Lazio’s eyes darted here and there, but he remained quiet.

“In your car,” said Jonathan. “Or I will shoot you. Right here. Right now.”

“Okay,” said Lazio. “In that case, we’d better hurry.”

40

Luca Lazio’s private practice was located in a three-story travertine villa in the Parioli district, adjacent to the Borghese Gardens. In contrast to Trastevere’s pulsing nightlife, the neighborhood was sleepy and peaceful, the winding, leafy streets split between businesses and residences.

Lazio unlocked the door and showed Jonathan inside. “So what’s it all about? You didn’t get your picture all over CNN for nothing.”

“It’s a mistake,” said Jonathan.

“A rather large one, it seems.”

Jonathan followed Lazio past the reception desk and through a maze of hallways. Lazio was a dermatologist, and his practice looked more like a day spa than a medical office. Everywhere there were potted plants and posters of men and women with tight, radiant skin, advertising the benefits of one laser treatment or another.

Lazio reached the end of the hall and flipped on the lights to his private office. “Is it to do with her?” he asked, tossing his keys onto his desk. “Emma?”

“Something like that.” Jonathan exchanged glances with the Italian, sensing that Lazio was holding something back. “Did you know?”

“Know what?”

“About Emma. What she was doing.”

“She was working with you, no?”

Jonathan waited a moment, searching Lazio’s features for a sign, some indicator, but saw nothing. “It’s better if you stay out of this.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Lazio sat and powered up his computer. “So, my friend, what are we looking for?”

Jonathan came around to his side of the desk. “Emma told me she was hurt when she was here last.”

“A knife wound, you said?”

“Yes. I’m certain she would have gone to an emergency room. I want to find out where she was treated and by whom. Can you access a hospital’s admissions records?”

“There is no central registry of patients, but I’m friendly with the chief of surgery at all the major hospitals in the city. If I pass them Emma’s name, they will be able to tell me in a matter of minutes if she was ever a patient. Emergency room admission, you say… let’s see…”

“Emma didn’t use her name.”

Lazio stopped typing and glanced up. “Excuse me?”

“She wouldn’t have been admitted under the name Emma Ransom,” said Jonathan. “She would have used something else. Try Eva Kruger or Kathleen O’Hara.”

Eva Kruger was the name Emma had used in Switzerland, while posing as an executive at an engineering firm covertly manufacturing and exporting high-speed centrifuges to Iran for use in the enrichment of uranium. He knew less about Kathleen O’Hara. The name belonged to a false passport Emma had kept. One of her get-out-of-jail cards, she called it.

Instead of typing, Lazio rolled his chair away from the desk and gazed at Jonathan, saying nothing.

“She was an agent,” Jonathan explained. “An operative. She worked for the United States government. Emma’s not even her real name. I didn’t say it would be easy to find her. If it was, I wouldn’t have come to you.”

“Was she involved in this affair in London? This bombing?”

It was Jonathan’s turn not to speak. Silence was its own affirmation.

“So you’re hoping to find her yourself?” asked Lazio. “Before the police do it for you?”

“Just look.”

Lazio slid his chair closer to the desk. “So,” he began, with a renewed gusto, “shall we say a foreign woman with a knife wound…”

“In the lower back.” Jonathan indicated a spot above his left pelvis. “She said there was damage to her kidney. If that’s the case, a thoracic surgeon would have been called in. I saw the scar. It was no outpatient procedure. And put down that she was allergic to penicillin.”

“Do you have a picture I can scan and send along with the request?”

Jonathan took two photographs from his wallet. One was of Emma as he knew her. It showed her in jeans and a white T-shirt, a red bandana around her neck and sunglasses pushing her wavy auburn hair out of her face. The other was of quite a different woman. It came from a driver’s license he’d discovered belonging to Eva Kruger. The photo showed a stern face, sleek hair pulled severely back from the forehead, heavy mascara behind stylish glasses, plenty of lipstick. But there was no mistaking the eyes. It was Emma, too.

Without comment, Lazio scanned the photographs into his desktop, then completed the messages and e-mailed them to his colleagues at the seven largest hospitals in the Rome metropolitan area. “Done,” he said. “I’ll call them in the morning to make sure they’ve received the message.”

“Call them now,” said Jonathan. “Say she’s a relative or one of your girlfriends. I want an answer within the hour.”

“Are you going to wave that gun at me again?”

Jonathan grabbed the Italian by the collar. “No,” he said, yanking him close. “I’m not going to wave the gun at you. I’m going to ram it down your throat and pull the trigger if you don’t do what I just told you.”

“I believe you’ve made yourself clear.”

Jonathan listened as Lazio placed call after call, first apologizing then hectoring his colleagues to contact the hospital and perform a check of emergency room admissions. Lazio spoke in short rapid bursts, like a well-trained machine gunner, throwing in medical slang that all doctors tend to use too frequently. Jonathan had trouble following the conversation. He was fatigued, and his efforts to make sense out of Lazio’s words only made him more tired.

“Espresso?” asked Lazio, after a time had passed. “It will keep you awake.”

“Yeah,” said Jonathan. “Sure.”

Lazio rose and Jonathan shot to his feet.

“It is okay,” said Lazio. “I am only going to the pantry down the hall. We have a refrigerator, too. Perhaps you would like something to eat.”

“Just the espresso,” said Jonathan. “Hurry it up.”

“It will be a minute. That is all.”

“Fine.” Jonathan followed him to the alcove. Satisfied there was no way out, he walked up and down the corridor, shaking out his legs, trying to rouse himself. Lazio appeared quickly enough with two cups of espresso. Jonathan drank his in a gulp.

“More?” asked Lazio.

“Sure,” said Jonathan. Then: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two men returned to Lazio’s office and the Italian resumed his calls. Ten minutes later, Jonathan had his answer.

“You were right,” said Lazio. “She was here. She was admitted to the Ospedale San Carlo on April nineteenth.”

Jonathan slid to the edge of his chair. “The Ospedale San Carlo- where’s that?”

“Close by. Also in the Parioli district.”

“Go on.”

Lazio motioned for calm. “A foreign woman with wounds consistent with those you describe was brought to the hospital by ambulance at nine forty-five in the evening and underwent surgery an hour later for a torn kidney. She stayed two days and was checked out against the advice of her physician. She possessed no identification and gave her name only as Lara.”

“Lara?”

“Yes.”

Lara. The name meant nothing to Jonathan. “What about a last name?”

“She gave none. She was listed as an NCP-a noncompliant patient. Fortunately for you, the nurse who admitted her is on duty this evening. She recognized the photograph of your wife.”

“Which photo?” asked Jonathan.

“I don’t know,” said Lazio. “Does it matter?”

Jonathan said no. His head began to throb, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Lara. Where had she picked up that name? The thought came to him that it might have been someone else altogether. “What about the penicillin? Did the records say that she was allergic to penicillin?”