astonishment, the overweight youth successfully hurdled it with barely a break in his stride. Reaching it a few seconds later, she was forced to halt and scramble over the metal obstacle, losing precious time. By the time she cleared it, Agnelli had reached the colonnade and ducked between its great stone pillars.
She followed. When she regained sight of him, he was on a wide street, the Piazza del Sant’uffizio — outside Vatican territory, a gate to her right marking the boundary of the Holy See. The Italian looked about frantically, apparently expecting to see someone in particular. The person he had phoned must have arranged to rescue him.
‘Agnelli!’ she tried to shout, but it came out as a strangled croak. In her adrenalised state she hadn’t realised how tired she was becoming, but her muscles were now rebelling against their endocrinal manipulation. ‘Stop!’
If he heard her, he showed no sign. Instead the Italian kept running, himself showing growing fatigue that not even fear could overcome. He was still searching the street with increasing desperation—
Tyres screeched. Nina leapt for the sidewalk as a glossy black Range Rover with darkened windows skidded round the corner behind her and swept down the street, engine roaring. Agnelli turned to face it, face filled with relief.
The Range Rover didn’t stop.
Its blocky nose hit him square on, sending him flying into the air, broken limbs flailing. He smashed down on the tarmac in a heap — and the 4?4 drove right over him with a horrible crunch of bones. Pedestrians screamed and ran for cover as the big SUV made a skidding handbrake turn to power back the way it had come.
Straight at Nina.
She had stopped in horror at the sight of Agnelli being mowed down, but now she broke back into a sprint, terror overpowering her body’s protests. The only place that offered even the slightest protection was the doorway of a nearby building. She ran to it, grabbed the handle—
Locked!
Nina turned. The Range Rover was rushing at her, about to smear her along the wall—
It abruptly veered off and came to a squealing stop. Even though the windows were tinted, she could see figures inside. The passenger was apparently as surprised by the manoeuvre as she was. He remonstrated with the shadow in the driving seat, then opened the door and jumped out.
The man, blond-haired, wearing expensive suit and sunglasses, had a gunmetal automatic in his hand. He regarded Nina coldly and raised the pistol—
His chest erupted with bloody exit wounds as the Range Rover’s driver fired several shots into his back.
The man crumpled to the sidewalk, a crimson pool rapidly forming around him. Shocked, speechless, Nina tore her gaze from the corpse to see who had saved her.
It was the last person she had expected.
The driver was Sophia Blackwood.
Sociopath, killer — and Eddie’s first wife, from a time before her insane rage at the system that had bankrupted her father and wiped out her inheritance had seen her try to destroy the West’s economy by nuking Wall Street. The last time Nina saw her, Eddie had thrown her off the top of a waterfall.
Clearly, she could swim.
She had not survived the experience unscathed, though. Even through the shadows, Nina made out a long scar running down the left side of her face and neck. There was also something
Not that it mattered. Sophia held a gun in a black-gloved hand, its smoking muzzle now fixed on the American. Their eyes met, locked. Nina was frozen, knowing that the instant she moved, the raven-haired aristocrat would kill her.
She waited for the shot…
The gun flicked up, and Sophia dropped it almost casually on to the passenger seat. As the stunned Nina watched, she smiled, then raised a finger to her lips. The meaning of the gesture was unmistakable.
Then she floored the accelerator, spinning the wheel to peel the Range Rover away. The door slammed shut as it turned, Nina’s last sight of Sophia that same unfathomable smile. It roared into the crowded streets of Rome, leaving Nina standing there, utterly lost, as police sirens rose in the distance.
13 Maryland, USA
14 New York City
The arrivals area of John F. Kennedy Airport’s Terminal 7 was far from welcoming, but to Nina reaching the huge, impersonal structure felt oddly like coming home. Since joining the IHA five years earlier, she had done so much international travel that she imagined her total mileage would stretch to the moon — yet no matter how far- flung her travels, at the end the comforting sight of Manhattan was always waiting for her.
There was the usual rigmarole to endure first, however. Standing in line at immigration control, the interminable wait for her baggage… and then she would still have to battle for a cab.
Which was why the sight of a card reading DR NINA WILDE was such a pleasant surprise when she reached the concourse. It was held by a mustachioed man in a chauffeur’s uniform and dark glasses, who stepped forward as she approached. ‘Dr Wilde?’ he said. His accent had a European tinge, but she couldn’t place it precisely. ‘Mr Penrose sent me to bring you to the United Nations.’
‘Oh. Huh. Y’know, I was kind of hoping to go home first. I’ve had a long couple of days.’ She had attempted to sleep on the flight, but despite her exhaustion from the chase in Rome her rest had been fitful. And now Penrose probably wanted to drag her into another lengthy meeting with senior UN officials to explain how death and chaos had followed her to two foreign capitals… ‘Well, guess not,’ she said, on the chauffeur’s silence. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
She waited for him to take her luggage, but instead he started to turn away before halting, as if belatedly remembering that his duties extended beyond simply driving a car. ‘May I… take your bags?’
‘You certainly may.’ Nina relievedly passed them to him, then followed him through the concourse.
He led her to the sprawling parking structure beyond the AirTrain light rail station. Nina stifled yawns on the way. Fortunately, her chauffeur didn’t seem inclined to be talkative.
The chauffeur had his own reasons for not wanting to engage her in conversation. Large amongst them was that he was not actually a chauffeur.
His left arm nudged with every step against the gun concealed beneath his jacket. He was sweating, the perspiration due in varying degrees to the weight of the bags, the wig and false moustache he was wearing to shield his identity from the airport’s surveillance cameras, and the enormity of what he was about to do. He was no stranger to violence, but straight-up assassination was something new and troubling.
He knew it had to be done, though. He had complete faith in his boss, and if Harald Glas said that the innocent-looking redhead was a threat to the entire world, he believed him.
She was famous, wasn’t she? Some kind of scientist. Pretty, too, for an egghead…
He forced himself not to think about her. All he had to do was get her into the back of the blacked-out limo, then draw the gun and fire. Three shots to the head would do it. She wouldn’t even have time to be scared.
They descended through a stairwell. He had parked in a quiet corner with limited CCTV coverage — the limo was sound-proofed and his gun silenced, but anything unusual could still attract attention. A couple of people passed them on the stairs, but neither gave a second glance to a driver and his passenger.
