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Summer of Fire

Page 25

by Kitty Pilgrim


  The problem was most of his financial dealings were tainted by drug money and loan sharking. He was planning to cash out of everything and reestablish business in another country, somewhere with less financial regulation.

  As the discussion concluded, the check arrived. Breakfast was astronomically expensive, as usual, and Mondragone flipped his black American Express card onto the small silver tray.

  Within moments, the waiter came back and spoke discreetly.

  “Declined, sir.”

  Mondragone laughed, embarrassed. “Vinnie, take care of this will you?”

  His accountant snickered.

  Mondragone tossed the platinum MasterCard onto the tray. “Put it on that one.”

  The waiter returned after several minutes.

  “I’m afraid not, sir.”

  Mondragone flushed bright red.

  “Vinnie, you need to come home with me to look into this,” he snarled, digging for his wallet.

  He tossed bills onto the tray with irritation, overpaying by fifty pounds.

  “Keep the change,” he snarled.

  It was mid-morning and Salvatore Mondragone scrolled through his online financial records. The accountant had left, pale and sweating. All of his bank accounts appeared to be shut down and confiscated. One after another, the balance was tagged with the official warning: “Under investigation. Please contact your primary banking institution.”

  There had been hints that the financial regulators were after him, but he hadn’t expected such draconian action.

  Sure, pressure had been rising: A couple of his credit lines had been inexplicably withdrawn, and his interest rates had been ratcheted through the roof. But with his stream of cash from the dockyards, he didn’t need very much credit.

  The never-ending wealth had raised suspicion. Late yesterday afternoon, he received a hand-delivered summons from the British FCA requesting him to appear before a hearing to justify his income statements in the UK. American regulators from FinCEN would also be attending.

  By his reckoning, arrest must be imminent. Mondragone ran a hand through his hair in desperation.

  He’d have to flee the country and bring enough cash to travel and set up elsewhere. Returning to Italy would be impossible. The Roman police had named him as a suspect in the murder of the old Contessa Brindisi. He’d have to go outside the Eurozone. And that would take big money.

  There was only about a hundred grand in the safe. Fabiola had some jewelry, but most of it was stolen and hard to sell. As he sat there at his Louis XV desk, he opened the top drawer. There was a checkbook. He could always kite a check to one of his friends. But most people who did business with him would wonder why he needed to write a check for cash. Suspicion would be high. Nobody would help.

  He hadn’t been this broke since he was a kid living on the streets in Naples.

  Mondragone stood up and swung aside the Van Gogh to reveal the safe. Within minutes he had packed all the euro bundles into a hard-sided briefcase.

  Suddenly, outside in the hallway, a door opened and closed. He hastily returned to his desk just as Fabiola came into the room.

  “Good morning, caro,” she said, coming over to kiss him on the lips.

  “Happy Birthday,” he replied. “Today’s your big day, isn’t it?”

  “I know. I can’t wait for the party tonight,” she smiled.

  For the briefest moment, her beauty distracted him. She was wearing a white peignoir trimmed with marabou, and the underskirt was sheer enough for him to see the outline of her body.

  “What are your plans today, my love?” he asked, trying to keep things normal.

  “Oh, nothing special. I’m going out this morning to find something to wear for tonight.”

  There were three hundred people coming tonight to her birthday bash. He had paid for the whole thing already, thank goodness. But her shopping excursion would be a disaster. Her credit card would be declined just as his was; their accounts were linked.

  “Why don’t you wear that pink outfit? I like it so much.”

  She smiled. “If you insist.”

  “Oh, I do. It’s magnificent on you.”

  “What time would you like to go to Grosvenor House?” she asked, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  “I guess we should go over there around seven,” he told her.

  Of course he couldn’t go to the party. The police were probably on their way here to arrest him. And he had no intention of being home. His survival depended on a speedy exit from the country. Fabiola would stay here, of course. She’d make too much of a fuss if she knew all the money was gone. Women were always trouble like that.

  He turned his mind back to the problem at hand. What were his immediate resources? There was enough cash in the briefcase for airline tickets. But too bad there wasn’t something more portable he could take with him. He would need some capital to get started again. Wasn’t there something small and salable, such as a gold box, a painting, or a ring? Unfortunately most of his trinkets were back in Italy.

  “What’s the matter, caro?” she asked.

  “I have a headache,” he complained.

  She walked behind him and began rubbing his shoulders. The feel of her fingers kneading him agitated him even further.

  “That’s better, thanks,” he said, shrugging her off.

  She walked over and sat on the couch.

  “Is something troubling you?” she asked.

  “Nah. Just I have some business to take care of with Tito this morning.”

  He realized he wasn’t sad about leaving her. His emotions had always been ephemeral, and now he looked over at her without remorse. He was simply trying to remember if she had anything valuable he could take. His eyes fell on her wedding and engagement rings.

  “Do you want me to get your rings cleaned for the party?”

  She looked down at her hand in surprise.

  “Um … no, thank you. I just had the settings checked last week—the jeweler cleaned them then.”

  His eyes stayed riveted on the stones, trying to figure out how he could get them. Then he remembered.

  The sapphire necklace!

  It was worth millions. Enough to get him started all over again in a new place. In fact, there was no single object that was more transportable, or more valuable. The stones could be sold anywhere in the world. His mind went back to John Sinclair. It had only been a few days. The man probably still had the jewels. It was time to pay a little visit to his townhouse.

  Mondragone stood up and walked casually toward the door, picking up his briefcase of cash.

  “OK, I have a meeting with Tito. I’ll be back later.”

  He stopped long enough to kiss her full on the lips. “Happy Birthday, tesoro. Have a good day.”

  CLIFFMERE ESTATE, OXFORDSHIRE

  The ash cloud from the Katla volcano in Iceland was drifting to Northern Europe and the UK. The weather forecasters were calling it a “dry fog,” predicting whiteout conditions by early afternoon. The acidic content of the debris would be extremely dangerous for anyone with asthma or other respiratory problems. Road traffic would come to a standstill and vegetation would wither. Her Majesty’s Government was declaring a state of emergency, cautioning everyone to stay indoors.

  At seven o’clock in the morning, Cliffmere farmhands were out working to salvage what they could of the crops. Day laborers were not driving to the farm today, and the production operations were very shorthanded. Marian and Princess Victoria were helping with the chores, collecting the eggs—something that was not usually done by the owner of the estate and her royal guest.

  As the two women cut across the pasture, the princess was unrecognizable in a Barbour jacket and Wellington boots. She didn’t mind being up so early. The sky was still clear; the natural fragrance of vegetation mingled with the earthy muskiness of the farm.

  For the first time in her life, she was happy. Somehow everything was turning out fine. Her baby was growing, and she foun
d the weight in her abdomen to be a comforting presence. She was calm and happy. Charles would be the father of her child. And that made the world an entirely new and wonderful place.

  She and Marian approached the first chicken coop. The arrival of the two pairs of Wellingtons scattered the flock. Victoria burst out laughing at the antics of the hens.

  “You hold the basket. I’ll collect,” Marian instructed.

  The hen house was like a gypsy caravan—painted blue, green, and yellow, with large wooden wheels. Inside were small compartments, like individual cabinets, and Marian reached in and extracted a perfectly formed pale blue egg.

  “What a beautiful color!” Victoria exclaimed, reaching for it.

  “The blue shell is produced by Araucana chickens.”

  “I’ve never seen that before.”

  “We’ve adopted it as sort of a trademark.”

  Victoria wiped the straw and debris off the shell and put it in the carrier.

  “Are they organic?”

  “They’re pastured. The chickens can roam and eat what they like, larvae and bugs mostly. Free ranging the chickens improves the quality of the eggs.”

  “I think they are lovely,” Victoria said, turning one of them around in her hand, surprised it was warm to the touch. “Why does it feel waxy?”

  “All fresh eggs are coated with secretions from the chicken. They have to be washed before they go on sale.”

  “I never knew that.”

  Victoria aligned the eggs gingerly in the wire carrier.

  “I love being a farmer,” the princess confessed. “I don’t want to go home.”

  “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” Marian told her.

  “Don’t tempt me. I hate my life at the palace.”

  Marian nodded. “Well, that is understandable. I am sure it is very confining. But you may find that when you become a mother, things will improve.”

  “I’ll have to get married first. Hopefully, Charles will come back soon.”

  “I’m sure he will. But if he is coming today, he’d better hurry, before they close the roads.”

  “I’ll call him and let him know.”

  “Why don’t we get these eggs into the barn first. I have Clothilde helping with the washing.”

  “Isn’t she fantastic, working from her wheelchair like that?” Victoria remarked.

  “She does very well.”

  “I’m sorry about dragging Contessa Brindisi out here to Cliffmere, but I owed her a favor for bringing the necklace back. I’m afraid she’s pretty useless when it comes to farm life.”

  “I assumed that the moment I set eyes on her,” Marian replied with humor. “With that wardrobe, I really didn’t expect her to turn up at dawn to milk the cows.”

  Inside Long Barn, the egg washing machine was running. Clothilde was seated in her wheelchair removing two eggs at a time from the conveyer belt and placing them in cartons.

  “Hel-lo, I see you have more eggs for me,” Clothilde sang out.

  Her skin was flushed, and her eyes sparkled. Victoria noticed that the old farmhand who was standing there broke into a huge grin at Clothilde’s enthusiasm.

  “We can finish this up after we eat breakfast,” Marian laughed. “You are so efficient, we’re well ahead of schedule.”

  “Have you heard from Charles yet?” Victoria asked.

  “He just called, everyone is coming—Cordelia, Luca, and somebody named Jude Blackwell.”

  “What about Sinclair?” asked Marian.

  “He has an appointment and will drive over later.”

  Victoria started collecting her hair up into a ponytail.

  “Oh my gosh! If Charles is coming, I’ll have to do something with my hair. And find something to wear. I’m a total mess!”

  “No, you look gorgeous. Just slip on a dress,” Clothilde advised.

  Marian ignored them both. “Five people … I’ll need to see about lunch.”

  “Don’t worry about all this,” Clothilde said, indicating the egg washing operation. “I’ll finish up after breakfast.”

  “Sure,” the farmhand said. “We can get these packed up in no time.”

  GROSVENOR STREET, LONDON

  The engine of the Land Rover Defender rumbled to life, and Jude adjusted the mirrors to his height. Charles and Jude were in the front, Luca and Cordelia in the back.

  “Everything OK?” Charles asked.

  “Fine. Just worried about visibility,” Jude told him.

  “Is it that bad?” Charles asked.

  “Yes, the radio says they are shutting down the major highways.”

  Jude pressed the button to open the garage door and eased the car out into a misty day. The ashfall was coming down like snow flurries, coating the streets with a fine powder. Jude turned on the windshield wipers. They circumnavigated Grosvenor Square. At the motorway entrance there was an orange flashing sign: “HAZARD—DUAL CARRIAGEWAY CLOSED.”

  Jude sighed. “Now what?”

  Charles pointed left. “There’s a shortcut through the back roads. Turn here, and I’ll direct you.”

  “I’m glad you know where you’re going,” Jude said, cranking the wheel. “I’d be lost.”

  He checked in the mirror and made a left.

  Thirty seconds later, a “beluga black” Maybach 57S also made the turn. It was driven by a chauffeur in a peaked cap. In the backseat were Salvatore Mondragone and Tito.

  NEW SCOTLAND YARD

  John Sinclair sat with three senior officers, telling his saga about Salvatore Mondragone. Their eyes narrowed with disbelief, as they took copious notes.

  “So you think Mondragone is trying to cause some mischief with you, sir?”

  Sinclair huffed impatiently. “Let me make myself perfectly clear. I don’t think Mondragone is going to try to kill me. I know he is.”

  The three detectives stared at him. The senior officer finally spoke.

  “We advise you to keep yourself aware at all times.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Unfortunately, Mr. Mondragone appears to have fled his home in London. We don’t know where he is at this moment.”

  Sinclair sat back, astonished. “Didn’t you say he was under police observation?”

  “He was. But all our men had to deal with the ash, and Mondragone slipped away.”

  “Can you give me some police protection until you locate him?”

  “I’m afraid not, sir. You see, there has been no direct threat to your life.”

  “But there was a threat; I already told you.”

  “That attack occurred in Italy. Something needs to happen in the UK before we can assign an officer.”

  Sinclair pushed back from the table.

  “Well I’m going to go somewhere quiet until Mondragone is apprehended.”

  “Where can we reach you, sir, if there is a need?”

  Sinclair stood up and collected his jacket.

  “Cliffmere Estate, Oxfordshire.”

  Charles fiddled with the satellite radio while Jude drove. The beautiful strains of the Albioni Adagio in G minor flowed through the car. Everyone was silent, absorbed in their own thoughts.

  Jude peered forward, concentrating on driving. Luca was in the backseat, rock and roll music flowing through his earbuds. Cordelia sat next to him, her head against the window, dozing.

  Charles reflected on the news of Victoria’s pregnancy. In retrospect, he could see that she had been trying to tell him about the baby all along. But the crisis with Karl had curtailed the discussion.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly to steady himself. Jude glanced over with a sympathetic smile.

  “You’ll be fine, mate. She’s a beauty. And rich, too. You can’t beat that.”

  Charles gave him a nod and decided to change the subject to the weather.

  “This is just like very dense smog,” he observed.

  “Terrible stuff,” Jude replied. “Full of acid. You don’t want to
breathe it, or even eat anything that gets coated with it.”

  “Cliffmere must be in a frenzy,” Charles observed. “Maybe we can make ourselves useful with the animals and crops.”

  “Not in that outfit,” Jude joked. “No use getting mud on yourself before you propose.”

  “Right,” Charles agreed, smiling.

  They lapsed into silence. The haunting music inside the car was conducive to deep reflection, and he returned to thinking about the baby. He looked down at his hands and noticed that Victoria’s ponytail fastener still encircled his wrist. He had picked it up weeks ago, off the terrace in Capri. The need for that small talisman was telling—he had been in love from the very start.

  Victoria was a perfect match. His friends assumed she was a capricious flirt, but he had seen another side of her. V was a serious young woman who was clinging to the last vestige of freedom before she took the weight of a country on her shoulders. Her position as queen would be a lifetime obligation. And he would be at her side.

  Charles looked up and noticed the ash had cut visibility to less than twenty feet. How different from the sun-drenched week in Capri. His thoughts went back to a few vivid memories: Victoria in the pool and then lounging on the chaise in the brilliant sunshine. Suddenly a vision came to him, totally unsolicited.

  He imagined his infant son taking his first halting steps across a sunlit terrace at Villa San Angelo. His future was not an unknown. His son would change everything.

  Charles looked over at Jude and smiled.

  “I’m feeling better.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I think I should speak to Victoria as soon as we get there.”

  “Good idea, strike while the iron is hot,” Jude agreed. “But if this ashfall gets any worse, I don’t know if Sinclair is going to make it.”

  Charles laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Jude asked.

  “Oh don’t worry about Sinclair; he’ll get to Cliffmere all right.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s not about to leave you alone with his girl for the weekend.”

 

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