the small table. “How long will we be here?”
“That depends,” Griffin said. “How much time do you need, Professor?”
“Enough time to contact—to get a computer and look up my notes, and try to pin the last coordinates from the map.”
Griffin stepped closer to the window, pressing the earpiece tighter. “Quiet,” he said. “The cabdriver is talking.”
Sydney glanced toward Griffin, decided he was listening to the cabbie, maybe even missed what Francesca had said about contacting someone. She moved closer to the professor. “Contact who?”
“No one. A misstatement.”
“I don’t think so.”
“I know the risks. Please let me handle this my way.”
Apparently Griffin had been listening to her. “Had we done that from the beginning, you’d be dead.”
“It’s dangerous. I realize that.”
He pressed a button on the receiver, removed the headphones, and turned up the volume so that they could hear what had been recorded. Sydney understood little, as they were speaking Italian, but of course Francesca understood every word. Sydney did, however, recognize the name of the hotel where the taxi driver dropped them off. Then another voice saying, “Grazie,” and then the sharp ping of gunfire, muted by the tiny device, but still recognizable.
Francesca’s face paled. She sank back in her chair. “Why? They said they wouldn’t hurt anyone if we brought them the map.”
Griffin wrapped the earphones around the receiver, dropped it into his pocket. “I don’t believe these are Adami’s men. Someone else is following us. Who, I have no idea. But whether it’s them or Adami, any witnesses are liabilities. That includes anyone who has contact with them, even cabdrivers or government agents. Are you starting to understand how serious these people are, Professor?”
She nodded.
“Now is there something you wanted to tell us about your contact in Naples?”
“I’m supposed to meet a colleague who knows the history of Sansevero. He e-mailed me the other morning, saying that he had found the right tunnel, but he ran into a dead end, and he thought if he could find another entrance, it would lead to the right chamber.”
“This e-mail, it was on your computer when it was stolen?”
“Oh my God.”
Griffin handed her his personal cell phone. “You need to call him now, and tell him to leave his house, office, or wherever else he’s known to hang out. Then have him meet up with us somewhere not even remotely associated.”
“What if—”
“No time for what-ifs,” he said, urging them toward the door. “If we’re lucky, we buy your friend a bit of time while they search for us. Let’s not make it too easy.”
They were just exiting the stairwell into the main lobby, when Sydney saw a man at the registration desk. She put her arm out, stopping Francesca and Griffin from moving forward. “Time for Plan B. I’m sure I saw that man on the train.”
“What is Plan B?” Francesca asked.
And Griffin said, “In this case, I’d say the service entrance.” They turned back into the stairwell, wandered through a hallway then through a side door, exiting into a narrow street that was blocked by a delivery truck unloading towels and linens to the hotel. Griffin gave Francesca a secure phone to call her contact, and when she finished, he asked, “Where are we meeting your friend?”
“A café not too far from here. We can walk.”
The streets at the center of town were narrow, cobbled, and filled with pedestrians, small cars, and scooters. The café was about five minutes from the hotel. The inside was dark, and Sydney’s eyes hadn’t yet adjusted to the change in lighting. Francesca led them to the back, where they took a seat at a table, but had a clear view of the door. About ten minutes later, a man walked in, his features silhouetted by the light from outside. Francesca stood, called out his name, and that’s when Sydney realized the identity of the professor’s so-called colleague.
Xavier Caldwell.
The missing student from UVA.
31
Francesca rushed forward, so relieved to see Xavier that she nearly knocked over the table as she embraced him. “You’re okay. Thank God.”
“Of course I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?” He looked past her to the two agents, before holding her by her shoulders and searching her face. “What is going on? Where’s Alessandra? I’ve been trying to call her for two weeks.”
Francesca wasn’t sure how to tell him, wasn’t sure how he’d react. She would have liked more time, and hated that she had to break the news this way. “She’s…she’s been murdered.”
His face blanched, and she reached up, grasped his