“In England?”

“Possibly. Possibly abroad.”

“If there’s anyone who could pull it off, it’s her. You have your hands full. Me, I’m just looking to even up the scorecard.”

“You made quite a scene at the hospital this morning. Was Prudence Meadows another of your agents who was wound too tight, or was it her husband?”

“No comment.”

“Watch yourself, Frank. Remember, we’re only cousins.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” said Allam earnestly. “Actually, this was meant to be a courtesy call. We received word that Jonathan Ransom is in Rome. It’s our belief he’s trying to find his wife. I can tell he’s not one of yours. Leaves a trail a mile long and half again as wide. I’m sending a team down there to work with the carabinieri and see if we can run him to ground. I’ve a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on. Anything you’d care to add?”

There was another lengthy pause, and Allam had the distinct impression that fat old Frank Connor was squirming in his chair. The mental picture made him very happy indeed.

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” asked Connor.

“I may be able to find an opening in my agenda.”

“Good,” said Connor. “Cinnamon Club. One p.m. Oh, and there’s just one thing…”

“Yes?” Allam listened closely as Connor went on a lengthy discourse. It was all he could do to keep his temper from getting the better of him. “Very well, then,” he said when Connor had finished. “I’ll see you at one. But Frank-Frank?”

But there was no one on the other end of the line. Connor had already hung up.

45

Jonathan leaned his shoulder against the church’s wooden door and was relieved to feel it open. Stepping inside, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Candles flickered at posts around the building’s interior. Moonlight streamed through stained glass windows lining the nave. He advanced down the aisle and slid into a pew. He didn’t kneel, but laid his elbows on the bench in front of him. The church was still, the only sound that of his ragged breathing. Slowly calm settled over him. He was safe, if only for a few more minutes.

To his left was a chapel built into a side alcove. The altar was simple, adorned with a brocade cloth. A rough wooden crucifix hung on the wall behind it, with an elongated marble Christ.

Outside these church doors, the Italian police were combing the streets for Dr. Jonathan Ransom. He had to assume that they’d passed on news of his presence in Rome to their counterparts in London. At the same time they’d spread word to the local police forces in the vicinity. His capture would figure high on the priority list of every Italian policeman between Milan and Sicily.

Seated in the half-dark, Jonathan took stock of his position. He was not cut out for a life as a fugitive. He wasn’t one to jump down his “rabbit hole,” as Emma had called her escape hatch, and disappear from the world. Sooner or later he would be caught. The question was not if, but when. It was a matter of delaying the inevitable.

He unfolded the papers he’d taken from Luca Lazio’s office. It was too dark to read, but he knew the words. A nicked renal artery had resulted in Emma’s losing six pints of blood. She would have been delirious when she’d been transported to the hospital, perhaps even near death. In agony, drifting in and out of consciousness, she’d given her name as Lara. Not Eva Kruger, not Kathleen O’Hara, and not Emma Ransom-all well-known, practiced aliases-but Lara. And after the surgery, when asked for her last name, she’d refused it.

Jonathan could come up with only one reason why.

Lara was her real name. She had no alias to accompany it. Only the truth. And the truth she must keep hidden at all costs.

Jonathan rose and sidestepped to the center aisle. He spent a moment staring at the altar, gazing up to the ceiling and the oils depicting the Fall of man, the Resurrection of Jesus, and the Second Coming.

Turning, he made his way to the front door. A wind had sprung up outside, and somewhere it made its way through a crack in the church walls, sounding a high-pitched keening. He stopped to listen, hearing his own fear in the shrill wail. Suddenly the wind died, and he felt his uncertainty go with it.

He opened the door and went onto the street.

46

Frank Connor paid off the taxi and presented himself to the doorman at the Diamond Club in Belgravia. “Tell Mr. Danko that Bill from California is here. I’ll be upstairs at the tables.”

Connor paid the exorbitant entrance fee and walked upstairs. The Diamond Club was a privately licensed casino catering to wealthy Eastern Europeans who had made the move to London in a big way over the past ten years. The club was divided into three floors. The ground floor offered an elegant bar and restaurant. The second floor housed the casino itself. And the third floor was reserved for private gaming and management.

Connor took a place at a blackjack table in the center of the room. At 1 a.m., action was lethargic, with no more than two dozen players scattered around the floor. Connor ordered a whisky and began to play cards. After three hands, he’d lost two hundred pounds. He signaled to the floor captain and informed him that he’d like to see Mr. Danko. The captain nodded politely and continued on his rounds. Ten minutes and another two hundred pounds to the worse, Connor still didn’t see Danko.

Enough, he told himself. He was done being polite.

Connor ordered a second whisky loosened his tie, and began to really play. In ten minutes he was up a thousand pounds. In an hour he was up five thousand. He asked for a cigar, and when the captain returned with a Cohiba, Connor told him to tell Mr. Danko that unless he wanted to continue having a very unprofitable night, he’d better get his Bosnian butt down here faster than he could say Slobodan Milošević.

The captain left. To prove his point, Connor bet all or nothing on the next hand and drew an ace over king. Blackjack.

Danko showed up sixty seconds later. He was tall and slim, dark hair slicked back off his forehead, his Slavic stubble kept at an appropriate length, and he looked much too comfortable in a white dinner jacket.

“Hello, Frank. Long time.”

“Sit down.”

Danko dismissed the dealer and sat next to Connor. “What are you doing here?”

“I need your help.”

“Look around you. I’m out.”

Connor glanced around the casino before coming back to Danko. “I see the same guy. You know Rome. I need you to do a job for me there. Are your passports still in shape, or do you need me to run something up for you?”

Danko smiled, no longer so comfortable. “Frank, listen, I appreciate your interest. It’s a compliment, I know. But I’ve moved on. I’m forty. Too old for that kind of work. Come on. Give me a break.”

“No breaks tonight. Tonight is a break-free zone. Know what I mean? Now come on, get your stuff. You still keep that nifty rifle upstairs? Let’s go on up to your office and I can fill you in on the details. Job pays ten thousand dollars.”

“I make that much in a day here.” Danko leaned closer, so that the smell of his cologne was ripe in Connor’s nose. “I gave you seven years. Where’s the American citizenship you promised? Where’s the resettlement to California? You strung me along and then dumped me when you didn’t need me anymore.”

“I rescued your bony ass from an internment camp when you weighed ninety-six pounds. You owe me.”

“Thank you, Frank, but I think that I’ve paid you back.”