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  It was 1:15 a.m. when she let herself into the silent apartment. Cesare and Joe had left a lamp on for her. She nearly popped a blood vessel when Joe said, with heavy sarcasm, “Did you really have to spend the whole night with him?”

  Chapter 20

  Her spirit, already dragging on the floor, took another blow. Why was Joe still awake? What business was it of his how late she stayed out? She dropped the beach bag onto the apartment’s small dining room table and stared at him, the room silent but vibrating with sudden tension.

  He rose from the sofa, half a room away, and stared back, still fully dressed in tan slacks and a pale blue shirt. The light from the floor lamp struck him from behind. She couldn’t see his face to read his expression.

  “I’m tired.” She pulled the still damp swimsuit out of the bag. “It’s been a long evening.”

  “Night,” he countered. “A long night. It’s after one o’clock.”

  She straightened. “Are you my mother?”

  She moved toward her bedroom. He rushed the distance between them and took hold of her arm tightly enough that it hurt. She could smell wine or beer on his breath. Maybe something stronger. He said, “I was worried sick about you.”

  She stared at his hand. He let go.

  She could see his face now, but what she thought she saw in those big brown eyes wasn’t worry. It was anger. “You must be kidding. I went dancing with him. It must have been evident to you that he’d bought my cover. Right? So what’s to worry about?”

  “Oh yeah. His interest was very evident. The guy must be some good kisser.”

  “How in hell could you tell that?”

  Nothing.

  “How?”

  His bunched shoulders slumped. “Okay, so I couldn’t.”

  “You sure couldn’t. I’ve kissed a lot of toads for the Company.”

  “I still worry.”

  “What? That I’d blow my cover after a few drinks? I don’t believe you think that for a minute, so I don’t know what you’re so pissed about.”

  She started again for the bedroom. Again he took her arm, but gently this time. “I don’t like it when you…I hate it when you….” Suddenly angry again, he thrust her arm away. “Why the hell, Nova, do you keep doing this stuff?”

  She turned on him full face and shoved him in the chest with both hands. “How in God’s green earth do you get off questioning me for working for the Company? I didn’t want to be here in the first place.”

  Only moments ago, she’d wanted to melt into Fabiano Greco and let all of her concerns disappear. “In Costa Rica, I was getting my balance back. I was starting to think about normal things. Like how it would be something special to get married to some guy who loves me and have a couple of kids with him. Invite the neighbors over to dinner. Go on camping vacations where we take only cameras, no guns. You’re the one who dragged me into this.”

  He jabbed both fists into the air as if totally frustrated by a disobedient, willful child and spun away from her.

  “What is wrong with you?” she said. Was he jealous? Ridiculous!

  He walked to the sofa and dropped onto it like a man defeated. “Yeah. A family and kids would be great. Better than great. Wonderful. You probably think I’ve never given it a thought. But I have, and I agree that they don’t mix with this life. But we make it possible for other people to have that life.”

  She took a few steps toward him. “If it makes you feel any better, when this op is over, I’m outta here. This is my last. I’m going to go find a normal life. But for now, let’s concentrate on Ebola. Did you get into the safe okay?”

  “Yes. I’ve got photos of all papers, but there was no laptop. No disks. Nothing else to copy.” Not looking at her, staring at his shoe tips.

  So maybe that was it. Displaced disappointment because he suspected Greco might not be Lynchpin. She stepped still closer. He seemed to get a grip on his dejection. He straightened his back, crossed his legs, looked at her again and offered a small grin. “Lots of cash, dollars and euros. Three expensive watches and cuff links set with what look like very costly stones.”

  She sighed, disappointed too. “I’m bushed. I’m going to bed. I need some rest.”

  He stood and walked to her and to her surprise, pulled her into his arms in a friendly—just friendly—hug. The smell of alcohol was still there, but this close she also smelled his body odor. She liked Joe’s smell, even when he was all sweaty. Other men’s perspiration often repelled her, but not Joe’s.

  He turned her around and aimed them both down the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  “My private life isn’t your business,” she said.

  “I know.”

  Her door came first. She walked into the room. Joe leaned in with one last question. “Was he a toad?”

  “No. He wasn’t.”

  Chapter 21

  “Too bad he’s not our guy,” she announced to Joe the next morning at breakfast.

  “Nothing is ever simple, is it? Where’s Cesare?”

  “Out walking Principessa. I love that dog. When I woke up, she was sleeping with me instead of Cesare. I think it would have hurt his feelings. Fortunately, he was still asleep so I returned her. He’ll never be the wiser. Coffee’s ready.”

  “Right. Smell got me up.”

  He rummaged through the fridge. “What time is it?”

  She checked the microwave clock. “Nine-thirty. You can’t call Sorokin until at least ten o’clock when his office opens.”

  “Right.”

  At ten o’clock, Cesare returned. Nova informed him that Greco was clean, at least as far as being the seller of Ebola virus information. Cesare checked in with Provenza.

  Nova said, “Ask him whether anyone has found the electrician informant who knows who Lynchpin is.”

  When he had hung up, Cesare said, “No leads from the CIA yet, but Interpol says the man’s neighbors claim the electrician and his sister were going to the Caribbean. So along with Interpol, SISMI has diverted as many resources as they can spare to contacting every tour to that region leaving from Italy, as well as contacting every major tourist hotel destination from Freeport in the Bahamas to Grenada in the Lesser Antilles. Needless to say, that’s an impressively long list to cover.”

  “Okay,” she said to Joe. “It’s time for you to hit up our target B.”

  Joe punched in Sorokin’s number at the office of his import/export company in Ravello. The secretary informed him that Signore Sorokin was out of the office and not expected to return until after two o’clock that afternoon.

  Nova said, “No moping. I want to go swimming again.”

  Cesare started extracting items from the refrigerator. He had become their de facto cook, another something at which he excelled.

  Joe said, “I want to go parasailing again.”

  “We can do both,” she agreed. “Let’s hope we get Sorokin at two o’clock.”

  Joe started to have a second cup of coffee.

  She said, “First, before we swim, let’s get cappuccino.”

  He grinned and returned the pot to its warming stand. “Fine. But we can’t kill the whole day only with cappuccino and swimming.”

  She moved the beach bag to the kitchen counter pass-through and took out her camera. “For our cover, we should take photos of houses and stuff—do a big public shoot at the cathedral. But then, this morning I woke with a new itch. This coast, in fact, has some of the most breathtaking vistas I’ve ever seen. I’m thinking of maybe starting a genuine photo project along the lines of ‘the ten most beautiful coasts in the world.’ I already have a set of shots along Australia’s southern coast that will be perfect. They take your breath away.”

  “I would buy such a book,” Cesare said.

  She walked around the counter into the kitchen and gave him a hug. “You are one of the most positive people I have ever met. I simply can’t think of you as an agent, as part of the intelligence world.”

  “Ah, yes.” His s
mile lit up his face. “Did I not tell you from the beginning? That’s my greatest asset.”

  After Cesare’s brunch, she and Joe drove the SUV into Amalfi to the Piazza del Duomo—Joe driving—and found a seat outside a café so they could watch the tourists streaming into and out of the Cathedral of Sant’Andrea. Afterward, she spent forty minutes photographing the cathedral, concentrating on the portico and the bronze door, Joe lugging the camera bag and changing lenses like a pro. Actually, he now qualified, in her view, as a first-rate photographer’s assistant.

  By the time they had finished checking out the old Capuchin monastery’s beautiful cloister and view, it was slightly after two o’clock.

  They picked a quiet spot on the hotel’s terrace and Joe again called Sorokin. He quickly nodded his head and grinned at Nova.

  “Yes, Mr. Sorokin. I’m a friend of an American who has moved back to the U.S. He owns a Ferrari Berlinetta Lusso. He didn’t want to ship it over. He wants to sell it. Cesare Giordano, who once decorated your home, told me that you like classic Ferraris.”

  A bit of silence as Joe listened.

  “Yes, sterling condition. He’s asking only 310,000 euros. I would be glad to show it to you. Take you for a drive. Let you drive it, if you’d like. I’m staying in Positano right now. I’d be glad to pick you up at your home.”

  Pause. She realized she was holding her breath. She let it out and drew in a deep one.

  “Well, tomorrow would be ideal for me.”

  From the Sorokin file, she knew their family schedules. His wife attended some class every afternoon of the week. Monday yoga. Tuesday painting. Today, being Saturday, she should be having lunch and then shopping with her closest friend. Tomorrow, Sunday, was her spa afternoon. Nova had more than once thought how great it would be to have such a life of leisure that every Sunday afternoon you could go to a spa, work out, have a facial and pedicure, and get an hour-long massage. What a life.

  Their ten-year-old daughter, under the constant care of a tutor who doubled as a chaperone, had an equally busy schedule. When the girl wasn’t in school she was off to riding, ballet or flute lessons. Tomorrow, Sunday, she would be riding. Sunday would be a fine day for their op.

  Nova nodded her head, grinned at Joe and gave him a thumbs-up.

  “Oh, really. Then perhaps Monday would be better for you?” Long pause. “Well, fine. Tomorrow, then. I’ll pick you up promptly.”

  When he got off the phone, she said, “What’s this about trying to shift to Monday? Tomorrow is perfect.”

  “Not so perfect. Not impossible, but the mom and daughter will be at home. I still think it has to be a go.”

  “What!”

  “Sorokin’s delighted to have an excuse to get away because his wife is throwing a birthday party for the girl and fifty of her friends. They will be out of the house, though, on their big front lawn. You can still get in and have the run of the place, although we’ll have to check whether they’ll provide a restroom cabana outside or not.”

  “I don’t like it.”

  A sudden jolt of the floor caused her to step backward and fling out her arm. It was followed by two more slight tremors.

  “Quake,” Joe said. “The volcano god reminds us of his presence.”

  Being from California, quakes, especially little ones, barely registered with her. “Why not Monday?”

  “He made clear that if it wasn’t tomorrow, he would be away until next Thursday. Thursday is too long to wait.” Joe grinned. “Besides, I don’t want to have to wait until Thursday to get my once-in-a-lifetime chance to drive this car. It’s fabulous, Nova. You’re definitely getting the raw end of this deal.”

  She stared at the view of the bay, not really seeing the water or the shore. “What time?”

  “One o’clock.”

  “One o’clock is good. Okay. We’re on for tomorrow. Terrific.”

  They were silent for a moment, Nova still digesting the news and arranging things in her mind, given those fifty kids on the front lawn. Finally she said, “We’ll take a swim, and then I want to shoot photos at sunset at two places north of here.”

  They headed for the SUV. She felt good that they would get a look soon at Sorokin’s safe. But she didn’t like it at all that Sorokin’s wife and daughter and fifty kids would be roaming around the property when she was rappelling down that sheer cliff onto the mansion’s roof. Kids were notorious for seeing things adults didn’t intend them to see.

  Chapter 22

  “Your family will not know exactly how you died,” Ahmad said to Ali. “But they will know you died with great courage and great honor.”

  Ahmad handed an AK-74 to the boy, showing him how to hold it across his chest, resting it on his left arm, its barrel pointing up at an authoritative angle. He felt Ali straighten his back and heard him suck in a sharp breath.

  The boy wore a camouflage suit, although during his travel throughout Italy and into Europe he would at first wear the same dust coat and stylish garb as Khangi and the bodyguards. On the second day, they would all change into common streetwear. But for Ali’s families’ sake, Ahmad felt the camouflage suit seemed best for this last, farewell message. Also, it was how Ali had said he wanted to be remembered.

  Mohsin waved his hand. “Have Ali stand just a bit more to his left. The light from the side is better there.”

  Ali moved, and Mohsin tinkered with the tripod holding the video camera, then said, “That’s good.”

  Khangi returned to the safe house’s living room from the kitchen with a second helping of spaghetti. He dropped into the apartment’s second most comfortable armchair, leaving the best for Ahmad.

  The five other soldiers, filling themselves with pasta, occupied the sofa, another chair, and handy spots on the floor to watch the filming. The entire team was in place on time, and Ahmad considered them ready.

  “This is your big moment, Ali,” Khangi said. “Tomorrow at three o’clock, when we all meet back here again, you will be the most dangerous man in the world.”

  Ahmad joined in the laughter. Though he might be brave, Ali was skinny and looked even younger than his sixteen years. He hardly looked the part of “the world’s most dangerous man.”

  “Do you remember your lines?” Ahmad asked, taking his seat.

  “Yes,” came the answer, firm and sure. Ali had been carefully chosen in Palestine for determination, courage and motivation. His was not a faint heart.

  “Let’s begin, then,” Ahmad said to Mohsin.

  A blinking light on the running digital camera indicated the moment filming began. Mohsin waved to Ali.

  “My name is Ali Yassin, and this is my final testimony, to be delivered to my family in Palestine. Tomorrow, I undertake a mission to strike at the heart of Western infidels, to humble them, to terrify them, to make them pay for the lives of Muslims they kill so eagerly. When you receive this, I shall—”

  The sound of a soft but clear single thud had emerged from the bedroom. At least Ahmad thought it was their bedroom.

  Every man straightened and looked toward the bedroom door. Ahmad jumped to his feet, as did Khangi.

  With Khangi right behind him, Ahmad rushed through the door to find the room empty.

  “Do you think it came from here?” Khangi asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  The other men clustered around the door. Ahmad waved to silence them. He strained to hear if another sound would come from the apartment above. As he listened, he noted that the bedroom window of this first floor apartment was open.

  Hearing no further noise, he went to the window and looked out. Nothing but plants and grass and cars on the street.

  “Was this window open this morning?”

  “I think so,” Khangi said. “It was hot last night.” Both of them looked toward the door. Two of the soldiers nodded.

  Ahmad listened once more. Hearing nothing, he turned. “Let’s finish the taping.”

  The noise must have come from above them. He w
as simply overcautious, now that the time for action was so close. He had seen to it, and double-checked, that all tracks had been covered with skill and care. No one could suspect them.

  Chapter 23

  The sheer seventy-foot cliff behind the Sorokin mansion had its good features and several bad ones. On the plus side, shrubs and trees cloaked the top, so Nova felt little danger of anyone seeing her fix the climbing rope to a rocky projection of what appeared to be a well-anchored, suitcase-sized boulder.

  But on this lovely Sunday morning—ideal for an outdoor birthday party—as Nova started a quick rappel down the cliff, she was keenly aware of its worst feature—any of the fifty adults and kids on the Sorokin front lawn looking at the cliff within the next ten seconds would likely notice her movement.

  They would have to stop and take a second and maybe third look, though, to recognize that the movement was a human climber because she wore a tight-fitting, camouflage jumpsuit, the material of which had been chosen to match the colors and tones of the rocks and shrubs on the cliff face. Cesare had seen to it that the suit, originally tailored for Joe, had been shortened, tightened and let out in all the right places for her body. Even her face was smeared with streaks of soft brown and green.

  She let herself down at quick speed. At the last bit of the drop, she had to push off against the cliff face in order to jump a four-foot span between the cliff and the back of the house.

  On the roof now and hidden from view from the lawn, she breathed easier. She listened a moment to the sounds of carousel music and laughter. No one appeared to have detected her if the continued normalcy of the sounds could be trusted. Cesare had determined that a restroom cabana had been ordered; the house should be all hers.

  The Sorokin den, her first objective, lay at the extreme east end of the single-story house. She sprinted to the den’s chimney. She’d strapped what she thought of as “the magic laptop” under the jumpsuit against her chest, and she wore the safe break-in kit flat against her back in a special pocketed pouch.