From a small case from his backpack, he had removed a jet-black device no bigger than a dime, and maybe twice as thick as a nickel. Flipping it over, he pushed a tiny switch with his thumbnail to turn it on. He glanced over at the trio, the girl still crying, the driver trying to shush her, but desperately watching the taxi line, seeing his chance at easy money evaporate the closer the two women got to the front. Griffin casually walked past the taxi, tossed the bug into the open door—not his preferred method, but right now, the most efficient method—and continued past it, judging that it probably landed on the floorboard of the front passenger seat. The driver wouldn’t be looking for it, his attention would be fixed on whatever cab he was following.
Griffin made eye contact with Mario, as he started across the piazza toward the taxi queue. And just as suddenly as it started, Mario grabbed his sister, telling her to quit being such a big baby. That she wasn’t hurt. The two kids ran across the street and waited for Griffin by the newspaper kiosk.
“We did good, yes?” Mario asked.
“You did excellent.” Griffin removed a hundred euros from his wallet, then handed them to Mario. “Grazie.”
The girl smiled at the sight of the money. “If you want help with your tunnels, come to San Gennaro—Duomo of Naples.” Suddenly she grinned. “I saw it on the signorina’s map.” And then, before Griffin could question her further, she and Mario darted off into the crowd.
Heaven help the next unwary traveler, he thought, rejoining Sydney and Francesca as they reached the front of the line, about to get into a taxi.
Griffin gave the man the name of the hotel. About ten minutes later, the cab pulled up in front of the hotel, its seventeenth-century edifice giving testament to a past grandeur that had faded due to neglect or lack of money over the last couple centuries. The property was either owned by Adami, or the owner was in his pockets, which meant that anyone who worked within was suspect. They exited, and Griffin paid the driver. The pirate cab had indeed followed them, was parked just down the street. Griffin escorted the women toward the hotel’s front door, at the same time, removing the listening device from his backpack, something that resembled a portable music player, replete with little white headphones that completed the look. He put one earpiece in his right ear, said, “It sounds like he is making a call…He is. Saying our taxi dropped us off at the hotel, and where should he wait to collect the rest of his money…”
They entered the lobby, crossing a marble floor, the brown and white swirls having lost their gleam long ago. Only the wood-paneled walls and the counter were polished. Griffin gave his name to the lone man at the reservation desk, and was given a key, then directed to the elevator. Inside the lift, he lost the signal completely. “Let’s hope the room faces the front street,” he said. But judging from the direction they had to take when they stepped off the elevator, it did not.
“Why hope for a room at the front?” Sydney asked, as he unlocked the door, and they entered. There were two double beds, a table and two chairs cramped into a space that barely fit the furniture. The only thing that saved the room was the tall French window that overlooked a narrow alley, the light pouring in giving the illusion of spaciousness.
“The digital listening device I planted in the cab. Direct line of sight brings a clearer signal.” He moved to the window. Could just make out the main street from his view of the alley.
Francesca moved straight toward the bathroom. The moment she closed the door behind her, Sydney said, “I get the feeling she’s still hiding something.”
“As long as she doesn’t take too long in revealing it. All we can do is watch and wait. Unless you’re any good at reading maps,” he said, nodding at the rolled-up parchment in the bag she’d tossed onto the bed.
“Tunnels leading to ancient burial sites aren’t my forte.”
“Mine either. But I have it on good authority that we want to head toward the San Gennaro. At least that’s what your little street urchin told me.”
“Quite the entrepreneur, that one.”
“Quite.”
A few minutes later, Francesca emerged from the bathroom, took a seat in a chair by the window, tapping her fingers on