back.
Only then did she return inside, deciding that as much as she really wanted to see the sights, what she really desired was a soak in the tub and a long, long nap. The spacious bathroom had been updated, including a large Carrara marble tub with gold dolphin-shaped faucets. She ran the water, then got out some clean clothes and the report on conspiracies that the professor had given her, and was about to head back into the bathroom when she spied a small refrigerator. On impulse, she opened it and found an assortment of beverages. When in Rome, she thought, withdrawing an ice-cold mini bottle of prosecco. She poured it into one of the flute glasses sitting on top of the small refrigerator, then carried that into the bathroom. When the tub was filled, she undressed, slipped into the steaming water, and sipped her sparkling wine.
Not too bad, she thought, picking up the first page of the report, trying to give it a thorough read. Maybe it was the lack of distractions from passengers or from Zach Griffin’s presence, or that she was more relaxed, but she was having a hard time keeping her eyes open as she scanned Xavier Caldwell’s report. It was your basic conspiracy theory on Freemasons and the New World Order; Caldwell’s version stated they were running Washington, D.C., New York, and the entire banking system. Definitely nothing new. Flipping through several more pages, she decided that Caldwell was a bit heavy on a few key words like Illuminati, Vatican, and the P2 Italian Freemasonry lodge.
Grade B for effort, in that it took some time to type up, or at least cut-and-paste the dozens of pages from various conspiracy Web sites, but D-minus for originality. Even so, she continued to read, just in case there was something there. But jet lag finally caught up with her. Having no energy, she got as far as dressing in her underwear, then bundling up in the thick terry robe hanging in the wardrobe. The bed was soft, inviting, and she picked up Caldwell’s report, thinking she’d read a few more pages before sleep finally overtook her. She nodded off twice, then woke again trying to grasp what the professor had told her…something about Xavier Caldwell speaking to Alessandra about finding proof of a government conspiracy, but she had warned him off…and now she was dead and he was missing…
Her last thought before the report slipped from her grasp and she fell asleep was that she needed to call Carillo.
11
The private residence of Alec Harden, ambassador to the Holy See, was situated across from the American Academy on Via Giacomo Medici. Zach Griffin parked his car down the narrow street, passing a white van with a man sitting inside, then noted the other white van opposite, making them for the two armed carabinieri guards assigned to watch the residence under the heightened security. The residence itself was surrounded by a high wall with glass shards stuck into it to keep out unwanted visitors. Zach, who had actually worked out of Harden’s office in the past year, had called ahead, and so he passed the carabinieri, and walked up to the gates, where the portière admitted him through and into the villa with its square tower. From there, a black-and-white-uniformed maid escorted him upstairs to the ambassador’s private study.
Alec Harden was expecting a report on his missing daughter, and Zach did not relish the duty of informing him that her status had changed from that of missing to most likely dead. Despite the forensic drawing that solidified their suspicions of it being Alessandra Harden, they lacked the evidence such as DNA or dental for that one hundred percent verification, the sort that told a waiting family member that there could be no mistake.
“Mr. Griffin, a pleasure as always,” Ambassador Harden said, rising from a wingback chair to shake Zach’s hand. He was in the midst of late afternoon tea, a steaming cup by the window with a view of the spacious gardens of the American Academy across the narrow street. A group of Fellows of the Academy were playing croquet under the tall parasol pines, and their laughter drifted into the high-ceilinged room.
“Mr. Ambassador. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“What can I do for you?”
Zach waited until the maid left the room. Once they were alone, he said, “It’s about your daughter.”
“You found her? Thank God.”
“I—” He took a breath, knew there was no good way to