he’d answered and told her he’d call her later.
Well, it was later and still no Aaron. She didn’t understand what was going on between them—why their relationship always seemed to be so adversarial. She had had plenty of disagreements with her dad—it was how their relationship worked—and even with former boyfriends. But somehow, this was different. She thought she was falling in love with Aaron and that it was mutual, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe it would all be over before it really even started. Laurel picked up the remote and turned off the set. The screen went blank. Now, if only her mind would do the same.
* * *
The phone shrilled, startling her awake, causing her to drop the jar of peanut butter that rested on her lap. The last thing Laurel remembered was staring at the blank TV screen, trying not to think of Aaron. How long have I been dozing? she wondered as the phone rang again. She shook herself awake and stumbled to answer it. The clock on the cable box flashed 4:03, and her stomach lurched. Oh my God. Fear made her heart beat faster. Aaron would never call her at this hour. No one who knew her well would. The last time her phone had rung before dawn, portended the worst day of her life, the day she lost her mother. Dad. The thought immediately flashed through her mind. Something must be wrong. She snatched at the phone with trembling fingers. “Hello,” she said shakily. “Dad?” She could barely get the word out.
“Laurel?” the voice came to her in a burst. It was a woman. Not her father.
“Laurel, sono Caterina. Caterina Toscana, from Florence.”
Laurel let out a sigh of relief. “Caterina?” Confusion and anxiety colored her voice. She glanced at the clock and took a breath. “Caterina, I’m sorry. It’s four in the morning here and I was … sleeping.” Alone, in front of the TV. She shook her head. But I’ll keep that to myself.
“I am sorry to call you so early, but I am leaving in a few minutes for a flight to Sicily. I have to go to pick up some things for the gallery and could not wait any longer. I will be very busy while I am there and I will not be back in Florence for a few days. I thought I should speak with you now.”
Laurel was listening, trying to bring her brain around to what Caterina was saying. “Speak to me?” Uncertainty filled her voice.
“Yes. I have information to share with you. About the pin.”
“The pin?” Laurel pulled herself up. I must sound like an idiot, repeating everything Caterina is saying.
“Si. Yes.” If Caterina sensed Laurel was acting strange, she didn’t let on. “The lapel pin you saw amongst Freddy’s things at the Questura—the police station.’”
“Oh my God, the pin Sargasso was wearing.” An image of the small shield with its black cross and scrolled, lettered banner filled her mind. “You found out what
it means, didn’t you?” Her heart pounded again, this time with a rush of expectation.
Caterina took her time answering. “Yes, I did, and it is not good.”
Laurel thought of Caterina, thousands of miles away in Italy, and shuddered. “Are you—did you do something to put yourself in danger?”
“No, no, don’t worry about me. The person who helped me discover il significanto, ‘the significance of the pin,’ is very discreet. I am fine, davero, ‘really.’ ” She paused. “But, I am afraid it is, how would you say, worse than we imagined.”
Laurel’s mind was filled with questions. She tamped them down and let her friend continue.
“This pin is the symbol of a very ancient, very exclusive society, La Società della Croce Nero, The Society of the Black Cross. One that dates back to the fifteen hundreds. Its founder was Ludivico Alonzo D’Abruzzi, a wealthy Duca and distant relative of the Medicis. From what I have learned, the Duke was an avid art collector, allora, well, more than that, who coveted the Medici’s enormous collection of art and antiquities. S’fortunata, there were many others who thought the same way and gravitated toward him. They seemed to have banded together to form this society, a club, dedicated to acquiring the art they coveted. Their methods were unorthodox, even for the times they lived in. Ludivico had a grand villa near Volterra, which the Florentines ruled at that time. It seems that he and his friends were not beyond recruiting assassini to help with acquisitions. Those noblemen who were not willing to part with their collections were often accused of crimes and executed, or simply eliminated, and their families were forced to sell their possessions to survive. Ludivico and his amici amassed many, many works of art. When he died, by the hand of one of his own collaborators, the society went underground to protect itself. The members created the pin you saw so they would recognize each other easily. The letters in the scroll are SdCN and stand for its name. It seems that it has survived the centuries, but of course, changed with the times.”
“Become more aggressive?” Laurel thought of Fredericka Bellabocca’s death.
“Esattamente,” said Caterina.
“But how does Sargasso fit in? How could he have become a member?”
Caterina hesitated for a moment. “The Society is not merely in Florence anymore.” She snorted in disgust. “They are worldwide, so I have been told. They are still very exclusive and with not too many members. Yet, every so often new people are accepted if they are sponsored by an existing member.”
“So Sargasso had a sponsor? Someone who brought him in?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he did. An American.”
“Tell me his name, “Laurel demanded.
And Caterina did.
* * *
Laurel looked at the name she’d written on her notepad. The name Caterina had risked her safety to acquire. It didn’t make sense. How could he have sponsored Sargasso? It was crazy. What was going on and what did he hope to gain?
Laurel ached to share this information with Aaron but held herself back. Maybe it was anger, maybe pride, but she wanted to confront this Society member on her own and demand to know why he’d been helping a man he should have been hunting.
Was she being foolish? She knew that the Society’s members were ruthless, capable of anything, even murder. But she didn’t think this man would condone that level of violence. From what she’d heard, he was a follower, not a leader. She was sure she could handle him without being harmed.
No, she wouldn’t tell Aaron. Or Helen. Not yet, anyway. First, she’d go to the source and find out the truth. Then, like Salome, she’d present Aaron with his head on a silver platter.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Stanfield Hotel
New York City
The Stanfield was gorgeous. Helen and Joe entered the hotel’s newly refurbished lobby, and she turned in a circle to take it all in. The architect who’d done the renovation had completed the job with style and taste. He, or she, had known to leave the touches that made the property unique— like the highly polished black and white marble floor in the reception area—and to update the rest with softer shapes, bold splashes of color, and an eclectic mix of modern and period pieces that drew on the hotel’s heritage. Helen had read that the Stanfield had been one of the first New York City luxury hotels to command over two hundred dollars a night for a room. Now, if the guest rooms looked anywhere near as good as the lobby, the prices would go through the stratosphere.
Joe took Helen’s arm and steered her toward the Garden L’Asia, the Stanfield’s new tearoom. His downcast eyes and schlumpy posture did not presage a good time. Helen took pity on him and changed course, moving to the bar instead. The surprise on his face was worth the detour.
They entered the room, softly lit with Dale Chihuly handblown glass lamps. Joe took Helen’s hand and headed right for the corner seats at the far end of the bar, where they could see the entrance and whole room, which they had to themselves. She knew he liked to sit facing the door so he could see who was coming and going.
Joe settled Helen into one of the comfortable looking high-back bar chairs. Then he plopped himself down at the sleek brushed steel and black lacquered wood bar with a satisfied sigh. With a wave of his hand and lift of his eyebrow, he signaled to the bartender, sat back, and smiled happily. “You are a goddess amongst women.” He took her hand and raised it to his lips.
“Yes, thank you. I know,” she replied haughtily. “And you are a prince. One who absolutely deserves something stronger than tea for all his good work.” Her expression turned serious. “Thanks, Joe. I mean it.”
He had been about to respond when the young, handsome bartender approached. He had the high cheekbones, square jaw, and sea-green eyes that transformed merely good-looking into model perfect. His uniform was an expertly tailored black suit, the same as all the hotel staff were wearing. He looked especially good in his, and Helen made him for a model or an actor working the bar to supplement his income. “What can I get for you folks?”
“Give my friend a double shot of that lovely Louis the Fourteenth Cognac.” Helen gestured to the shimmering crystal bottle on the bar’s back shelf.
“Of course.” The bartender’s smile widened. Probably thinking of the tip that would accompany that hefty tab. Helen laughed to herself. He didn’t know the half of it. “And for you?”
“I’ll have a glass of your finest Chardonnay, with a little information on the side.” She slipped three one hundred dollar bills onto the bar.
His eyes narrowed at the sight of the cash. “Right away.” He went to pour their drinks.
Joe bent toward her and whispered. “What the hell are you doing? That’s not very subtle. Even for you.” He shook his head.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to ask him about you know who. Just about the hotel renovation and the new services they offer.” She stopped talking as the bartender returned to their end of the bar with their drinks.
“Chardonnay for the lady and a double Louis the fourteenth for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Jean-Paul.” Helen read the young man’s name from the plaque he wore over his jacket pocket. She leaned in closer and spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I didn’t mean to sound so dramatic before, but I’m on assignment for a well-known travel magazine. I’m doing a story on hotels that are pushing the limits on the luxury services they offer to their extra special VIP guests. And, I’m not talking about theater tickets for sold-out Broadway shows or terry robes and slippers.” She dropped her voice even lower. “Your manager, Mr. Bevacqua, has been less than cooperative, so I thought …” She raised her eyebrows and let the last of her words trail off, hoping to prompt a reply. She didn’t have to wait long.
“Mr. Bevacqua is very circumspect. He would totally disapprove of us gossiping or talking to the press without his permission.” Jean-Paul glanced down at the money on the bar, obviously torn between discretion and making the rent.
“He’d never have to know. I don’t reveal my source
s.” She put her thumb and index fingers in front of her mouth and turned them as if locking it shut with a key. She managed not to wince as her hokey display prompted Joe to kick her in the shin.
“I just want to know what the big guns can expect when they check in—aside from a thousand dollar per night tab.” She looked at him questioningly.
“Are you sure Mr. Bevacqua won’t find out?”
“Absolutely. You have my word.” Helen meant it. She’d never spoken with the hotel’s manager and never would. She’d found his name on the website.
“Honestly?” Jean-Paul leaned in closer and deftly swept the bills off the bar and tucked them into his pocket. “There really isn’t much to tell. We have started a new service program since the hotel reopened, just for the elite, VIP guests. They have their own wing in the town houses attached to the hotel on Eighty-first Street. Most people don’t know that we own them.” He looked toward the back of the hotel and raised his eyebrows. “I’m pretty sure that’s intentional. The hotel has six private residences there, one in each of the six houses. Our guests enter from the colonnade that borders the garden out back or from the front of each house, depending on how private they want to be.” Helen nodded, encouraging him to continue. “The hotel offers the option of having a celebrity chef come in and cook dinner every evening. You know, guys like Mario Batali or Bobby Flay or Keith McNally. The chefs prefer that we don’t publicize it.” He shrugged again. “I guess they’d rather that the VIPs went to their restaurants.”