Marc arrive in Tunisia?” Giustino asked.
“Should be landing there any moment. How about our wayward FBI agent? She make it to the airport?”
“The signorina left in the cab about two, two and a half hours ago.” He glanced up at the clock. “The plane should be taking off any moment.”
“No trouble?”
“She gives many apologies,” he said, reaching over to adjust the controls on the monitoring equipment. “I think if she could, she would stay.”
“Pick up anything this morning?” Griffin asked, not wanting to think about what Sydney was involved in the past few days. Truth be told, he was relieved that she’d left. Less to worry about.
“Niente. Unless one counts the fax.”
“Intercept it?”
Giustino nodded toward a paper on the table. “A catering menu. Commendatore Adami must be having another party.” Griffin reached for the menu, curious to see what a multimillionaire ordered for his guests, when Giustino added, “But we did receive a call on the Journal line. From a Professoressa Francesca Santarella. She speaks of a package and some code. Signorina Alessandra mailed it to her at the American Academy two weeks ago.”
“We?”
“The Signorina Fitzpatrick took the call.”
“The same Fitzpatrick who is allegedly on her way to America?”
“There is, perhaps, another one?”
“Damn it!” Griffin slammed his hand on the table.
“Cosa c’è?”
“Do we even know if she ever got on board that flight?”
“You would like me to inquire?”
“Don’t bother,” he said, grabbing his keys. “I already know the answer. Get a landline to Professor Santarella’s office. If she picks up, patch it through to my cell.” He stormed toward the door, cursed himself three times over for not personally putting Fitzpatrick on that plane himself.
Standing at one side of the window, Sydney studied the man on the rooftop a few buildings down from the ambassador’s residence, someone she wouldn’t have noticed had it not been for the sunlight reflecting off what appeared to be the lenses of binoculars. She pulled Francesca back, out of sight, even though she was fairly certain that the object of the surveillance was the ambassador’s grounds and not anyone at the American Academy. “I’ve changed my mind about the tea,” Sydney said. “I think we should return to your studio.”
Francesca looked at Sydney as though she’d lost her mind. “Is something wrong?”
“I’d rather explain it back at your room.”
The professor shrugged, set their still full teacups in the sink, then led Sydney back to her office, which was obviously intended to be an artist’s studio at one time. Francesca had her work sorted out neatly on a long white table in the center of the room, with photographs and charts tacked to one wall. These seemed to focus on maps of underground chambers of some sort. A large drawing of a map of Rome was taped to another wall. A laptop sat on a desk next to the huge windows, which must have been a good fourteen feet in height. And beside the computer was a clear vase of yellow autumn crocus. What held Sydney’s interest on the desk, however, was the U.S. Global Priority Mail shipping label on the small box. What the hell was in it, and why had Alessandra sent it here? And just when Sydney had decided what line of questioning she wanted to follow in hopes of gaining her answers, the professor’s phone rang.
Francesca answered it, with “Pronto?” Listened a moment, then said, “Grazie, Roberto.” Then, turning to Sydney, she asked, “Now what was it you wanted to explain to me here, instead of in the kitchen?”
“First, I’m wondering if anyone knew of your friendship with Alessandra.”
“An odd question. I’m assuming that this has something to do with the package she sent?”
“I’ll explain it in good time,” she said, since Alessandra’s murder wasn’t yet public knowledge. “Just believe me when I say it’s important.”
“It wasn’t a secret,” she said. “Her father knew, and I presume most of his household staff did. I’ve been to several parties across the street over the last two years, even on occasions when she was back at school in the States.”
Footsteps echoed on the tiles outside the door. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Father Emile Dumas,” the professor said. And a moment later there was a knock. Before Sydney could stop her, Francesca opened the door to a tall man, his dark hair flecked with gray. His white clerical collar contrasted sharply against his black suit, something that might have put the average person at ease had it not been for one thing.
Sydney had seen him before.
At