The Gray Ghost

  “We are dressing in black, if that counts.”

  Remi’s smile held a hint of devious mischief, as she settled back, buckling her seat belt. “That’s what I love about you, Fargo. Even on a budget, you know how to show a girl a good time.”

  * * *

  —

  THEY ARRIVED just after nine at the broker’s house at the top of a hill about an hour outside Rome. Luca wouldn’t be expecting them for at least another half hour, with the beginnings of a plan in hand.

  “No wonder he charges so much to get in,” Remi said, as Sam drove up the winding road. The palatial-sized villa, taking up the entire hilltop, overlooked the lights of Rome in the distance. The sky glowed a muted gray-gold from the late-summer sun, dipping below the horizon. Judging from the number of cars parked in the graveled lot on the south side of the estate, most of the guests had already arrived. An electric shuttle was parked near the gate, two young men in dark suits leaning against the vehicle, one of them laughing at something the other said, until they noticed Sam and Remi’s car.

  The younger of the two walked over, leaned down, looking in the driver’s window, moving from Sam to Remi, then down to their clothes. Before he had a chance to comment, Sam nodded his head toward Remi, saying, “Ristoratori.”

  The young man gave a knowing smile, pointing to the left, telling them to check in with the guard at the back gate.

  “Grazie,” Sam said.

  “Caterers?” Remi asked, as Sam drove toward the rear of the house, pulling off to the side, once the shuttle drivers went back to their conversations.

  At least fifty cars were parked in the lot, which was, thankfully, sloped away from the house and surrounded by oleanders. The thick bushes, some with white blooms, some with pink, grew high enough to offer cover. Sam grabbed his backpack, took out a pair of binoculars. He and Remi ducked behind one of the oleanders, Remi keeping watch out toward the parking lot, while Sam got a better look at the house.

  The entire villa, set on the crest of the hill, was surrounded by a high wall topped with shards of glass. Guards manned the gates at the front, where the guests were shuttled to before they’d have to walk up two flights of stairs to get to the front door. He couldn’t see the gate around back, but the shuttle driver had mentioned a guard there as well. Several hundred-year-old sycamores stood like sentries on this side of the wall, possibly offering a way over, but from here he had no idea what good that might do.

  Remi glanced at him. “A helicopter would be nice right about now. Along with a small army.”

  “We have two guns,” Sam said. “We’re going to have to make do. You think you could bluff your way past those people?”

  She studied the couple arriving at the door, the tuxedo-clad man handing his invitation to the guard. “That depends. Next step in the plan?”

  “You get in, then find a way I can get in.”

  “Great plan, Fargo. I was hoping for something a little more specific.”

  He lowered the binoculars. “A place that size, we need a little recon inside so we know where to go once we’re in there.”

  “You realize we’re dressed like burglars.”

  “Isn’t your dress still in the back of the car?”

  “My dress, yes. But what about shoes?”

  “Dazzle them with your beauty,” Sam replied. “Who’ll notice what you were wearing on your feet?”

  “Except every woman in there?”

  “Unless they’re carrying guns, they’re not the ones I’m worried about. Trust me, Remi. I’ve seen that gown on you. There’s not a man in that house who’ll be looking at your shoes.”

  “You’re expecting me to walk in there without more of this plan in place?”

  “I didn’t marry you just for your looks. That was a happy bonus.”

  48

  In the years that Selma Wondrash had worked for the Fargos, she’d gotten used to the sometimes odd requests they made, never mind the long stretches of working without a day or night off for weeks at a time, and the more often than not twenty-four-hour access the Fargos needed whether they were volunteering their time for a search and rescue operation or they were on the hunt for a lost treasure. That they paid her an exorbitant salary to compensate for this time made little difference in Selma’s life except to say that she could retire today and not have to worry about how she’d survive. The truth was, even if they weren’t paying her, she’d do it for free. They were more like family than employers, and she knew they felt the same about her. Which was why this sudden inability to get in touch with them troubled her. Perhaps it was because she was twenty years older than the Fargos, but she likened the experience to what parents must feel like when they can’t reach their kids by phone and they don’t know where they are.

  The hardest part of waiting was the unbidden imagining of all the terrible things that might have befallen them—especially in the Fargos’ world. Which was why she was staring at the phone on her desk, tapping her fingers.

  Lazlo, sitting at his desk next to her, said, “They’ll call. You know how they are when they’re in the middle of something. Usually a jungle or some desert island.”

  “Except they’re in Italy, where there’s a surprising lack of jungles or desert islands. And they’re on their way to a function probably filled with mafioso running a fencing operation for fine art.”

  “Right up their alley,” he said. “You know as well as I that they’re loving every second. Why, I have no idea, but they do.”

  “What if something happened and that’s why they’re not calling? We could start a used-car lot with the number of rental cars they’ve ruined. Those two are in enough near disasters that I’ve had to start coloring the gray in my hair.”

  He looked up at the short spikes on her head. “I quite like what you’ve done. Those bits of blue and pink . . .”

  When she felt her face heat up, she turned away, pretending to concentrate on the missing journal that Albert’s attorney had overnighted to her, as though she was suddenly worried about losing her place. It wasn’t all that long ago that Lazlo had come to work for the Fargos full-time as a cryptographer and researcher. Looking back, she realized that she, a workaholic, and Lazlo, a recovering alcoholic, had done a fairly good job of tolerating each other’s presence.

  Somewhere along the way, she’d lightened up, and he’d sobered up.

  Of course, it wasn’t long after that they’d discovered they actually worked well together. She liked his dry sense of humor, and he liked her work ethic. More importantly, they both liked the Fargos. That, in her mind, made for a good professional relationship.

  Lately, though, she was starting to discover that there was more to Lazlo than met the eye. He’d taken the time to learn about her late husband, an Air Force test pilot. He knew she liked Pink Lady apples over Fuji. And when the going got tough, and she was deep into research and tempted to raid the pantry upstairs for a quick snack instead of a meal, he took to the kitchen, his intent to make sure she ate right.

  He wasn’t the best chef in the world, but he’d bought a Hungarian cookbook, and his attempts to make goulash, stuffed cabbage rolls, and paprika chicken with dumplings were endearing, even if the dishes were a bit overcooked.

  She stole a glance in his direction, grateful to see he wasn’t looking at her, and hoping he didn’t notice her embarrassment. He did, however, notice her sudden attention.

  “You know you want to,” he said, without looking up from the pages on his desk.

  Shocked speechless, Selma wondered for a moment if he’d been reading her mind instead of his copy of the Viscount’s journal. This time there was no hiding the color flooding to her cheeks. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, trying to focus on the book.

  “Ringing the Fargos,” he replied, giving a pointed look at the phone. “While I’m quite sure they’ll rin
g if they need something, you’ve been staring at the same page in that journal for the last several minutes. It’s clear you won’t be able to concentrate until you pick up the phone.” He looked over at her, seemed to do a double take. “You’re not coming down with a fever, are you?”

  He reached over and touched her forehead, his skin cool against hers. “You do feel a bit warm.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, scooting her chair back to put some much needed distance between them. Slipping a piece of paper into the journal to mark her place, she picked up the receiver, punching the speed dial for Sam’s phone. Nothing. Not even a beep. She hit the hook flash, trying for a dial tone. “I don’t think it’s working.”

  Lazlo picked up the phone on his desk, got the same result. “I daresay, that explains why we haven’t heard from them. I’ll call the phone company and get a technician out here.”

  The relief she felt—knowing there was a reasonable explanation—disappeared when they discovered that their cell phones weren’t working, either.

  Lazlo was staring at his iPhone screen, waiting for it to reboot. “Quite coincidental, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Suspicious, is more like it,” she said, turning to the computer and realizing the internet was down. “If it was just the landline and internet, I could almost believe it’s bad phone lines. But cell phones, too?”

  “You don’t think someone hacked the Fargo accounts?”

  “Let’s hope not,” she said. But after a quick trip to their closest neighbor to make a call, unsuccessfully, to the Fargos, then trying to get a technician out to fix the lines, there was no question about it. Someone had not only closed all the Fargo accounts, they were denying them access.

  She called the bank next and discovered that those accounts had been frozen as well.

  As much as Selma worried about the Fargos being out there without any money or way to contact them, she knew that her employers were resourceful. The Fargos would discover a way to get in touch. Of that, she had no doubt. And when they did, they’d be expecting answers to the history of the Gray Ghost. What she needed to do was finish her research, but when she sat down to read the stolen journal, she discovered her bookmark had slipped out. “What else can go wrong?” she said, turning the pages.

  “Allow me,” Lazlo said, taking the journal from her, quickly finding her place.

  49

  JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK

  1906

  I awoke to splitting pain in my head and the vague sensation that I was being watched. I cracked open one eye, moonlight surrounding me, as I tried to recall how it was I’d ended up on the ground behind some tavern next to a rubbish heap.

  A voice from above startled me. I looked up, seeing nothing but the silhouette of something large and round. A cow with wings. No, a man with his hands on his hips.

  In the dim light coming from an open door, I realized it was a barkeep, staring down at me, a stern expression on his face . . .

  * * *

  —

  “I— I HAVE NO IDEA how I got here,” I said.

  “One too many pints, I’d say.”

  “That’s just it. I don’t remember drinking more than a glass of wine at dinner.”

  The bartender grunted in disbelief, as I sat up, trying to remember the circumstances that brought me here . . .

  I’d had dinner with Miss Atwater.

  When I tried to stand on my own, a wave of dizziness came over me.

  “Can’t hold your ale, eh?” the man said, catching me.

  It was easier not to argue with him.

  “Lucky I heard the ruckus out here,” he continued, taking a step back once I was safely on my feet.

  I looked around, trying to remember what happened. The sight of my father’s brass-handled cane, shoved into the trash heap next to us, brought with it the vague memory of someone calling me “Lord High and Mighty” as they threw me on the ground. I turned to the barkeep. “I appreciate your help.”

  “Seems to me a gentleman such as yourself might offer a reward for saving your neck.” He held out his hand, demanding payment. “Those blokes might’ve slit your throat, had I not walked back here when I did. At great risk to myself, I might add.”

  Grateful, I felt in my coin pocket, surprised to discover money still there. Relief turned to fear as I recalled Miss Atwater’s sudden disappearance. “Did you see a lady with them? Was anyone talking about a woman?”

  “Don’t rightly know.”

  “You said you heard the ruckus. Think carefully, man. What did you hear?”

  When a look of suspicion crossed his face, I pulled out several coins. “Tell me exactly what you heard.”

  He eyed the money, then me. “One bloke said he knew you’d follow the water. The other two laughed.”

  A fresh wave of nausea struck me as I thought of Miss Atwater, frightened and alone. “What else?”

  “They dumped you here and said to meet in forty or fifty.”

  “Were they actually discussing time? Or could it have been something else?”

  The man eyed me as though the question was absurd. “Don’t rightly know. Just that when they saw me walking out here, the first man said to leave you where you were. That you wouldn’t have the guts to go after them.”

  Had it simply been the Grey Ghost or the coveted forty-fifty engine, I would have been content to call a night watchman and be done with it. But the realization that they’d taken the innocent Miss Atwater spurred me to action. I knew, though, that I couldn’t go after her on my own. “I need to get a message to someone.”

  The man grabbed the coins from my palm and turned back toward the tavern, giving the refuse heap a wide berth. “Funny how you toffs think I’ve got nothing but time. Got a business to run here.”

  “I’ll pay double what I’ve given you.”

  He stopped at the door, looking back at me. “Triple, and I’ll send a lad ’round.”

  “Triple, then. To Mr. Isaac Bell at the Midland Hotel. Tell him Miss Atwater’s been kidnapped and to meet me—” Meet where? I realized the location was never mentioned. Still, if it really was Reggie behind all this, there was only one place he’d go. “Meet at my father’s warehouse. The same message to Byron, Lord Ryderton.” I gave him the address.

  The barkeep muttered something about men who couldn’t hold their drink, as he started to walk away.

  Stomach roiling from the stench of the garbage and the blow to my head, I grabbed my father’s cane from the refuse pile, breathing in the fresher air, trying to gain back my equilibrium. “Forty-fifty . . .”

  Only one meaning behind that phrase, and not something that some cutthroat might have knowledge about.

  I pictured my father’s warehouse, wondering how I hadn’t thought of it before. Perhaps my reluctance was because I’d refused to believe that Reginald was guilty of stealing the Grey Ghost. Now that I knew it was he, it really was the only place the car could be hidden.

  The stolen car, however, was the last thing I worried about.

  Miss Atwater . . .

  During the fifteen minutes it took for me to clear my head, find the right direction, and walk to the warehouse, I prayed I wasn’t too late.

  50

  Remi waited until darkness shrouded the Italian countryside before changing in the backseat of the car. She stepped out, smoothing the silk gown down her legs, then adjusted the plunging sweetheart neckline embellished with a tiny rosette made of Swarovski crystals—elegant yet simple.

  Sam gave a soft whistle when he saw her. “I was right. You look amazing.”

  “Right down to my feet.” The gown was meant to be floor-length and worn with heels. She lifted the hem, revealing her black lace-up hiking boots.

  “Like I said, no one will be looking at your feet. Walk in like you own the place.”

&nbs
p; “Wish me luck.” She leaned over, kissed him, checked to make sure no one was watching before she made her way to the motorized cart the guards were using to shuttle the guests from the parking lot to the villa’s front gate. Sam was right. No one noticed her feet. Even so, she was careful to keep her boots tucked beneath her gown on the ride over. The shuttle stopped at a wide path paved with terra-cotta tiles, potted cypresses spaced evenly on either side. It led to the first flight of stairs cut into the hillside, and a landing where stone benches lined the travertine balustrade, perhaps to give the guests a place to rest before they tackled the longer second flight up to the massive front doors, which were standing open to allow the guests entry.

  Remi walked up the path and stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing a few guests on the first landing, dismayed to see Luca, sitting on a bench at the landing of the first flight, smoking a cigarette, waiting for her and Sam. Bluffing her way into the party was one thing. Getting past him, something else altogether.

  “You look lost.”

  She turned to see a man standing where no one had been a moment before. He wasn’t a guard, since he was clearly dressed for the party, the cut of his jacket impeccable, the sheen of the cloth saying money was no object. She put him in his late thirties, though his brown hair was peppered with gray. He regarded her with a mix of curiosity and wariness, almost mirroring what she felt at the moment.

  Her instincts told her that being an American at this event might make her far too noticeable. “Parla italiano?”

  “Sorry, no. English only.”

  She looked up the stairs, saw Luca looking at her. Not sure if he’d sound the alarm or demand his fee, she stepped into the shadows of one of the cypresses.

  Apparently, the man standing next to her noticed. “You might consider using the lift.” He waved to his left, where she saw the narrow door to the elevator cut into the rock, a few potted cypresses positioned to make it look less noticeable. “Quicker,” he said, reaching over, pressing the button. The door slid open with a quiet whoosh, and he reached out, holding it so it wouldn’t close on her.