He had the sensation of being a condemned man, waiting for death. Hopefully, he was summoned here for a simple transaction only.
After a few minutes, a workman stepped out from behind the crates. He wore a hard hat and an orange florescent vest, and his face was partially obscured by work goggles. Wordlessly, he gestured for Sinclair to come.
Sinclair followed the man up the gangway of the small freighter and stepped into an interior steel staircase. They climbed up three stories. The worker abruptly left, and Sinclair stepped over a portal with a raised doorsill.
This was the pilothouse of the cargo ship. The ship’s bridge was a perfect aerie for viewing the panorama of the dockyard. The small enclosed room had the feel of an air traffic control tower with only enough space for two aluminum chairs and a small metal desk. A panel of navigational instruments took up most of the rest.
For Sinclair it had a slightly claustrophobic feel, although a large open window on the side helped. That ventilation also diffused a foul smelling Cohiba cigar, which smoldered in a thick glass ashtray.
Sinclair noted these details subconsciously. His full attention was on the man standing in front of him. There was no mistaking Salvatore Mondragone. Apparently, the gangster was up to his old tricks of buying valuable objects on the black market.
Mondragone spoke first. “So, Mr. Sinclair. It seems you don’t take my advice to stay out of Naples.”
Sinclair remained silent. All the horror stories ran through his head. This man was a psychopathic killer. He once flayed a rival alive with a paring knife and thrust another’s hand into a whirling buzz saw.
But Mondragone did not appear to be planning brutality. He was dressed beautifully in business attire. Sinclair took in the details. The wristwatch was slim, his shoes bespoke, and his suit was cut in the restrained style favored by European diplomats. The drape of the fabric suggested the hand of a master tailor.
As Cyclops sat down, he fastidiously flicked a few imaginary pieces of lint from his trousers.
“I understand you are looking for a sapphire necklace?” Mondragone said.
“That is correct.”
“I’m sure we can come to terms. But first of all, who are you working with? I’m not foolish enough to think this necklace belongs to you personally.”
The Camorra boss produced an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and poured the contents onto the aluminum desk. There were two articles: a small gold ring and a chunky blue necklace with diamonds. The sapphires were so large that most people would assume them to be costume jewelry.
Sinclair stared. The gems didn’t just gleam—the indigo stones glittered as if lit from within.
“I am only here for a simple transaction,” Sinclair said.
Mondragone smiled nastily.
“So, how’s your dog?” Mondragone asked.
Sinclair felt the hair rise on his arm. Just thinking about this man being anywhere near Cordelia made his blood run cold.
“I don’t understand. What were you looking for?”
“Your friend Jaccorsi tipped us off. We were following him when he came to your house in London. He’s been visiting FCA authorities on a daily basis.”
Sinclair realized instantly that Jaccorsi had been involved in the investigation into Mondragone’s dirty business dealings. The policeman, by paying a casual visit, brought the Camorra to Sinclair’s doorstep. It was a horrible coincidence. But how could he convince Mondragone of that?
“Jaccorsi is a personal friend, nothing more. I am not involved in investigating your organization.”
“Are you working for FCA or FinCEN?” he asked, naming the British and American financial investigatory agencies.
Sinclair shook his head. “I’m here on a personal matter. The boy who sold the necklace is a family friend. He made a mistake in taking it, and I need you to sell it back.”
“Why should I? I stand to make quite a profit.”
“You still can. You bought the necklace for almost nothing. I can pay you a nice sum, no questions asked,” Sinclair said.
Mondragone took a puff of his cigar, squinting through the smoke.
“Where is Renato Balboni?”
“My understanding is he didn’t survive the eruption on Mount Etna,” Sinclair said without elaboration.
“My men don’t fall into volcanoes.”
“That may be, but why he was following the boys?”
Mondragone’s reaction was noncommittal. He laid his cigar carefully in the ashtray and then reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol.
Sinclair began to formulate an exit strategy. The clang of the metal cranes beat a steady rhythm that divided time like a metronome.
“I’m here for a simple sale, nothing more,” Sinclair stated.
Mondragone didn’t speak; he walked over to the window. It was open on the side of the ship toward the water. He pushed the glass panel out farther. Down below, waves could be heard lapping against the steel hull.
“I am going to ask you one more time. Who do you work for? The Americans or the Brits?”
Sinclair didn’t listen. He was plotting. Things were about to get physical. He searched in his peripheral vision for something he could use as a weapon. All his training as a fencer would come into good stead if he could find something that would work as a saber. But on the bridge of a ship, everything was bolted down and secured.
Mondragone gestured with the gun toward the window, indicating that Sinclair should walk over. There was no choice. As he approached the aperture, a faint breeze brushed his face. It carried the briny smell of the bay.
The window was not wide, but it certainly was of sufficient breadth to allow Mondragone to push him out, or shoot him and let the body fall. Either way, it would be an inevitable plunge to his death.
On his way over to the window, Sinclair observed two things within his grasp—an aluminum chair, and a lead crystal ashtray where the cigar lay smoldering. As he passed by, Sinclair reached for the ashtray, as if to seize it.
The gesture was like a decoy in a magician’s trick. Mondragone’s attention was drawn to the hand, exactly as planned. As Sinclair’s fingers closed over the ashtray, Mondragone’s gun shifted slightly toward the movement. Sinclair grabbed the heavy glass ashtray and the cigar rolled across the table and fell onto the deck.
Meanwhile, Sinclair made sure he had a solid grip on the chair with the other hand. Then, in a single fluid arc, he swung hard, slamming the legs of the chair into Mondragone’s gun arm. A shot went off in the enclosed space with a deafening noise. The pistol fell and slid away.
Without pause, Sinclair swung the aluminum chair again, thrusting it like a lion tamer, to keep Mondragone contained. That tactic failed. Mondragone proved surprisingly strong. He held the chair off with one hand and extracted a thin stiletto blade from his sleeve.
Sinclair yanked the chair sideways, throwing Mondragone off balance, but the gangster lunged. The knife came toward him in a deadly arc. But after years of fencing, it was second nature to avoid the point of a blade. As Sinclair dodged the thrust, he grasped the ashtray and smashed it into Mondragone’s face. It hit him squarely in the mouth, and the knife clattered to the floor.
Reeling from the blow, the gangster weaved. His lip was bleeding. Sinclair wasted no time and began to use the four legs of the chair, prodding aggressively, forcing Mondragone to back up. It was now or never. Sinclair accelerated the speed of his thrusts. Mondragone’s hands stretched out to deflect the chair.
There was very little room to fight. Within seconds, Mondragone was pressed against the sill of the open window. Sinclair jabbed again and again, until the man teetered. His arms flailed, but the leather-soled shoes had no traction on the slippery deck. The fatal misstep came from the loose cigar, which rolled under his shoe.
Mondragone slipped and reached the tipping point. His body tumbled out the window. Sinclair stood immobile as the gangster hit the water with a splash.
Cyclops was gone. S
inclair took a deep breath, his heart hammering with adrenaline. He picked up the pistol, then walked to the window and looked out. There was no ripple in the inky black water. The body was submerged. Sinclair realized he should get rid of the weapon and dropped the pistol into the harbor. It landed with a faint splash
He felt no remorse, nor would he suffer sleepless nights. He had just rid the world of a dangerous murderer. He glanced around. But where were the guards? Why weren’t they coming? Surely Mondragone’s henchmen had seen the fight. He’d better leave quickly, before they rushed the door.
Sinclair scooped up the necklace and the gold ring and put them back in the envelope and then in his pocket.
Suddenly, there was a shift in sound out on the dock. One of the cranes was shutting down. Then he heard other cranes go silent, one after the other in progression.
Sinclair didn’t wait. He yanked the door open and fled down the metal stairs to the door of the ship. Out on deck, the gangway was still in place, and he sprinted to the dock. LED lights still burned brightly, and it was so quiet he could hear the faint overhead hum of electricity. Where were Mondragone’s guards?
Sinclair swiveled his head around cautiously. Nothing. So he quickly ran through the shipping containers, seeking refuge in the shadows until he reached the gate, then slipped away.
Salvatore Mondragone realized he was immersed in freezing water. There was nothing but blackness. His eyes were open in the stinging salt water. Above, he could see the dim glare of the dock lights wavering through the murky darkness. He kicked up toward the light, his heavy English shoes impeding his ability to swim. His lungs were throbbing with the desire to breathe. As he became more cognizant, he knew there would only be a few moments until his body would revert to automatic reflex. Then, his oxygen-starved body would try to ingest water, and he would drown.
Pulling with every ounce of strength toward the surface, he broke clear with a splash, sucking in deep-tearing breaths that felt like fire. His feet and knees were in torment from the impact of the fall. His nose and mouth were bleeding.
He treaded water, trying to work his way through the pain. Within moments, his respiration returned to normal, and his mind cleared. He floated on the surface, his eyes scanning the dark.
The bright square of the window of the ship was still visible, but nobody was watching. Mondragone paddled closer to the hull and the mild current carried him aft, toward the diesel exhaust pipe. There he clung to a rivet on the hull with his fingertips.
A quick inventory of his body revealed little damage. No bones were broken, despite the fact that he slammed into the water with such force it felt like he was hitting concrete. That sharp gasp of pain before he went under saved him.
Once again, he cheated death. And, in the Camorra world, there was only one response. John Sinclair would have to die.
Luca sat on the bed, staring at the television. He was waiting in the hotel room for Sinclair, exactly as he was told. It was now two o’clock in the morning. The instructions were not to open the door under any circumstances. Sinclair booked them into a hotel in Naples, to keep a low profile until they could get the necklace back.
Italian entertainment programs were simply awful. This was some kind of police drama, and three men were shooting at each other in the dark. Incredibly, the show was boring and scary at the same time.
Luca yawned and looked at his watch again. Just then, he heard the ping of the elevator outside in the hall. There was a scratching of the key card, and Sinclair opened the door and stepped in quickly.
“Get your things,” he said, his lips white with stress. “We’re getting out of here.”
Luca jumped up and grabbed his jacket.
“Did you get it?” he asked.
Sinclair nodded, dialing his phone.
“Yes, I did.”
MAYFAIR, LONDON
At 2:00 a.m., in an upstairs guest room of Cordelia Stapleton’s townhouse, Charles Bonnard was sound asleep. He drifted off into a fretful doze, worrying about intruders. Now he woke to the buzz of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand. He answered it, and Sinclair’s voice cut through his fuzzy brain.
“Charles?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“I got the necklace,” Sinclair said.
Charles sat up, forcing himself awake.
“That was quick. Did you have any trouble?”
“A bit. Mondragone had it,” Sinclair told him. “But it worked out.”
“Glad to hear it,” Charles said, relieved.
“So what do we do now?” Sinclair asked. “How do we get it to Victoria?”
“She’s in England, at the Cliffmere estate with my sister.
“That’s no good. I’m in Italy. I can’t bring the necklace.”
“Why not?”
“I’m probably on some kind of watch list. My luggage will be searched coming back into the UK.”
“Well, what about Brindy?”
“What about her?”
“Why don’t you ask Brindy to do it? Mondragone murdered her grandmother. If there’s a vendetta on her family, she should leave Italy for a while anyway.”
“How would she get it through customs?”
“She has her own plane, right? They’re a lot less vigilant about checking luggage that comes in on private jets,” Sinclair added.
“I’ll ask her.”
“She can bring it to Victoria; I can arrange for her to stay at Cliffmere for a while.”
“Good idea. I’ll try to convince her.” Sinclair agreed. “But you know how she is. Nobody tells her what to do.”
Charles laughed. “I know. Good luck.”
VILLA BRINDISI, CAPRI
It was 5:00 a.m. and Sinclair sat unshaven, grubby, and exhausted on the pristine white couch in Brindy’s house on Capri. He and Luca had taken the first ferry they could to get out of Naples. Luca was now asleep in bed—safe for the first time in more than a week.
Sinclair pulled the necklace out of his pocket and put it on the glass coffee table in front of Brindy. The sapphires gleamed with a deep cobalt shimmer.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “I’m astonished you got it back so quickly.”
Sinclair let the comment slide. There was no use telling her all the gory details.
“I need to smuggle this back to England,” he said.
Brindy’s eyes shifted to his face.
“Why not just give it back to the Norwegians?”
“Victoria doesn’t want her parents to know that Karl stole it. He’s in enough trouble for running away.”
“But I could simply say I found it here at the house after Victoria left.”
“Yes, but the police have already questioned you. And you denied seeing it.”
“True, but I could say it was in a dresser or something.”
“No good. For one simple reason. You’ve been seen with me in Sicily. And your housekeeper let me in just now with Luca. The police assume I have the necklace, and you’d be tied up as an accomplice.”
“So what should we do?” Brindy asked.
“Victoria has to call Scotland Yard and say it was simply misplaced, and she has found it in her bag—something like that. Since her family has asked for the investigation, the police would have to drop it.”
“But how do we get the necklace to her?”
“Could you wear it?”
The contessa picked up the jewels and fastened the clasp around her neck. Sinclair looked at the gems nestled into her cleavage, and they looked exactly like a couple of the other gaudy necklaces he’d seen her wear.
“It might work,” she said. “I’ll rub the stones with a bar of soap. It’ll look like costume jewelry when I pass through customs.”
“All right. But listen, Brindy. Once you give this to Victoria, Charles and I think you should stay at Cliffmere for a while. You should keep away from the Camorra while the police investigate your grandmother’s murder.”
“I know,” she sighe
d. “I should probably take Luca with me.”
Just then he appeared in the doorway, eating a biscotti.
“Are we all going to England?” he asked.
Sinclair looked at Brindy, waiting for her decision.
“Yes, Luca,” she said. “It will be the three of us together. Just like old times.”
ITALY, TO LONDON
John Sinclair sat in the cabin of Brindy’s Dassault Falcon 2000LXS staring at the orange logo of her company, Brindisi Enterprises, painted on the bulkhead. The aircraft could hold ten passengers, but there were only three of them. Luca was sitting in the back, listening to music, and Brindy sat across from him.
The airport crew removed the wooden blocks from the wheels, and the engine throttled up. It was a three-hour flight to Biggin Hill, a small private airfield outside of London. Once there, they’d go separate ways. Brindy would go to Cliffmere to return the necklace and lay low for a while. Luca wanted to come to London, so John and the boy would go there and join Cordelia. The very first thing he would do is contact Scotland Yard. The story would be simple: He’d been out at the dig in Morgantina and didn’t know anything about a missing necklace.
The jet engines revved, and they began to bump along. The sky seemed to be free of ash. When he turned back from the window, Brindy was quietly observing him.
Suddenly he was struck with the unbidden thought of how beautiful she was. Brindy embodied the concept of la bella figura. Today she was dolled up in a blue suit, artfully mussed hair, large sunglasses, and a very low neckline. The precious sapphires were almost lost in her cleavage.
She smiled right into his eyes and leaned forward, putting her hands on her knees. The cleft in her breasts deepened, and the sapphires dangled like grapes on a vine.
“What can I offer you, John, to make you more comfortable?”
A seduction was implied.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” he answered levelly, “I’m perfectly happy the way things are.”
Just then, a steward came over with two flutes of prosecco on a silver Christofle tray. The thought of drinking did not appeal to him, but Brindy lifted the glass.
Summer of Fire Page 21
