Remi inched toward the cypress, peering through, as the broker ushered the other man toward the door. “By Monday, you’ll be able to see for yourself. As I do with all my clients, I’ll personally guarantee that this is the vehicle you purchased. I promise you that I have yet to know anyone who’s not had complete satisfaction.”
“Then I’ll await your call.”
“Signore Wrent. A pleasure doing business with you.”
“And you, Mr. Rossi.”
Lorenzo Rossi left the door open, returned to his desk, pulled something from his pocket. A key, she realized, ducking back as he took a seat, the chair again squeaking under his weight.
A few seconds later, the burly guard with the goatee entered, saying, in Italian, “You should be pleased with the price he paid. Your profit from that car far exceeds the total of the other cars tonight.”
“Very pleased,” Lorenzo said. “And curious. The only reason someone makes a bid that high is to ensure no one else will even bother.”
“Did he say why?”
“History,” Lorenzo replied. “He was asking about supporting documents and anxious to see the car before the money cleared. Between that and the price he paid, I find my curiosity aroused.”
“Maybe we should take another look at the car before we turn it over to him?”
“Not a bad idea.” He gave a tired sigh. “Time to play host.”
The other man stopped suddenly, turned, and walked to the balcony, reaching out to close the window, his arm so close Remi could see the faint gray pinstriping on the sleeve of his suit coat. She held her breath. One look in her direction, he’d be able to see her on the other side of the cypress.
54
Sam raised his Smith & Wesson, aiming toward the adjoining balcony as someone reached out the window, the man’s arm coming perilously close to his wife’s head. Finger on the trigger, he pressed lightly, ready, should the unthinkable happen.
“Leave it open,” a voice called out. “I’ll be coming back up to put away the buy-in once I make the rounds downstairs. It gets stuffy up here otherwise.”
The arm disappeared inside, and Sam lifted his finger from the trigger, breathing evenly now that the immediate danger had passed. A moment later, Remi looked over at him. “They’re gone,” she said quietly.
He stepped out, checking to make sure the grounds below were clear, before crossing over to her.
“Reader’s Digest version,” she said. “Definitely the right auction. The broker sold the car to someone, but I didn’t quite get the name. The car’s being held somewhere in Paris until the money clears. They never mentioned Gray Ghost, but they did say ‘forty-fifty.’”
“They give any indication they’d be back up here?”
“After he makes the rounds of the party downstairs.”
Sam peered into the darkened office. “Let’s take a quick look before they get back.”
He went first, gun drawn, just to make sure it was clear, Remi following. The first thing he checked was the door, listening for any sign of movement outside. Nothing.
“I think he locked it,” Remi whispered. “At least it sounded like it.”
He tried turning the knob. It held tight. Advantage: theirs. They’d hear a key in the lock. He returned to the window, looking out, the moonlight angling onto the balcony. The security they’d seen earlier hadn’t reappeared. Last thing he and Remi needed was for some guard to suddenly become astute and notice the dim lights of burglars in their employer’s office. He pulled the curtains, returned to Remi’s side, slipping his backpack from his shoulder and taking out a very slim LED flashlight, which he handed to Remi. She at least saw and heard what went on, which meant if anyone should be conducting the search, it was Remi. “I’ll keep watch.”
She started going through the desk drawers, finding one of them locked. It took her a minute to pick it, and she pulled out papers, looking them over, trying to replace them as she found them.
Sam heard footsteps outside in the hallway. He held up his hand, aiming his gun at the door. Remi stopped her searching, watching him. He kept his focus on the bottom of the door, the thin line of light unbroken, until a shadow filled the gap—then moved past. He signaled to Remi, who moved from the desk to look over the shelves behind it. “Nothing,” she whispered. “If he has anything in here about where this place is . . .”
They’d already stayed longer than was comfortable. Anything more, and they were pushing their luck. “Wrap it up. We need to get out of here.”
She nodded. While he returned his attention to the door, she gave the room a slow perusal, picking up the pad of paper and ripping off several sheets, which she put in her pocket. Her attention landed on the phone. Suddenly she picked it up, punched in a number on the keypad.
“What’re you doing?”
“Trying to call Selma.” She listened for a moment, hung up. “Busy.”
“Again?” That bothered him.
“There has to be some way to reach her,” she said.
If they were hacked, all Selma’s information, including her cell phone and their house phone, was compromised. Selma appeared on all of their credit reports as an authorized user. Time to figure that out later. Hearing voices in the hallway, he pointed toward the window. She nodded, starting that direction. Suddenly she stopped, looking on a shelf, eyeing the books behind the desk. Clearly something about them bothered her, because she started touching and pressing them. A soft click and a secret panel opened. “Sam . . . I think I found the buy-in he needed to take care of.”
His gun trained on the door, he backed toward her, looking at the hidden cupboard—and on the shelf within, Remi’s little blue light shining on the stacks of banded euros in denominations of twenty.
A little negligent, leaving money out where anyone could get it.
And a quandary. He and Remi prided themselves on their honesty. Stealing something that didn’t belong to them was not an option.
But having been hacked and suddenly cut off from even the smallest source of income made the find extremely tempting.
They looked at each other, both ready to back off, until Remi said, “We could really use that right now . . .”
“Maybe so, but it’s a good way to make someone really mad.”
“He’s a broker selling stolen cars. Who’s he going to call? The police?”
“Good point.” He handed her his backpack.
She unzipped it, picked up several stacks, stuffed them into the bag.
It was risky. Someone was bound to notice the missing money.
He heard footsteps in the hallway. The thin bead of light beneath the door was broken by the shadow of someone stepping in front of it. Unlike last time, this shadow didn’t move on.
Sam aimed toward the door and backed toward the window. Reaching behind him, he pulled open the curtain. “Remi,” he whispered, as someone inserted a key into the door lock.
She closed the panel, zipped the backpack shut, tossing it to Sam as she moved to the window. She’d no sooner stepped out onto the balcony than the door opened and the broker walked in.
The man stared at Sam, almost as though he couldn’t believe that someone was standing in his office. His gaze flicked to the now-closed hidden panel, then Sam’s gun. “Guards!”
55
Guards!” the broker cried again, his voice carrying out the window.
Sam clambered over to the next balcony. When he reached Remi’s side, he eyed the limb five feet away, then the ground twenty feet below. “After you,” he said, taking her hand, helping her up onto the stone balustrade. She made the leap as easily as a gymnast, her foot landing on the thick branch, balancing lightly, as she caught the branches overhead to steady herself. She quickly edged toward the tree’s trunk.
The broker shouted that he’d been robbed. Sam holstered his weapon, hopped up ont
o the balustrade, and jumped just as two guards burst out onto the balcony. Remi already had her gun out. She fired. The left cypress’s pot exploded, the evergreen tilting across the balcony as the two guards ducked back inside. One of the guards inched out again.
Crack!
Remi killed the other pot. She fired at the balustrade, keeping the guards pinned inside, as Sam maneuvered his way through the tree branches. When he reached her, he took her gun, gave her the rope. She slung the coil over her shoulder, balancing in the crook of the tree, as a shout came from below. The two perimeter guards exploded from around the corner, one of them aiming his gun upward, searching the row of trees. Sam wrapped his left arm around the trunk, leaned out, and fired at the grass in front of them. Grass and dirt blasted up, the men jumped back. Sam, shifting his weight, fired at the balcony. He used the momentum to pivot around, landing on the other side of the trunk.
Remi looped the rope around the branch and was already halfway down. Sam ducked when the guards from the balcony fired, shots hitting the thick tree limbs, splinters and sap flying out. Remi jumped to the ground. Sam tossed the gun to her, grabbed the rope, then jumped, too, as a second volley of shots hit the tree.
At the bottom he took her hand, and the two raced to the oleanders. When they reached the car, they crouched behind it, Sam rising high enough to peer through the window. Guests on the top terrace near the front doors were leaning over the balcony, trying to see what was happening. The guard up there was drawing them away, trying to usher them toward the doors.
The two young men working the shuttle were surveying the parking lot. A few cars were rolling slowly toward them. One of the men pointed at the first car, saying something Sam couldn’t hear. The other nodded, walked up to the car, his hand reaching for his hip, probably for a gun hidden beneath his jacket, as he looked in the window. He waved the first car through but stopped the second car.
“How fast do you think you can change back into that gown?” Sam asked.
Remi looked at the men checking the cars. “Fast enough.”
Staying low, she opened the back door, slid in, while Sam got behind the wheel. He started the car, hoping the two young guards were so busy searching the interior of the departing vehicles in front of them that they wouldn’t notice him driving out from behind the oleanders.
He checked the mirror, saw Remi shrug out of her shirt, then slip the dress over her head, pulling it down over her hips. “Ready.”
“Your hair.”
She pulled out the elastic, fluffed it up. “Drive on, James.”
Sam idled forward. One of the two men walked toward their car, looking in the window at Sam, then over to the empty passenger seat. “Signorina,” Sam said.
She rolled down her window and leaned out, immediately drawing the young man’s attention away from Sam. “Scusi,” she said, her Italian and accent flawless. “Were those gunshots? I’m not in any danger, am I?”
“No, no,” the man said. “Warning shots to scare off the wolves. They come down from the hills occasionally.”
“How frightening,” she said, her hand going to her throat. “You’re very brave to stand out here.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, taking a step back, his stance relaxing. He waved them through the wrought iron gates.
Sam, keeping his focus ahead, pulled out, then watched in the rearview mirror as the second man put his hand to his ear, obviously listening to a radioed transmission. He shouted something to his partner, and both men ran out the gates toward them.
“What’s wrong?” Remi asked, as he hit the gas.
“I think they just figured out who we are.” He saw the two men run into the road, drawing their guns. “Get down!”
He yanked the wheel to the left as they aimed and fired, twin muzzle blasts flashing in the dark, followed by the dull ping as one of the shots hit the car.
Gas pedal floored, engine roaring, Sam sped up the hill, cresting it, blinded by the headlights of a car coming straight at them.
56
Unable to see past the glare of the oncoming car, Sam slammed on the brakes, whipping the wheel to the right, the back end fishtailing. The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled the car, then dissipated as they sped down the hill. In the mirror he saw the red glow of the other car’s taillights fading as it descended on the other side. No sign of approaching headlights—for now.
“Remi?”
Nothing but the sound of the wind rushing in her open window.
“Remi!”
Her hand came up between the seats, soon followed by the rest of her. “Sorry. Took me a moment to shove my heart back into my chest.”
“That little bit of driving?”
“The longest ten seconds of my life.”
“Less than five.” He shot a look at the backpack on the front floorboard, at Remi in the rearview mirror. “Any idea how much you took from that broker?”
“I only had time to grab three stacks. Bands of a thousand.”
“Three thousand more euros than we had a few hours ago.”
“Get the plane out of hock?”
“With the price of fuel? We wouldn’t get far. I vote we start with a cheap hotel for the night and regroup in the morning.”
* * *
—
FINDING A CHEAP HOTEL without a valid credit card turned out to be harder than they thought.
Remi gave a sigh of frustration. “We need to call Georgia. She did say she had friends in the B and B business.”
“It’s just after midnight. A little late to try to find a working phone.”
Remi smiled. “This is Italy. Pick any tourist attraction, and someone will have a cell phone.”
Sam checked the map on the dash, made a left turn. About six minutes later, the lit arches of the Colosseum appeared in the distance against the black sky. He parked just up the road, and the two walked down the hill. Even this late, the street in front of the amphitheater was crowded with tourists, most using their cell phones as cameras.
The first few attempts to borrow a phone were met with suspicious stares, even more so when Sam offered money.
Remi surveyed the crowd. “Wait here a sec.” She crossed the cobblestone street to a group of young men in their twenties clowning around while taking selfies with the Colosseum in the background.
The second she approached, the four men stopped what they were doing, their attention on Remi and whatever she was telling them. Suddenly there were four cells being handed to her. Five minutes later, she returned with an address on a scrap of paper. “We’re in luck! One of Georgia’s B and B friends has an apartment near the Trevi Fountain. He’ll gladly take cash, and it’s open for the next two days.”
The location wasn’t near the fountain, it was directly adjacent to it, as well as the Trevi Plaza, which was still filled with dozens upon dozens of tourists enjoying the temperate late-night air.
Marco Verzino met them at the door, led them up four flights of stairs to the topmost corner apartment, where he unlocked the door for them. “It’s warm,” he said, immediately opening the floor-to-ceiling windows, one of which overlooked the Trevi Fountain, bringing in the cooler air, the rush of the water below, and the drone of voices from the people milling in the square. A cheer erupted in the crowd. When Sam and Remi looked down, a man and woman were hugging in front of the fountain’s pool as those surrounding them clapped.
Remi watched for a moment, asking, “Is it always this crowded?”
Marco laughed. “Roma doesn’t sleep in the summer. The visitors thin out in the early-morning hours. But never completely.” He held up a remote from the coffee table. “If it becomes too loud, close the windows. Air-conditioning in each room.”
In truth, the sounds of the fountain masked the voices, and Sam and Remi slept very well. Late the next morning, they bought prepaid cell phones and a very s
oft pencil, then returned to the apartment, where Remi took the tip of the pencil, held it sideways, and lightly rubbed it across the pad of paper she stole from the broker’s office. Soon, an address started to appear.
Sam tried calling home. No luck. “Selma and Lazlo are still off-line,” he said.
“At least now we know where we’re going in Paris.” Remi looked up from the paper to the phone Sam held. “We have to assume that Selma and Lazlo are aware of the hacking by now.”
“I’d think they’d call Georgia, knowing that was the last place we were headed.”
They placed a called to Georgia, but she hadn’t heard from Selma yet. “Selma’s smart,” Georgia said. “I’m sure she’ll get in touch with me.”
“When she does,” Sam said, “give her our new cell numbers. Have her call the moment she can.”
“I will. What about Chad and Oliver? Do you want me to text them your new numbers?”
“No!” Sam replied in a hurry.
“Why?” Georgia asked. “What’s wrong?”
The last thing Remi wanted to do was worry her friend unnecessarily. “Where are they?”
“Waiting for their train. I gave them Marco’s address and dropped them off at the station about an hour ago. Why?”
“The phones,” Sam replied. “If these people hacked ours, it’s possible they hacked Oliver’s and Chad’s, to track them. They could be leading our enemies straight to us.”
57
Selma opened her eyes, trying to clear the fog from her brain, as Lazlo strode into her office carrying a bag from their wireless provider.
“We have technology,” he said, holding the bag aloft.
It took a moment for her to realize she’d fallen asleep in the recliner, the journal in her lap. She’d finished it once, and was on the second reading, hoping to discover what, if anything, was so important about any of the entries written in it. “Please tell me you’ve heard from the Fargos.”