Summer of Fire

by Kitty Pilgrim

  Madame Bonnard gave Victoria a raised eyebrow.

  “That’s perfect,” Victoria agreed hastily.

  “I’m sure your mother would approve of you being with an established family, instead of on your own.”

  “I am sure she would prefer it.”

  Charles looked from one to the other, not understanding what was transpiring.

  “I’ll go to London tomorrow to talk to Cordelia,” he declared.

  “Perfect,” Madame Bonnard smiled.

  Charles picked up his jacket.

  “Now, I’d better get Victoria back home to the Norwegian embassy before we have any more trouble. She promised to be back before midnight.”

  The ride back was not convivial. Charles slumped morosely in the backseat of the cab.

  “What’s wrong, Charles?”

  “I’m not sure it’s a good idea to stay in Paris. My mother can be a bit overbearing.”

  Victoria turned, her expression unreadable.

  “Nonsense, I’m delighted to spend some time with her.”

  “Listen V, she won’t be able to resist flaunting you to her friends.”

  “So you want me to go back to Oslo?”

  “Not at all. I know some people who have a big estate close to London. Why don’t you stay there? We could see each other privately.”

  She brightened at the prospect.

  “I could invite your sister to come with me. We can discuss a new wardrobe.”

  “Excellent idea. My sister would love a little vacation after her fashion show. I’ll call my friends the Skye-Russells. Cordelia introduced me to them a few years ago. They’re a very nice older couple. Their estate, Cliffmere, is an organic farm.”

  “Oh Charles, that’s perfect.”

  “Now, how do we get permission for you to go?” he asked.

  “Its simple really. I just have to ask the protocol office to clear my schedule. They’ll send a couple of security men with me, but they don’t have to stay on the estate. They can lodge at a nearby inn.”

  “I’ll set it up right away,” Charles said patting her hand. “There’s a good chance I can come and see you in a day or so.”

  RUE DE VAUGIRARD, PARIS

  Clothilde took a pencil and sketched out the graceful silhouette of the Norwegian princess. With Victoria as a muse, the new collection would be the sensation of Paris.

  There was a light knock at the door.

  “Anybody home?” Victoria asked as she stepped into the workroom.

  “Come on in. I was just thinking about some new designs.”

  Victoria bent over the drawing board.

  “Mmmm, navy. I never wear that color much.”

  “It would be stunning with your hair. More sophisticated than pastels.”

  Victoria sat down on the overstuffed chair and crossed her legs. Clothilde had a quick memory of her brother in that same spot; he and Victoria were a perfect match.

  “I need to ask a favor,” Victoria said.

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll need some new clothes … maybe in another month or so.”

  “I don’t follow …”

  Suddenly she realized what Victoria was hinting at. Without thinking, her eyes fell to her waistline.

  Victoria nodded. “I’ll start to show soon.”

  Clothilde sat, staring blankly. The sunlight poured in the studio windows, and the sound of traffic rumbled by on the Rue de Vaugirard. In that instant, she realized that everything had changed.

  Charles was going to have a baby, and they would lose him. Neither she nor her mother had ever thought that Charles would marry. He just didn’t seem the type. Now he would be off in another country, with his own family. And Norway was so far away!

  Clothilde laid her pencil down.

  “Are you sure you are …?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “What did Charles say?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. I only told your mother.”

  “What! You told Maman, and you didn’t tell Charles?”

  “Telling your mother seemed the right thing to do, considering the impact on her life.”

  “But you also need to tell Charles, right away!”

  It was only then that Clothilde noticed the red-rimmed eyes and the dark circles. The princess clearly had not been sleeping.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to …”

  Victoria sighed. “After he finds Sinclair. In the meantime, he thinks I should go away to England to stay with friends of his. I would love it if you would come with me. We could work on a wardrobe together.”

  Clothilde looked up in surprise.

  “Oh, that would be wonderful. I’ve been stuck in Paris all summer.”

  Victoria smiled. “So you’ll come?”

  Clothilde grinned. “Getting out of Paris will do us both a world of good. And there’s nothing like a quilted English Barbour coat to hide a baby bump for a week or two.”

  25 THE NORTH COLONNADE, CANARY WHARF, LONDON

  At 1:00 p.m. Detective Jaccorsi stepped out of his hotel in London, wearing a silk Armani suit and dark sunglasses. He had splurged on new clothes, figuring it would be better to look sharp in London. He was meeting with the big boys. British Special Intelligence Service, also known as MI6, and the British Financial Conduct Authority, or FCA. MI6 was pushing hard for any possible shred of evidence against Mondragone. Prosecution would be primarily on financial malfeasance. There would be charges of money laundering and racketeering.

  Three different national governments were cooperating: the British, the Italians, and the Americans. Up until now, Britain’s National Crime Agency had left Mondragone alone. But now, everyone had decided that enough was enough, and Mondragone was in the crosshairs.

  Jaccorsi checked the sky, uncertain whether he’d need an umbrella. The street was still wet from the morning rain, but the precipitation had stopped. London had strange weather—island weather. He climbed into the spacious backseat of a taxi and gave an address. As traffic lumbered, he watched pedestrians rushing to work, jumping over puddles on Oxford Street.

  Jaccorsi’s destination was the East End, Canary Wharf, where the world’s most prestigious banking firms were located. Ironically, they were cheek by jowl with the FCA—a government watchdog agency that was in charge of banking regulations.

  At the ground-floor security desk at 25 The North Colonnade, Jaccorsi went through the prerequisite sign in, searching through his wallet for his identification. His contact was waiting on the twelfth floor to greet him.

  MacDonnell was a Scotsman, and at 260 pounds, he was a walking indictment of his nation’s diet of meat pies and pints. After a painful hand crush, he made the usual pleasant inquires about hotels and traffic. With the strong Glaswegian burr, Jaccorsi only understood a fraction of what he said. Finally, after what seemed like miles of corridors, they entered a glass-paneled office with a minimalist steel desk.

  The view of the Thames was a conversation stopper. Jaccorsi removed his sunglasses and paid silent homage to London in all its glory. In the morning light, the serpentine river shone gunmetal gray. The Union Jack snapped briskly from the roofs of the surrounding buildings. MacDonnell heaved his bulk into an ergonomic chair and sighed. Jaccorsi carefully pulled up the knees of his trousers before he sat down.

  The intercom buzzed.

  “What is it Mary?” MacDonnell barked.

  “Your trip to the States is cancelled, sir. The airport is closed.”

  “All right. Thank you.”

  “Is that a problem?” Jaccorsi inquired.

  MacDonnell shrugged, indifferent.

  “The guys at FinCEN will have to wait.”

  “FinCEN?”

  “Financial Crimes Enforcement Unit. It’s a division of the US Treasury.”

  “So the Americans are prosecuting also?” Jaccorsi asked.

  “Yes. But with the planes grounded, I can’t go anywhere. It might set the case back a day or two, but the noose is cl
osing in on Mondragone. We’re about to shut down his banking accounts.”

  “I’m glad.”

  MacDonnell smiled. “So detective, tell me, what do you know about Cyclops?”

  KENSINGTON PALACE GARDENS, “BILLIONAIRE’S ROW,” LONDON

  Detective Jaccorsi had been warned to stay away from Salvatore Mondragone’s house in Kensington. It was good advice in theory, but the temptation proved too much. So after his meeting at FCA, he took a taxi and stood diagonally across the street, casing the place.

  The residence was a beautiful Edwardian house on “billionaire’s row”—a line of embassies and private residences in London’s most expensive neighborhood.

  The utter size of the mansion was a shock. Somehow in the squalor of Naples, Mondragone’s vast wealth could be overlooked. The little villa in the Naples suburb of Torre del Greco was not particularly lavish. But here in London, Cyclops lived like a prince financed by dirty money.

  Jaccorsi shook his head in disgust. Thank God the Brits were going to prosecute. This was disgusting. But there was not much he could do about it himself. Procedures were moving slowly. But, by all estimates, Mondragone would be apprehended by the end of the month. Until then, Jaccorsi knew he would have to remain in London.

  The detective glanced at his watch. It was too early for dinner, but there was plenty of time for a nice walk. He turned and headed to the lovely green oasis of Hyde Park.

  His friend John Sinclair lived on Grosvenor Street. Maybe he’d cut straight through the park to Mayfair. They’d have a drink together. Sinclair was the only person he knew socially in London, and right now he needed a friend.

  The British lifestyle was wearing on him: difficult accents, briskly impersonal pleasantries, and tasteless food. There was no decent pasta, and he simply couldn’t eat another potato. A visit with Sinclair would boost his spirits.

  Twenty minutes later, Jaccorsi lifted the knocker on John Sinclair’s door and let it fall with a heavy bang. He wasn’t expected, but Sinclair didn’t usually stand on ceremony.

  The knob turned, and a young man in a crisp linen tunic opened the door.

  “Yes. May I help you, sir?”

  “Does Mr. Sinclair live here?’

  “Yes, sir. But he is not home at the moment.”

  Jaccorsi felt his spirits sink.

  “Tell him the Detective Jaccorsi of the Naples police was here to see him.”

  The young man frowned.

  “We have already talked to Scotland Yard, sir.”

  Jaccorsi stammered in confusion.

  “No … no, I’m a friend. This has nothing to do with law enforcement.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, he’s not in the country, sir.”

  Jaccorsi scribbled a phone number on the back of his business card.

  “Would you please give him this when he returns?”

  The young man examined the card carefully.

  “I’ll tell him you called.”

  “Thank you so much,” Jaccorsi replied and walked down the steps to the street.

  Salvatore Mondragone’s men watched Jaccorsi approach the elegant townhouse and converse with the young butler.

  They followed him across the park. Jaccorsi was ridiculously obvious about casing Mondragone’s house. Did he really think he blended in wearing a black silk suit and Armani sunglasses? Even in the grainy video from the surveillance camera on the roof, his clothing screamed southern Italy.

  “Doesn’t that guy look familiar?” one of the Camorra guards asked, staring at the security monitor.

  They zoomed in to get more detail of Jaccorsi’s face.

  “Yes, it’s that detective from Naples. I know him well. He put my cousin in prison.”

  They watched him walking along the sidewalk and trailed him all through Hyde Park to Mayfair. Now, at the townhouse on Grosvenor Street, the conversational exchange between the detective and the butler seemed brief. Something passed between them, a slip of paper or a note.

  “Let’s find out who lives there,” Mondragone’s security man said. “Whoever it is, they’re working with the police.”

  LIBRARY, GROSVENOR STREET

  Cordelia glanced over at Charles Bonnard, lounging in a leather chair in her library. The word “disheveled” pretty much summed up his appearance. He had pulled his tie loose, and his suit was rumpled beyond redemption. They had been at it for hours, trying to figure out how to locate Sinclair.

  Now it was early evening. Sinclair’s dog, Kyrie, was at her feet. The small circle of light from the table lamp cast shadows, creating a cozy feeling of intimacy. She sighed heavily and looked up at the wall of bookcases, deep in thought.

  The room had twenty-foot ceilings and ornate second-floor iron balconies that gave access to the upper reaches of the stacks. Tonight the shelves were cloaked in darkness, except for the occasional shimmer of gilt on the spine of an old book.

  Everything here had once belonged to Cordelia’s great-great-grandfather, Elliott Stapleton. He had been a renowned Victorian explorer and had used this library for planning his expeditions.

  “Do you suppose that Malik is telling the truth?” Charles suddenly asked.

  “About what?”

  “About not knowing where Sinclair is?”

  “Oh, he would be too terrified to lie to Scotland Yard.”

  “What did he tell them, exactly?”

  “That Sinclair took the Eurostar to Paris.”

  “And they believed that?”

  “They’re checking. If John crossed any borders they can find out.”

  “Could he have gone to Ephesus?”

  “No. If he went to Turkey he would have brought Malik.”

  Kyrie’s ears twitched at a word she knew. Cordelia trailed a hand down to give the dog a gentle stroke.

  “I can’t understand why John is so out of touch. He was supposed to call Malik once he got to where he was going.”

  Charles sighed and shook his head.

  “When he’s upset he usually goes off on a dig and disappears. Let me tell you, it’s hard to run the foundation when he’s like that.”

  “It’s ridiculous,” she fumed. “How dare he just fall off the map.”

  Just as the word left her lips, her gaze rested on an enormous table piled high with a dozen atlases and loose charts.

  “Map!”

  “What of it?”

  “I just thought of something,” Cordelia exclaimed.

  She strode over and began leafing through the charts. Sinclair’s messiness had a benefit; he always left a paper trail. Somewhere on this table was a topographical map of the place where he had gone. The only problem would be figuring out which one of the archaeological sites he had chosen.

  Cordelia tossed aside a nautical chart of the Mediterranean and focused on the land drawings, scanning the maps of Greece, Turkey, and Italy. Charles hung over her shoulder.

  “Where do you think?”

  “I just don’t know …” Cordelia trailed off. “Hit the switch on the wall bracket over there. I want to see something.”

  A large brass lamp was hung above the library table. Cordelia blinked in the sudden glare.

  “Sinclair always works with the lights on, so he can see all the details,” she explained, looking through a magnifying glass and lowering her nose inches from the paper.

  “What are you looking for?”

  “A pencil mark.”

  She laid the magnifying glass down and raised the chart up to the light, scanning the Tyrrhenian Sea. Still nothing. Then she tried the reverse, flipping the paper over to the blank side. In the harsh illumination she could see a pimple where a pencil had pressed down on the paper.

  “I think I have it!”

  Moving the magnifying glass over the paper, she confirmed that there was a raised bump, barely visible, made by a pencil point.

  Cordelia turned the map over to look for the corresponding location on the printed side.

  “Sicily,” she announced.
/>
  “He went back to Italy?”

  “This is a dig in Morgantina.”

  Charles looked at her in astonishment.

  “I can’t believe you found him!”

  “I’ve seen him do this a hundred times. He says, ‘That’s it!’ and dots the place on the map.”

  “Thank you, Delia. I’ll take a train and find him. I’ll be back in a week or so.”

  “A week?”

  Charles counted off on his fingers.

  “Three days to get there by train, a day or so to find him, and another three days to come back. Commercial planes aren’t flying yet.”

  “What other options do we have?”

  “We could send someone. Brindy’s in Italy.”

  “Would she get him?”

  “I don’t see why not. I’ll give her a call.”

  “What will you do in the meantime? Go back to Paris?”

  Charles rubbed his face and then looked over at her, trying to decide.

  “No, I’d better stay here in London. That way I can meet with Scotland Yard.”

  “Can’t you do that by phone?”

  “Well, Victoria is visiting nearby in Oxfordshire, so I can go see her.”

  “Whom is she staying with?”

  “Tom and Marion Skye-Russell.”

  Cordelia started in surprise. “The Skye-Russells? Whatever for?”

  “I suggested it. V needs to get out of Paris. And don’t worry, she’s under supervision. Clothilde is with her. That should keep everything on an even keel.”

  “She’s certainly gotten hold of your family, hasn’t she?”

  “Yes, my mother already adores her.”

  There was an awkward silence as Cordelia tried not to comment.

  Charles stood up and stretched. “Well I’d better be going. I haven’t booked a hotel yet.”

  “Don’t be silly. Stay here.”

  He smiled, embarrassed. “I’ve brought you so much trouble already.”

  “You have to stay. I will be very offended if you don’t,” she insisted.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?”