"She won't," Sydney said. "She has some ill.u.s.trating ill.u.s.trating to do." Then to the clerk, asked, "What do you have day after tomorrow?" to do." Then to the clerk, asked, "What do you have day after tomorrow?"

"We have a mid-afternoon flight that leaves at two-forty."

"Perfect," Griffin said. He took out a credit card, slapped it on the counter. "Give her your ID and your ticket, Fitzpatrick."

Sydney tried to keep her expression neutral as she handed over her pa.s.sport and plane ticket. The clerk eyed the ticket, punched in some numbers, and said, "It'll be an additional one hundred dollars for the change, not including the charge to get to San Francisco."

To which Sydney told Griffin, "You should just save your money and time. I can do this myself."

"You could, but I get the feeling you won't."

The clerk dutifully ignored their conversation as she finished up the reservation, printed out the ticket, then gave everything to Sydney. Griffin reached over, took possession of the new plane ticket as if he didn't trust her at all.

"Gee, thanks," Sydney said to Griffin as they walked away.

He didn't respond, and judging from the expression on his face, she wasn't sure she'd have wanted him to. Deciding it best not to push him further, thereby ruining any chance she had of changing his mind, or at the very least, making a break, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked quietly beside him as he stepped out to get in the long line of pa.s.sengers waiting for a taxi.

After five minutes they arrived at the head of the line. As soon as Griffin gave the driver the name of the Albergo Pini di Roma on the Aventine, they were off. The taxi careened through the flat marshlands that bordered the airport and veered in and out of the insane traffic that congested the roads leading to Rome, past the rather nondescript modern apartments. Cabdrivers in the States had nothing on this guy. She gripped the seat to keep from sliding around, while the driver gave a monologue of the sights in heavily accented English: the Baths of Caracalla to the left, the Palatine Hill with its sprawling Palace of the Caesars to the right, a glimpse of the Colosseum in the distance as they turned into the sycamore-lined Viale Aventino. He was proud of his knowledge and probably hoped for a substantial tip. Sydney, more frightened than impressed, wondered if she'd be killed in a taxi before she had a chance to find out who had murdered her friend, then tried to murder her.

As far as she knew, the moment she stepped back in the United States, they'd come after her again. Too late to take back that burning curiosity that compelled her to find the murder scene, determine what they were covering up, and follow the trail here. Now she'd be d.a.m.ned if she would sit back and put her life in some other government agency's hands. At the moment she knew of only one person who held her best interests at heart, who cared about what happened to her and those she loved. That person was she.

"Have you ever been here?" Griffin asked.

"A few times as a kid," she said, noting that he seemed unfazed by the wild taxi ride. "My parents brought me to visit some of my mother's relatives. She actually lived here for a few years before she married my father."

"You speak Italian?"

"Not enough to traverse the country without a dictionary and some very patient natives who don't mind me ma.s.sacring the language, but my mother can."

"Ma.s.sacre it?"

"Speak it. Pretty fluently."

The taxi drove up the steep Via Santa Prisca and turned into the wide and surprisingly traffic-free piazza, stopping in front of the Albergo Pini di Roma. Griffin, who apparently spoke fluent Italian, instructed the driver to wait for him while he checked Sydney in. They exited the cab, and Sydney took a good look around the hotel. With its terra cottawashed stucco facade into which a gleaming gla.s.s entrance had been set, the Pines of Rome Hotel managed to look rustic and modern at the same time. Two low travertine steps led into the marble-floored lobby in which comfortable armchairs had been grouped at intervals around red Turkish carpets. A long reception desk ran the length of one wall.

"Nice place," she said.

"You'll need your pa.s.sport to book the room," he told her when they reached the desk.

Sydney surrendered her pa.s.sport to the desk clerk, who punched the information into her computer. When she finished, she slid Sydney's key across the counter and said, "Enjoy your stay."

Her room was on the fourth floor, tastefully decorated and refurbished, a mix of vintage 1920s, the height of the fascist era, and modern updates. A large oak wardrobe occupied a corner and she set her bag on a chair beside it, then walked to the window. Her room looked out toward the Tiber River and across to the Gianicolo Hill. "Wish I really was here to paint. It's gorgeous."

"Perks of the job," he said. "Drawbacks are that you don't get much time to enjoy the perks." He didn't move from the door. "You think you can stay out of trouble until I come by for you?"

"As much as I'd love to get out there, the first thing on my agenda is a nap."

"That makes two of us. I'll give you a call this evening after I visit the amba.s.sador for the death notification."

"You know, I might be able to help. With the amba.s.sador."

"Thanks, but no thanks. Mind if I use your bathroom before I leave?"

"All yours." She stepped out onto the narrow balcony to get a better look at the immediate area. The pine-scented air was brisk, but she found it refreshing.

After a few minutes she felt his presence before he made it known, and finally she turned, saw him staring at her. "Something on your mind?"

He didn't answer right away, just eyed her, giving her the feeling that he could see deep within her, guess that she had no intention of remaining uninvolved. "I should warn you, if you go out, don't carry a purse. If you do, watch out for the light-fingered gypsies in designer clothes."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said as he left.

Sydney didn't move from the balcony. She waited until she saw him emerge four stories below. Just before he got into his waiting cab, he glanced up, as though he'd been aware she'd been watching him. He didn't wave, just looked at her, then slid into the backseat and the cab drove off. A small red sedan pulled out from the curb after him, honking its horn at a woman who stepped off the sidewalk, then jumped back.

Only then did she return inside, deciding that as much as she really wanted to see the sights, what she really desired was a soak in the tub and a long, long nap. The s.p.a.cious bathroom had been updated, including a large Carrara marble tub with gold dolphin-shaped faucets. She ran the water, then got out some clean clothes and the report on conspiracies that the professor had given her, and was about to head back into the bathroom when she spied a small refrigerator. On impulse, she opened it and found an a.s.sortment of beverages. When in Rome, she thought, withdrawing an ice-cold mini bottle of prosecco prosecco. She poured it into one of the flute gla.s.ses sitting on top of the small refrigerator, then carried that into the bathroom. When the tub was filled, she undressed, slipped into the steaming water, and sipped her sparkling wine.

Not too bad, she thought, picking up the first page of the report, trying to give it a thorough read. Maybe it was the lack of distractions from pa.s.sengers or from Zach Griffin's presence, or that she was more relaxed, but she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open as she scanned Xavier Caldwell's report. It was your basic conspiracy theory on Freemasons and the New World Order; Caldwell's version stated they were running Washington, D.C., New York, and the entire banking system. Definitely nothing new. Flipping through several more pages, she decided that Caldwell was a bit heavy on a few key words like Illuminati, Vatican, and the P2 Italian Freemasonry lodge.

Grade B for effort, in that it took some time to type up, or at least cut-and-paste the dozens of pages from various conspiracy Web sites, but D-minus for originality. Even so, she continued to read, just in case there was something there. But jet lag finally caught up with her. Having no energy, she got as far as dressing in her underwear, then bundling up in the thick terry robe hanging in the wardrobe. The bed was soft, inviting, and she picked up Caldwell's report, thinking she'd read a few more pages before sleep finally overtook her. She nodded off twice, then woke again trying to grasp what the professor had told her...something about Xavier Caldwell speaking to Alessandra about finding proof of a government conspiracy, but she had warned him off...and now she was dead and he was missing...

Her last thought before the report slipped from her grasp and she fell asleep was that she needed to call Carillo.

11.

The private residence of Alec Harden, amba.s.sador to the Holy See, was situated across from the American Academy on Via Giacomo Medici. Zach Griffin parked his car down the narrow street, pa.s.sing a white van with a man sitting inside, then noted the other white van opposite, making them for the two armed to the Holy See, was situated across from the American Academy on Via Giacomo Medici. Zach Griffin parked his car down the narrow street, pa.s.sing a white van with a man sitting inside, then noted the other white van opposite, making them for the two armed carabinieri carabinieri guards a.s.signed to watch the residence under the heightened security. The residence itself was surrounded by a high wall with gla.s.s shards stuck into it to keep out unwanted visitors. Zach, who had actually worked out of Harden's office in the past year, had called ahead, and so he pa.s.sed the guards a.s.signed to watch the residence under the heightened security. The residence itself was surrounded by a high wall with gla.s.s shards stuck into it to keep out unwanted visitors. Zach, who had actually worked out of Harden's office in the past year, had called ahead, and so he pa.s.sed the carabinieri carabinieri, and walked up to the gates, where the portiere portiere admitted him through and into the villa with its square tower. From there, a black-and-white-uniformed maid escorted him upstairs to the amba.s.sador's private study. admitted him through and into the villa with its square tower. From there, a black-and-white-uniformed maid escorted him upstairs to the amba.s.sador's private study.

Alec Harden was expecting a report on his missing daughter, and Zach did not relish the duty of informing him that her status had changed from that of missing to most likely dead. Despite the forensic drawing that solidified their suspicions of it being Alessandra Harden, they lacked the evidence such as DNA or dental for that one hundred percent verification, the sort that told a waiting family member that there could be no mistake.

"Mr. Griffin, a pleasure as always," Amba.s.sador Harden said, rising from a wingback chair to shake Zach's hand. He was in the midst of late afternoon tea, a steaming cup by the window with a view of the s.p.a.cious gardens of the American Academy across the narrow street. A group of Fellows of the Academy were playing croquet under the tall parasol pines, and their laughter drifted into the high-ceilinged room.

"Mr. Amba.s.sador. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

"What can I do for you?"

Zach waited until the maid left the room. Once they were alone, he said, "It's about your daughter."

"You found her? Thank G.o.d."

"I-" He took a breath, knew there was no good way to impart such news, then said, "She was murdered."

Alec Harden's face paled. His mouth parted, but no words came, and Zach let him be, allowed the words to sink in as he dropped into his morocco leather chair, closing his eyes. Outside, wooden mallets clicked on wooden b.a.l.l.s, and one of the Fellows shouted that another had cheated on his shot. Finally, through eyes blurred with tears, Alec asked, "How? Why?"

"We don't have all the answers yet, sir, but we're working on them."

"Why so long?"

"We only just identified her. A forensic artist had to be brought in."

"A forensic artist? For what? What does that mean?"

"Whoever killed her didn't want her identified."

The amba.s.sador stared in mute silence. And then he rose, walked over to a side table, and poured himself a gla.s.s of what looked like whiskey from a crystal decanter. He drank it down in one shot, then poured another. When he finished that one, he faced Zach, saying, "That's why you asked for my DNA-why there was an issue when you found out she was adopted? It wasn't just a precaution-you knew?"

"We suspected. We had no way of knowing for sure."

"How many weeks has it been? You should have informed me then."

"And what if it wasn't her? Torture you while we waited to learn the truth?"

"My daughter has been missing for that long. That was torture enough, the not knowing."

And Zach could say nothing. He had no children of his own. He could never imagine what it would be like to report a son or daughter missing, never mind learn that they had been murdered. But the request for the amba.s.sador's DNA had been a precaution, because it was possible they were wrong. And that was when they'd learned that the amba.s.sador and his late wife had adopted Alessandra from Romania when she was an infant. There were no clear records, no chance of a family member's DNA to be found, so that avenue of identification had been fruitless. Because she had traveled so much with her family, finding any dental records that could be used had been harder than Zach had thought possible. "At this point, our only identification is from the forensic artist's sketch."

"I'd like to see it."

Zach removed it from his briefcase, handed it over.

Alec stared at it, blinking back tears. "That's her."

"It would help if we had some of her DNA. For a positive match."

"It's her."

A moment of acquiescence, allowing that he was grieving, and not likely to be thinking in terms of investigations and conclusions. "Of course, sir. But we intend to prosecute once we find who did this, and for that..."

Alec eyed the drawing, then handed it back. "I-I'd forgotten, but she stopped by here during her break a few weeks ago, off touring Rome, or rather visiting the columbaria of Imperial Rome with her friend Francesca, from the academy across the street." He took a deep breath, glanced out the window at the croquet game, which was winding down.

"Maybe there's something in her room, something she left behind..."

Alec shook himself, said, "Yes, I'll take you up."

"Perhaps one of your staff can show me, if you'd like to have a moment to yourself, sir."

Alec nodded, and Zach opened the door, saw the same woman who had escorted him up, waiting a discreet distance away. He hesitated at the door, turned, saw the amba.s.sador staring out the window. Zach hated to disturb his thoughts, but figured now was better than later. "Was there anything she discussed with you over the phone the last few weeks? Anything unusual? Maybe something she sent home?"

"I was so busy. We didn't speak but once or twice a week, and it was she, asking about my health..."

When nothing more was forthcoming, Zach let himself out and started down the hallway, the closed door and his footsteps doing little to m.u.f.fle the strangled sobs of a grieving father.

Leonardo Adami had come to the decision that watching the amba.s.sador's residence was a waste of time. He was tired of the waiting, even more tired with sharing a car with Alonzo, and was half tempted to switch places with Benito, who watched the amba.s.sador's residence through his binoculars from the rooftop of one of the nearby houses. In fact, he'd picked up his phone to make the call when Benito announced that Griffin had arrived at the amba.s.sador's. That was not something they'd antic.i.p.ated when they'd started watching the place. The three of them had been there all afternoon, as they had been for the last two weeks, waiting to see if any out-of-the-ordinary deliveries were made. None of them had expected Griffin to walk into the midst of their surveillance, and of course now they had to wonder if he knew what they were waiting for, and perhaps had come looking for it himself. This long, they had to wonder if it was going to arrive at all, but where else would the girl have sent it?

"You're sure that's Griffin?" he asked Benito once again. After all, Benito was several houses away on a rooftop.

"Positive. He went in almost ten minutes ago, and hasn't come out yet. Maybe you should call the boss."

The last thing Leonardo wanted to do was call his cousin and give the impression that he couldn't handle this on his own. Adami did not like weak links. Instead, Leonardo thought about the other reasons why Griffin might be there. "They must have her identified. He's come to make the death notification."

"Now what?" Benito asked.

"You're sure Griffin's alone?"

"Positive."

"Let us know the moment he leaves," Leonardo said into the phone. "We're going to follow him. When he stops, we'll take care of him there. If we're lucky, he'll lead us to his safe house. Adami will no doubt be extra grateful if we eliminate Griffin as well as those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds he is working with."

Washington, D.C.

Carillo waited until he saw the congressman leave the building, then walk toward a waiting car, before he approached. While he was here in D.C. on a legitimate case that Doc Schermer had dug up for him, his contact with the congressman was unofficial, and he needed to step lightly.

"Congressman Burnett?"

The man looked up, appearing mildly annoyed at being stopped. "Yes?"

Carillo held up his credentials. "Special Agent Carillo, FBI. You have a few moments?"

"I'm in a-What is this about?"

"Alessandra Harden."

The congressman took a deep breath, this time looking more than annoyed. "I've answered these questions ad nauseam. Someone is trying to discredit me. There was no affair, for G.o.d's sake, and I didn't divulge anything about the committee. Isn't it time you let this thing go?"

He started to walk away, and Carillo decided a different tack was needed. Maybe a subject not quite so threatening as an affair with a girl now dead, and he thought about what Sydney had told him on her most recent call, thinking this kid might have contacted the congressman. That, she thought, might give them a clue as to why Alessandra was murdered.

"Actually, I'm interested in learning about a student in a cla.s.s that she was in. A friend of hers who is missing," he said.

"Fine," the congressman said. "You don't mind if we talk in the car? I'd rather my business not be overheard so I can read about it in the paper the next morning."

Carillo glanced into the interior of the Town Car, saw the driver, and no one else. "Not a problem."

The congressman got into the backseat, and Carillo followed, closing the door, shutting out the noise from the street beyond.

"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.

"I need a cup of coffee."

The driver nodded, and the moment the car took off, the congressman leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes. He looked haggard, his brown hair flecked with gray, his skin covered with fine lines around his eyes and mouth. This was not the man who'd graced the posters at election time, the doctored pictures that took ten years off his face. This was the man worried about scandal and career-ruining photos plastered all over the nation's newspapers.

"Did you ever speak to a student named Xavier Caldwell?"