His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close- cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.
Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.
Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.
The village of Pont-Saint-Martin lay a full ten kilometers to the south. The only way north was a snaking two- lane road that led eventually, after forty more kilometers, to the Austrian border and Innsbruck. The BMW he'd rented yesterday at the Venice airport waited a kilometer back in a stand of trees. After finishing his business he planned to drive north to Innsbruck, where tomorrow an 8:35 A.M. Austrian Airlines shuttle would whisk him to St. Petersburg, where more business awaited.
Silence surrounded him. No church bells clanging or cars screaming past on the autostrada. Just ancient groves of oak, fir, and larch patchworking the mountainous slopes. Ferns, mosses, and wildflowers carpeted the dark hollows. Easy to see why da Vinci included the Dolemites in the background of the
The forest ended. A grassy meadow of blossoming orange lilies spread before him. The chateau rose at the far end, a pebbled drive horseshoeing in front. The building was two stories tall, its redbrick walls decorated with gray lozenges. He remembered the stones from his last visit two months ago, surely crafted by masons who'd learned from their fathers and grandfathers.
None of the forty or so dormer windows flickered with light. The oaken front door likewise loomed dark. No fences, dogs, or guards. No alarms. Just a rambling country estate in the Italian Alps owned by a reclusive manufacturer who'd been semiretired for almost a decade.
He knew that Pietro Caproni, the chateau's owner, slept on the second floor in a series of rooms that encompassed the master suite. Caproni lived alone, except for three servants who commuted daily from Pont- Saint-Martin. Tonight, Caproni was entertaining, the cream-colored Mercedes parked out front probably still warm from a drive made earlier from Venice. His guest was one of many expensive working women. They would sometimes come for the night or the weekend, paid for their trouble in euros by a man who could afford the price of pleasure. Tonight's excursion had been timed to coincide with her visit, and he hoped she would be enough of a distraction to cover a quick in and out.
Pebbles crunched with each step as he crossed the drive and rounded the chateau's northeast corner. An elegant garden led back to a stone veranda, Italian wrought iron separating tables and chairs from grass. A set of French doors opened into the house, both knobs locked. He straightened his right arm and twisted. A stiletto slipped off its O-ring and slithered down his forearm, the jade handle nestling firmly in his gloved palm. The leather sheath was his own invention, specially designed for a dependable release.
He plunged the blade into the wooden jamb. One twist, and the bolt surrendered. He resecured the stiletto in his sleeve.
Stepping into a barrel-vaulted salon, he gently closed the glasspaneled door. He liked the surrounding decor of neoclassicism. Two Etruscan bronzes adorned the far wall under a painting,
He threaded the darkened furniture, passed between the columns, then stopped in the foyer and listened up the stairs. Not a sound. He tiptoed across a wheel-patterned marble floor, careful not to scrape his rubber soles. Neapolitan paintings adorned the faux-marble panels. Chestnut beams supported the darkened ceiling two stories above.
He stepped into the parlor.
The object of his quest lay innocently on an ebony table. A match case. Faberge. Silver and gold with an enameled translucent strawberry red over a guilloche ground. The gold collar was chased with leaf tips, the thumbpiece cabochon sapphire. It was marked in Cyrillic initials, N. R. 1901. Nicholas Romanov. Nicholas II. The last Tsar of Russia.
He yanked a felt bag from his back pocket and reached for the case.
The room was suddenly flooded with light, shafts of incandescent rays from an overhead chandelier burning his eyes. He squinted and turned. Pietro Caproni stood in the archway leading to the foyer, a gun in his right hand.
'
He struggled to adjust his vision and answered in Italian, 'I didn't realize you would be expecting my visit.'
Caproni stepped into the parlor. The Italian was a short, heavy-chested man in his fifties with unnaturally black hair. He wore a navy blue terry-cloth robe tied at the waist. His legs and feet were bare. 'Your cover story from the last visit didn't check out. Christian Knoll, art historian and academician. Really, now. An easy matter to verify.'
His vision settled as his eyes adjusted to the light. He reached for the match case. Caproni's gun jutted forward. He pulled back and raised his arms in mock surrender. 'I merely wish to touch the case.'
'Go ahead. Slowly.'
He lifted the treasure. 'The Russian government has been looking for this since the war. It belonged to Nicholas himself. Stolen from Peterhof outside Leningrad sometime in 1944, a soldier pocketing a souvenir from his time in Russia. But what a souvenir. One of a kind. Worth now on the open market about forty thousand U.S. dollars. That's if someone were foolish enough to sell. 'Beautiful loot' is the term, I believe, the Russians use to describe things such as this.'
'I'm sure after your liberation this evening it would have quickly found its way back to Russia?'
He smiled. 'The Russians are no better than thieves themselves. They want their treasures back only to sell them. Cash poor, I hear. The price of Communism, apparently.'
'I am curious. What brought you here?'
'A photograph of this room in which the match case was visible. So I came to pose as a professor of art history.'
'You determined authenticity from that brief visit two months ago?'
'I am an expert on such things. Particularly Faberge.' He laid the match case down. 'You should have accepted my offer of purchase.'
'Far too low, even for 'beautiful loot.' Besides, the piece has sentimental value. My father was the soldier who pocketed the souvenir, as you so aptly describe.'
'And you so casually display it?'
'After fifty years, I assumed nobody cared.'
'You should be careful of visitors and photos.'
Caproni shrugged. 'Few come here.'
'Just the signorinas? Like the one upstairs now?'
'And none of them are interested in such things.'
'Only euros?'
'And pleasure.'
He smiled and casually fingered the match case again. 'You are a man of means, Signor Caproni. This villa is like a museum. That Aubusson tapestry there on the wall is priceless. Those two Roman capriccios are certainly valued collectibles. Hof, I believe, nineteenth century?'
'Good, Signor Knoll. I'm impressed.'
'Surely you can part with this match case.'
'I do not like thieves, Signor Knoll. And, as I said during your last visit, the item is not for sale.' Caproni gestured with the gun. 'Now you must leave.'
