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 spacious 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 assortment of beverages. When in Rome, she thought, withdrawing an ice-cold mini bottle of
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 passengers 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, ambassador to the Holy See, was situated across from the American Academy on Via Giacomo Medici. Zach Griffin parked his car down the narrow street, passing a white van with a man sitting inside, then noted the other white van opposite, making them for the two armed
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,” Ambassador 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 spacious 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. Ambassador. 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 God.”
“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 balls, 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 ambassador stared in mute silence. And then he rose, walked over to a side table, and poured himself a glass 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 ambassador’s DNA had been a precaution, because it was possible they were wrong. And that was when they’d learned that the ambassador 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…”
