by Liz Grzyb
* * *
The Villa de Glorian was, indeed, spectacular. Duke Frederico de Glorian, directly descended from the Medici family, had spared no expense in the upkeep of his private domain in the hills outside Florence. But Brunelli was too busy scanning her sensors for Josephina-Jocetta’s location to notice the magnificent baroque architecture, the flowing pools and cascading fountains, or the acres of manicured grounds with their marble sculptures as the chauffeur navigated the long driveway to the palatial house. The car rolled to standstill before a magnificently colonnaded portico, and a liveried doorman was waiting to escort Brunelli directly to the Duchess’ private rooms.
Francesca de Glorian, stylishly dressed as always, was today wearing a perfectly tailored navy cashmere suit over a discreetly patterned gold silk blouse. She rose from her tapestried armchair as Brunelli was shown into the magnificent sitting room, where elegantly carved furniture was carefully placed on exquisite Persian carpets, and Caravaggio’s Medusa had pride of place over a carved Carrera marble fireplace. The sitting room was perfumed by a stylish arrangement of white lilies and trailing greenery in a crystal vase, set casually atop a frescoed plinth of ancient Roman design.
“Brunelli,” Francesca said. “You’ve made good time. I trust your journey was suitably uneventful?”
Brunelli smiled. “Perfectly uneventful, thank you,” she said.
“Let’s sit,” said Francesca. “Tea?”
“Yes,” Brunelli said, settling into an armchair across from the one Francesca had resumed. “I’m parched.”
The Duchess rang the bell. “Shall we get down to the business at hand?” she said.
“That’s what I’m here for. Do you have the ransom demand?”
Francesca slid a sheet of paper from under a magazine on the low rosewood coffee table that stood between the chairs. “Here,” she said. “Tell me what you think.”
Brunelli glanced at the crudely executed note, a deliberate pastiche of cut-out letters pasted onto an ordinary sheet of commercial writing paper.
“Your coffee or your daughter,” it read. “If you want to see her again, get your goons away from that crop. Do it now. Our operative will contact you with further instructions.”
“It’s the fire-boys,” Brunelli said flatly. “It must be. This isn’t an amateur job. They’ve tried to make it look rough, but I don’t buy it. They must have paid highly professional kidnappers for this.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Francesca said. “No amateur would have the wherewithal to harvest the crop and complete the distribution. It’s a tricky business.”
A maid knocked, and Francesca paused while tea was delivered—the silver tea service, delicately patterned bone china, and a tiered stand of tiny sandwiches and cakes were all carefully arranged on a heavy rosewood tray.
“Thank you, Maria,” she said. “I’ll pour.”
“Very good, m’lady.”
When the door closed behind the maid, Francesca passed Brunelli a photo of Josephina-Jocetta, holding up a copy of this morning’s newspaper. Jo Jo’s blonde curls were messy, but her blue eyes were clear enough, and she appeared unharmed.
“This came with the note,” Francesca said.
Brunelli turned the photo over in her strong fingers. “This is old fashioned Polaroid,” she said. “I thought those cameras were extinct. The kidnappers are making sure we don’t have any electronic transmissions to trace.”
“True. But at least Jo Jo looks alright.”
“Do you know where they snatched her?”
“Shopping precinct,” Francesca replied. “She was lured into a changing booth at the Valentino store. Her bodyguard was killed.”
“Poor Carmela,” said Brunelli. “She was a good operative.”
“Not good enough, obviously,” Francesca said sharply.
“I guess not.”
Francesca sighed. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s been a difficult morning.” She passed Brunelli a steaming cup of rare Orange Pekoe tea. “Can you find Jo Jo, Brunelli?”
“Already tracking her,” Brunelli replied. She sipped at her tea, inhaling the fragrant steam. “It’s good to be back in civilisation,” she said. She looked at the photo again. “I take it nobody except ourselves knows about Jo Jo’s neo-natal microchip?”
“Of course not,” said Francesca. “Jo Jo doesn’t know the implant is there, and it won’t show up on a scan. I’ve never even told Frederico. Any slip would compromise our security.”
“Quite so,” said Brunelli. “In that case, I can trust my readings.” Her eyes were slightly unfocussed as she checked the data streaming across her implanted lenses. “Your daughter hasn’t been taken out of the City,” she said at last. “The signal is low-res, but I can find her.”
“Good,” said Francesca. “I’ll provide anything you need, Brunelli. Anything at all.”
“Actually,” Brunelli said, “what I most need at the moment is some infant formula.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Brunelli unzipped her leather jacket.
A tiny head popped out, and the baby capuchin blinked in the light.
“Oh,” said Francesca. She reached out. “May I hold it?”
“His name’s Raffi,” Brunelli said, “The crew named him after the reporter.” She lifted out the tiny capuchin, still warm and fuzzy from sleep.
“He’s gorgeous,” Francesca said, gently stroking the baby. “I take it you rescued him?”
“Had to,” said Brunelli. “Those fire-bombing bastards are wiping out the forest—this little one had already lost his mother before he lost his hiding place.”
“Is there visual footage?”
“Yes,” said Brunelli. “It’s just come in—excellent coverage. Totaro’s work is as good as he promised it would be.”
“In that case, I know exactly how to deal with the relevant President on this matter,” Francesca said firmly. “You can leave little Raffi with me,” she added. “I’ll see he’s cleaned up and properly fed. He’ll be well taken care of.”
“He needs to feel a heartbeat,” Brunelli warned. “He’ll be frantic without close contact.”
Francesca smiled. “No problem with that,” she said. “My staff will be queuing up to cuddle him.”
“Good,” said Brunelli. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get Jo Jo.”
“You’ve found her?”
“Just got a definite fix,” Brunelli said. “The signal’s a bit weak—she’s in a shielded room. But yes, I’ve got her location now. I’m sending you the co-ordinates.”
“Much appreciated.”
“And may I borrow Dominic?” Brunelli asked.
“Of course. My car is at your disposal.”
“Thanks. I’ll need to get Jo Jo away with a minimum of fuss. And it won’t hurt to have an armoured car if things get difficult.”
Francesca nodded, well aware of the risks. “I’ll arrange a media crew,” she said calmly. “For after the event, of course.”
“Mr Totaro is still in Florence,” Brunelli said. “He’ll be amenable to your wishes. He needs a scoop.”
“Done,” said Francesca. “Do I still have his contact number? I’ll need his bank details too.”
“Copying you now,” said Brunelli. “And it’d be best to hold the media conference here at home, where Jo Jo can feel safe. She’ll need to be briefed before she says anything to the press.”
“Quite right,” said Francesca. “She will need to rest.” She stroked the baby capuchin, now happily nestled against the lapel of her cashmere jacket. “And I’ll need to do some hard negotiating beforehand,” she added. “I will not be held to ransom by people who think they can threaten my family—or people who think they can murder the world’s precious wildlife with impunity.”
* * *
Jo Jo cringed further back against the wall when her prison door opened again, this time to admit a thin, black-clad man wearing a balaclava mask.
“Right, little lady,” he said. He gr
abbed her and hauled her to her feet. “One more publicity shot. Hold this.”
This time, Jo Jo did not resist. She held up the note obediently, squinting as the camera flashed once more.
* * *
Brunelli was just leaving Francesca’s sitting room when the maid tapped again at the door.
“I thought you’d want to see this, my lady,” she said. “It’s marked urgent.” She held out a silver tray bearing an envelope.
“Thank you, Maria,” the duchess replied.
“I’ll take it,” said Brunelli. She held her left hand over the paper while she concentrated on her retinal displays. “No explosives,” she said. “It’s safe to open it.”
“Go ahead,” Francesca said drily. “Let’s see what they want now.”
Brunelli tipped out a second old-fashioned Polaroid print. “No surprise here,” she said. “They want proof that our rainforest protection crew has withdrawn. And rather a lot of money for Jo Jo’s release.”
“I knew they’d want cash.” Francesca stared at the print. “Jo Jo still looks alright,” she said. “That’s a relief.”
“I’ll need the bag.”
Francesca gestured to the sideboard. “I brought it with me. It was in my private safe.” She caught Brunelli’s expression. “Don’t worry,” she added. “I wore gloves.”
Brunelli nodded. She opened her kitbag and eased her hands into protective gauntlets before she picked up the rather ordinary-looking black holdall. “I’ll take it from here,” she said.
“Good luck,” said Francesca.
Brunelli smiled. “I’ll be discreet. I’ll have Jo Jo home before you know it.”
She did not look back as she strode from the room.
* * *
An hour or so later, the door of Jo Jo’s prison closet was once again flung open. She looked up, fearful for her life, and saw a huge figure silhouetted against the light.
Brunelli had come.
Jo Jo stared in astonishment. Beyond the doorway, one of her kidnappers lay, unconscious, on the bare floorboards of what appeared to be a clothier’s storeroom. The other kidnapper, the man in the turtleneck sweater, was fighting for his life.
“Give it up,” Brunelli said. “You’ll only get hurt.”
For answer, the man lunged at her with a knife.
Brunelli reacted in a blur of movement. The knife went spinning across the floorboards. The kidnapper collapsed to his knees, nursing his newly broken arm.
Brunelli patted her dark curls into place. She hadn’t even raised a sweat. She stepped casually over her fallen assailant, and took off her gauntlet to help Jo Jo to her feet. “Hello, Princess,” she said. “Your mother was worried about you. Are you okay?”
Jo Jo just nodded.
“Sorry I took so long to get here,” Brunelli said. “I was in South America.”
“Oh,” said Jo Jo.
A look of appalled understanding crossed the face of the man with the broken arm. “I knew this would be a bad job,” he muttered.
“There’s another one,” Jo Jo said.
“I know. There always is,” said Brunelli. She whirled around, catching the third man off guard as he attempted to creep up behind her. She grabbed him and pinned him to the wall, holding one arm across his windpipe. “You’ll have to do better than that,” she said. “Like I told your friends, it’s not worth your while to fight me.”
“I’ll kill the girl,” the man grated. “Her pallet is wired with explosives.”
“Sure it is,” Brunelli said equably, checking her scanners. “I can see that. But there’s no need for anything so dramatic—I’ve brought your money. Just let the girl go. Then maybe we can all walk out of here alive.”
The man eyed Brunelli suspiciously. “Why would you do that?”
“The Duchess de Glorian is a reasonable woman,” Brunelli said. “My instructions are to offer you the ransom money in return for your immediate departure. Which means,” she added, “you take the cash and you don’t come back.”
“And if we don’t agree?”
“I’ll kill you.” Brunelli was matter-of-fact. “No need to worry about your employers,” she said. “They are being taken care of as we speak. They won’t be needing your services again.”
“How did you find us?”
“I have my sources,” Brunelli said. “You picked the wrong people to meddle with this time—the de Glorian family is powerful beyond anything you can imagine. I’m offering you a cash settlement. Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” the assailant said. “What choice do I have?”
“None at all,” said Brunelli. She slowly lowered her arm, and pointed across the room. “The money’s in the bag. Count it, if you like.”
The man massaged his throat. “I’ll do that,” he said.
Brunelli reached out and took Jo Jo by the hand, pulling her into the room. “Cover your nose and mouth,” she whispered. “And when I say run, you sprint for the door.”
For once, Jo Jo didn’t argue. She pulled up the collar of her coat.
The kidnapper, barehanded, unzipped the black holdall and pulled out a wad of banknotes. He began counting. Seconds later, he looked down blankly at the blistering flesh of his fingers. And then he screamed.
“Run!” said Brunelli.
Jo Jo ran.
Brunelli followed, wedging the storeroom door shut. Behind her, wisps of toxic fumes were already escaping. The kidnapper was still screaming.
The limousine was waiting by the front door, its engine idling. Brunelli bundled Jo Jo inside. “Drive, Dominic,” she said. “Fast as you can. This might get ugly.”
Dominic gunned the engine. “My pleasure, Captain Brunelli,” he said, accelerating down the cobbled lane and straight across a crowded intersection. He ignored the horn blasts of outraged motorists. “I take it the mission was successful?”
“Completely,” said Brunelli. She settled back. She was messaging Francesca when a huge explosion rocked the armoured car. She checked the rear-view mirror, watching as a city warehouse went up in flames.
* * *
“Mother!” Jo Jo dashed up the steps to where Francesca was waiting.
The Duchess hugged her daughter. “Are you sure you’re all right, darling?”
“I’m fine, now,” said Jo Jo. “Thanks to Brunelli.”
“My pleasure, Princess,” said Brunelli.
“Then let’s get you upstairs, Jo Jo,” Francesca said. “You’ll want a hot bath.”
“And tea, and toast,” said Jo Jo. “I’m starving.”
“I’ll have cook send up a tray.”
* * *
While Jo Jo was recovering, Brunelli retrieved the tiny capuchin and joined Francesca once more in the Duchess’ sitting room. A fresh pot of tea was waiting, and this time there was also a plate of freshly baked cinnamon cake.
“It’s a pity about the fire,” Brunelli said, gently stroking the baby monkey. “Those idiots had wired up explosives in their hiding place. The ringleader must have detonated them, thrashing about before he died.”
“It can’t be helped,” Francesca said. “Unfortunate for the neighbours, but there it is.”
“What’s next?” Brunelli asked. She took a bite from her slice of cake. “This is very good.”
“Glad you like it,” said Francesca. “I’ve spoken to the South American President. The President has not forgotten the significant contribution the de Glorian family made to ensure his election. The President wishes to retain his position: he would prefer to avoid the scandal that would erupt should his government be linked to the illegal activities of the fire-boys.”
Brunelli smiled gravely. “I see,” she said. “And Duke Frederico?”
“My husband is, of course, a board member of all the appropriate international financial institutions. The illegal meat producers will be bankrupt by tomorrow.”
“Of course.” Brunelli harboured no illusions about the way in which the rest of this game would be played out.
Francesca’s expression was completely bland. “I have assured the President that the de Glorian coffee consortium will contribute an additional two billion eco-credits to the wildlife conservation trust, for the preservation of bio-diversity in the area concerned,” she said.
Brunelli whistled. “That’s huge,” she said, understanding at once that this would automatically buy the right to retain the de Glorian plantations: there was no other wildlife left alive to protect anywhere else in the region. “May I ask . . . ?”
“Frederico has agreed to shut down our last remaining coal-fired power station,” Francesca said. “It’s the only thing we can trade to return so many eco-credits so quickly. The new arrangements will be enormously beneficial for our ailing planet.” She sipped her tea for a moment. “Besides,” she added, “I have been aware for some time that a switch to solar powered hydroponics will be a much more lucrative venture—cheap solar power has significantly reduced our profit margins: the electricity market is seriously oversupplied.”
“So saving the monkeys is good for business,” Brunelli said.
“Precisely,” said Francesca.
Brunelli thought for a moment. “But if you’ll have a new hydroponic facility, why bother with the plantation at all?” she asked.
Francesca shrugged. “It’s one of the few really viable coffee crops left on earth,” she said softly. “Our current scientific trial is proving successful. Now that we have the coffee genome, we are improving our stock: imagine, Brunelli—we’ve identified twenty-five thousand coffee genes! We know which genes go to make caffeine. We’re already looking at hybrid cultivation. Hydroponics is all very well for tomatoes, or melons, or runner beans,” she said. “But coffee . . . Ah, coffee needs a special environment. It’s worth the trouble. It’s worth the expense.”
“Agreed,” said Brunelli. “A world without coffee is simply unthinkable.”
“Exactly,” said Francesca. “Frederico would be terribly distressed without his morning coffee.” She almost smiled. “I’m also planning a new plantation,” she added. “The President has offered me another site.”