“You mean where he bought the gargoyle?”
“Of course not,” Rhyme muttered. “And he didn’t buy it. He stole it. Lifted it from a stand nowhere near any CCTV, in gloved fingers. So there’d be minimal transfer of trace. No, the important scene is the one where the other side was sitting with their beer or coffee.”
Mulbry’s face stilled. “Could you elaborate?”
“If I were a spy putting together an operation in a city like Prague, my first job would be to identify the foxes. That is, your people.”
“It was another outfit actually. We were working with them.”
“Fine. Whoever. Now, the gargoyle served no purpose other than to expose your surveillance team.”
Mulbry tilted his head, brow furrowed.
Rhyme continued, “A gargoyle is obvious, it’s sure to attract attention. So that your team stayed in place filming anyone who walked by and paid attention to it. The minute those kids copped it, your team was after them. As soon as your people stood up, the bad guys saw and got their IDs, probably followed them. Bugged their homes, scanned their phones. Hm, a plastic toy worth a euro or whatever the denomination is in the Czech Republic took down an entire cell of yours. The table and chairs where the enemy was sitting waiting for you to reveal yourselves would’ve told us legions. Told you legions. But of course furniture’s been cleaned, the napkins washed, the bill tossed out, the money in the bank, the cobblestones scrubbed—I’m assuming that’s the terrain there—and the CCTV footage overwritten.”
Mulbry was completely still for a moment. He whispered, “Goddamn.”
Sachs said, “You better tell the team they’ve been compromised.”
Another glance between Rhyme and Sachs. He said to the agent, “We’ll talk about your offer. And be in touch.”
“I hope you will.” Mulbry shook their hands, said goodbye to Thom and climbed from the van, pulling out his phone.
Thom put the gearshift into drive and eased forward. They stopped at the Passport Control and Customs kiosk and handed over documents, which were returned. The van continued on.
Rhyme gave a laugh. “The Czech Republic.”
Thom said. “I’ve been to Prague a couple of times. I’m partial to the ?esne?ka. Garlic soup. Oh, and the fruit dumplings. The best.”
“What’s the local liquor like?” Rhyme asked.
“Slivovitz. Really potent. At least a hundred proof—fifty percent alcohol.”
“You don’t say?” Rhyme was intrigued.
They pulled up to the aircraft and Thom began the complicated procedure of lowering the ramp. Sachs climbed out, slung her computer bag over her shoulder. “Spies, Rhyme? Seriously?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
His eyes strayed to the copilot, who was completing the preflight walk-around.
Everything on the aircraft seemed properly attached and functioning.
The strapping young man—in a suit, white shirt and tie—approached his passengers now. “We’re all set, sir. Flight time should be about an hour and a half.”
Sachs was frowning. “To New York?”
The copilot’s brows furrowed. He glanced toward Rhyme, who said, “We’re not going back to the U.S. just yet. We’re meeting some friends in Milan.”
“Friends?” She glanced at Thom, who was looking over the airplane as if he himself were about to conduct a second preflight check. And avoiding eye contact. He was, however, smiling.
“Lon Sellitto. Oh, and Ron Pulaski.” The young NYPD officer they worked with regularly.
“Rhyme?” Sachs asked slowly. “What’s in Milan?”
He frowned and looked at Thom. “What is it again?”
“A Dichiarazione Giurata.”
“A particularly delicious dinner entrée?”
“Ha. No, it’s an affidavit we need to swear to before the consulate general there.”
“And why?”
“Obviously. Because we can’t get married without it. Ercole and Thom arranged the whole thing. Then we drive to Lake Como. The mayor there’ll perform the ceremony. We need to rent the marriage hall—part of the arrangement. It’s bigger than we need, I imagine, but that’s the way it works. Lon and Ron’ll be the witnesses.”
“A honeymoon on Lake Como, Rhyme,” Sachs said, smiling.
Rhyme tossed a look Thom’s way. “He was pretty insistent.”
She asked, “And what about Greenland?”
“Maybe our first anniversary,” Rhyme said and drove his chair toward the ramp that would take him up to the cabin of the sleek, idling jet.
Acknowledgments
With undying gratitude to: Will and Tina Anderson, Cicely Aspinall, Sophie Baker, Felicity Blunt, Penelope Burns, Jane Davis, Julie Deaver, Andy Dodd, Jenna Dolan, Jamie Hodder-Williams, Kerry Hood, Cathy Gleason, Emma Knight, Carolyn Mays, Wes Miller, Claire Nozieres, Hazel Orme, Abby Parsons, Michael Pietsch, Jamie Raab, Betsy Robbins, Lindsey Rose, Katy Rouse, Deborah Schneider, Vivienne Schuster, Louise Swannell, Ruth Tross, Madelyn Warcholik…and especially to my Italian friends: Roberta Bellesini, Giovanna Canton, Andrea Carlo Cappi, Gianrico Carofiglio, Francesca Cinelli, Roberto Costantini, Luca Crovi, Marina Fabbri, Valeria Frasca, Giorgio Gosetti, Michele Giuttari, Paolo Klun, Stefano Magagnoli, Rosanna Paradiso, Roberto and Cecilia Santachiara, Carolina Tinicolo, Luca Ussia, Paolo Zaninoni…and I must note the passing of the wonderful Tecla Dozio, whose mystery bookshop in Milan was always one of the highpoints of my international tours.
About the Author
A former journalist, folksinger and attorney, Jeffery Deaver is an international number one bestselling author. His novels have appeared on bestseller lists around the world, including the New York Times, The Times of London, Italy’s Corriere della Sera, the Sydney Morning Herald and the Los Angeles Times. His books are sold in 150 countries and translated into twenty-five languages.
He currently serves as president of the Mystery Writers of America.