“Her husband,” David answered.
“And?”
“She has only a day or two left.”
“Oh, David,” Olivia lamented, and squeezed his hand in sympathy. “I am so sorry. You must go to her, right away.”
Sant’Angelo nodded thoughtfully, then lifted his head and said, “You could do that. By all means. You could return to her as quickly as you can, only to stand at her bedside helplessly and watch her succumb to the inevitable.” He let that dreadful option sink in for a few seconds, before gripping the head of his cane with both hands, and saying, “Or you could fight!”
The words hung suspended in the air. David knew what a sensible librarian at a well-respected institution like the Newberry would do.
And he knew what the fearsome Cellini would have done. The choice was as clear as day, and he made it.
Before he could even speak, he noted his host’s lips curving into a subtle smile of victory. “I knew you had it in you,” the artisan declared, his dark eyes flashing. “And now, it’s time you knew the rest,” he said, removing a silver garland from the pocket of his smoking jacket.
Chapter 35
It had been many years since Ernst Escher had tried to cram himself into such a tiny car, but the beige Peugeot was all that the rental agency had left—and besides, it was a good car for surveillance purposes. Easy to park, and utterly inconspicuous. And Escher was pretty much living in it now.
After leaving the hotel the night before, he hadn’t dared to check in anywhere else. Who knew how many desk clerks might be on the take from those murderous Turks? He’d parked down under one of the bridges, slept for a few hours, and after looking over the last photos and text that Julius had sent him, he’d driven to the quiet street across from the boating park.
The town house was impressive, with a walled garden and a driveway on one side. Escher had slowly cruised past, then turned around and parked fifty yards up the street. The rearview mirror was positioned to show him anything that happened at the house. This was the last place Jantzen had tracked them to, and when Escher had done some checking at the Crillon he discovered that Franco and his friend Olivia had not spent the night in their room.
Chances were they’d spent it in the town house, with what was apparently some very well-heeled friend.
When his own phone rang, he saw it was the ex-ambassador Schillinger, calling from Chicago for his regular progress report. But Escher, who’d been circumspect all along (omitting any mention, for instance, of that bloody fracas in Florence), was even less inclined to tell him much now He no longer knew whose side anyone was playing on.
“Where are you?” Schillinger complained the moment Escher picked up.
“Still in Paris.” He wasn’t about to be any more specific than that.
“With Jantzen?”
“No.”
Schillinger sighed. “Don’t tell me you’ve had a falling-out with him, too? Julius is no fool. He might be able to help you.”
Escher knew that Schillinger had no great regard for his intelligence, but then, he was happy to return the compliment.
“Have you made any progress at all? Or, more to the point, has Franco? I’d dearly like to know what he’s up to. That information could be very important—and valuable—to certain people.”
“Would one of them be me?”
“When have I ever not rewarded you for a job well done?” Schillinger snapped.
“The job is getting done all right,” Escher replied, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, “but it has gotten a lot more complicated.” He’d checked the morning newspapers, but so far the murders in Pigalle hadn’t made it into print.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Schillinger said, losing what little patience he had ever had. “Please don’t tell me you’re trying to renegotiate the terms of your employment? I have sometimes regretted my generosity as it is.”
“I’m way past that,” Escher said, leaning back in the seat with one eye fixed on the rearview mirror. As far as he was concerned, he wasn’t even working for Schillinger anymore. He’d been a fool—a lackey working for a lackey. Now he was a freelance bounty hunter, and if this Franco character turned out to be carrying anything of real cash value, then Escher was going to take it to the highest bidder. Schillinger might be out to score points and kiss ass, but Escher was simply out to make a score.
“Oh, Ernst,” Schillinger said condescendingly, “it sounds to me like you are about to make such a grave mistake.”
Escher could picture him slowly shaking his shaggy white head.