There was a smile in her voice. 'Of course not.'
'Good. It's our anniversary, after all. Three hundred and sixty-five days.' He detected a sigh. 'Don't worry,' he said quickly. We'll keep it light, I promise.' Maria was fiercely independent: she had her own business, had survived a posionous divorce and couldn't have children. She had told him on at least three occasions that she didn't want their relationship to become too serious -- she certainly didn't want to get married again.
'Let's just have a good time, okay? Where are you?' 'In my lab.' 'You must be busy.'
'Just finishing. I'll cycle home to get my car and pick you up at seven.' Maria owned and managed a chain of mid-price jewellery shops in Turin. She lived in an apartment above the flagship store near the Duomo. 'We can go on to the restaurant.' 'I've a better idea. I'll pick you up in my car.' He smiled. 'Okay, meet me at my house.' 'Not at the lab?'
He looked through the glass partition dividing his office from the laboratory. Eppendorf tubes, a Petri dish containing two strands of his hair, a pipette and other debris from today's sample lay scattered on the workbench. He would need to put everything in the autoclave and clear up all trace of what he had done before the technician returned in the morning. 'I've got to change.' 'I'll drive you home.'
This wasn't what he had planned. He checked his watch and put on his jacket. 'I'd rather meet you there. I'm leaving now.' 'And I'd rather meet you at your laboratory.'
'Why?'
She laughed. 'Two reasons. One, I've never seen inside it. And, two, I'm already there.'
Panic rippled through him and his eyes leapt to the computer screen. Her face stared out at him. Calm down, he told himself, quelling a rush of nerves.
"What do you mean?'
'I've been standing outside pressing the bell for the last fifteen minutes and it's hot. Please, hurry up and let me in, Carlo.'
He took the PowerDermic vaccine gun out of his jacket pocket and held it in his trembling hand. The device was a needle-free, second-generation hypodermic designed for children and patients with needle phobias. It used compressed helium to fire micro-fine powdered drugs at three times the speed of sound through the stratum corneum. Once past this thin but tough surface layer of human skin, the drug dissolved into the bloodstream. The process was silent, painless and left no mark. She would never know what he had done.
He took a deep breath. I'm doing nothing wrong, he told himself again. Then he walked to the door, careful to conceal the gun in his right palm. 'Give me a minute, Maria. I'm coming.'
A WEEK LATER: 5 AUGUST
ISABELLA BACCl's FATHER HAD LEFT TWO VOICEMAIL MESSAGES: ONE at the neurology department of MilanUniversityHospital where she worked, and one at Phoebe Davenport's Milan apartment where she had been staying since Leo ended their engagement exactly twenty-six days ago. In both he had sounded excited and had summoned her to dinner: 'Bella, there's something I want to tell you. Something I want you to be the first to know.'
When she had called back to confirm, she'd got his voicemail. As she steered the small Fiat through the northern outskirts of Turin she wondered what her father wanted to tell her. The drive from Milan took an hour and a half but in the Fiat, which strained on the autostrada like a souped-up lawnmower, it seemed longer. She changed the CD for a mix she had burned on her Mac and turned up the volume. Pink belted out 'Just Like A Pill' just loud enough to compete with the whining engine. She had bought the tiny car when she first arrived in Italy, almost a year ago, because it was ideal for parking and driving around congested Milan. For longer trips, though, they had used Leo's car. But now Leo had pushed her out of his life, and everything had changed.
She flexed her stiff shoulders and looked down at the solitaire diamond engagement ring, which she had moved to her right hand. She should take it off altogether -- but not yet. As long as she continued to wear it there was hope that he might return to her. She hated herself for being weak, but she could remember her joy when Leo had proposed to her back home in the States. He was Italian, studying international law in Baltimore, and when he had asked her to follow him to Milan she had agreed, giving up her life in the States without a thought, including a medical and research career at the prestigious JohnsHopkinsUniversity. It had been a romantic leap of faith, but her father was in Turin and her oldest friend Phoebe was based in Milan; Isabella had quickly found a post at MilanUniversityHospital. She had been so certain and full of hope.
She turned into the neglected drive that led to her father's villa. It was a modest, wisteria-clad house in a pleasant residential suburb, and in the soft golden light of early evening it looked almost beautiful. His battered old Lancia stood in the drive and his Cannondale mountain bike, which he rode every day to the Agnelli business park where he rented a laboratory, leaned against the porch. Looking at the ramshackle scene, it was hard to believe that six or seven years ago he had inherited enough money to allow him to wash his hands of big business in the States and set up on his own here in the Old Country.
The only time he had allowed her into his laboratory, however, she had seen where the money had gone: his equipment was easily as good as what she had access to in the laboratories at the university hospital. But whenever she probed about his work, he always said: When I'm ready, Bella, I'll show you everything.' Perhaps that was what he wanted to share with her today.
She parked the car beside her father's and checked her face in the mirror. She brushed her shoulder-length black hair off her face -large brown eyes, full lips and a strong nose. At least her eyes weren't red from crying like the last time she had visited.
The front door was wide open and the smell of cooking mingled withthat of the blossom. She went into the airy hallway, and headed for the kitchen. She stopped in the doorway. Her father stood over the stove, a blue apron tied round his generous girth, stirring a pot of his trademark pasta sauce. All around him there were discarded pans, onion skins, garlic bulbs and herbs. In the light from the window a tall bottle of translucent green olive oil and a howl of blood-red tomatoes glowed like a still-life painting. LeonardCohen was singing 'Suzanne' on the old Sony sound system in one corner. The scene transported Isabella back to her childhood. Ever since her mother had died, sixteen years ago, a month after Isabella's seventeenth birthday, Carlo Bacci had been both parents to her. She stepped forward and put her arms round him. 'Hello, Professor Bacci.'
He turned, and his dark eyes lit up. 'Hello, Dr Bacci.' He dipped the wooden spoon into the bubbling sauce, blew on it and passed it to her.
The taste sent saliva rushing to her mouth, but something was missing. 'More lemon, I think.'
He tasted it. 'You're right.' He squeezed half a lemon into the pan, tasted again and nodded. Then he put down the spoon and wiped his hands on his apron. He went to the fridge, poured a glass of Asti and passed it to her. 'For my daughter with the sweet tooth.' Then he helped himself to a glass of Barolo. In the alcove behind him, Isabella saw empty biscuit tins and wine botdes. Her father was an inveterate hoarder. His second bedroom was filled with stacks of yellowing, out-of-date science periodicals and newspapers. She had given up nagging him to clear them out. She sipped the Asti. 'So what's the news, Papa?' He took a gulp of his wine. 'Let's wait for Maria. Don't worry, it's good.'
'Is it about your project? How's it going?'
He tapped his nose and winked, as he always did. 'I'll tell you when it's finished.'
She smiled. He had let slip once that his project might help her own research into prosopagnosia, but nothing more. She put down his secrecy to his disillusionment with the pharmaceutical companies in the United States: he had never received the recognition she knew he craved, and still believed that the companies he had worked for had stolen his best ideas. Now he trusted nothing and no one with his work. Not even her. 'How's your work going?' he asked.
Isabella was a neurologist at the university hospital, and spent two days a week conducting research into a rare and curious disorder, prosopagnosia. Also know
n as face-blindness, it was a neurological condition that rendered someone incapable of recognizing human faces, even when they had perfect sight and an excellent memory.
She tapped her nose and winked. 'I'll tell you when it's finished.'
'Touche'.' He laughed. Then he stroked her back. 'How are you feeling, Bella? You certainly seem happier than the last time I saw you. Has he come to his senses yet?'
'No.'
'He will.'
She shrugged and twisted her engagement ring self-conciously to hide the diamond. Her father had been supportive when she had come to see him after the split, which had stiffened her resolve not to run back to the States. He had hugged her, called Leo a fool and said how much he wished her mother was still alive because she had always known what to say. His support had been unconventional, too: he had used his own prodigious knowledge of neurology and genetics to explain clinically why she couldn't get Leo out of her mind and why she felt compelled to call him at every minute of every day. Even why she had spied on his apartment to watch Giovanna settling into the home from which she had been ejected. Her father's insights hadn't eased her pain -- knowing why some-thing hurt didn't stop it hurting -- but the earnest way in which he had promised her it would all work out for the best had cheered her. 'I'm not sure I want him back, Papa.'
He glanced at her ring. 'If you decide you do, you'll get him.' He sipped his wine. 'Are you still living with Phoebe?'
'Just till I get a place of my own.'
'She's been a good friend to you.'
'The best. She's going to help me move the last of my stuff out of his place over the next week or so. Then we're going on holiday togetherr.'
'Great. Where?'
'The French Riviera. Antibes. The Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc'
He whistled. 'Wow!'
She laughed. 'We're not paying. The hotel likes to keep its quota of A-list celebrities and the manager virtually begged Phoebe to take a couple of suites. Her sister and Kathryn Walker are in Europe so they'll be joining us.'
'Fantastic.'
The phone on the wall rang. Bacci listened for the message.
'Carlo, it's Marco Trapani.' He picked up the handset.
'Gao, Marco.' He took a pen from beside the phone and made notes on the pad. 'Really?Four days' time. August the ninth. You sure you don't mind? It would be great to meet them. Thanks, Cousin.'
When he put down the receiver, Isabella whistled. "Was that the Marco Trapani -- as in Uncle Marco Trapani, the Mafia guy?' Half a century ago her grandfather had fled Italy with his Sicilian bride and young son to restart his medical career in Boston and avoid becoming entangled in the Trapani 'family business'. He had told her stories about the Trapanis. 'They may be family, Isabella,' he would say, 'but, apart from your grandmother, never trust a Trapani.'
Bacci frowned and crossed his arms. 'That's ancient history, Bella. Marco's a respectable businessman now. Doing well, too. Anyway, you keep telling me how bad I am with money and he's only recommending a bank to protect my business interests.'
She couldn't argue with that.
'His bankers are having an anniversary party next week and he's invited me to meet them.'
A horn sounded twice in the driveway.
Bacci's face flushed. 'That'll be Maria.'
Isabella turned to the door, almost as excited as her father. Now, finally, she would learn why he had summoned her to dinner.
MARIA DANZA WAS IN HER FORTIES AND YOUNGER THAN ISABELLA'S father, but she had a similar zest for life. Isabella liked her, which had helped bring the couple together; they had met while her father was choosing her a birthday gift in one of Maria's jewellery stores.
For a long time Isabella had thought her father would never get over her mother's death, so she was delighted when Maria had come into his life. However, it was clear from the outset that although Maria was fond of Isabella's father, she didn't want to be tied down. But today, as Maria stepped into the kitchen, Isabella noticed something different about her. As usual, her round face was lightly tanned, the hazel eyes beautifully made up, her hair smooth and shining, and she wore a smart red linen suit, which accentuated her full figure. And, also as usual, she was a walking advertisement for her business: she wore a bracelet, an enormous pair of dangling earrings and a pearl necklace. Unusually she looked radiant, and w hen she embraced Isabella she was glowing.
Bacci poured her a glass of Barolo and put his arm round her. He was grinning like a schoolboy. 'Bella, the reason I asked you over tonight is that I want you to be the first to know that I've asked Maria to marry me.'
Maria giggled, blushed, and displayed an ornate engagement ring. 'And I said yes.'
Isabella was stunned. She could never have guessed this. Maria wasn't the marrying kind. 'Once bitten twice shy' was how she had put it. But now she was gazing at her fiance with dove eyes. Isabella was surprised at how emotional she felt. She was delighted for them both- but, if she was honest, a little envious too. 'That's fantastic news,' she said. She admired the proudly displayed diamond and sapphire ring. 'It's beautiful.'
'It was my great-grandmother's.' Maria smiled as if she was going to burst with happiness.
Bacci beamed. 'I've always believed that life is meaningless without love and that everyone deserves to experience it at least once in their lifetime. When your mother died, Bella, I told myself I'd had my turn.' He turned to Maria. 'But now I realize that true love should bea human right, not just an accident of chance and chemistry.'
Isabella thought of her mother, and was sure she would have agreed that he deserved another chance at happiness. 'Have you fixed a date?'
'November the twenty-second,' her father said.
'Please say you'll be a bridesmaid,' said Maria.
'I'd be honoured.' Isabella kissed them, then raised her glass. 'To the happy couple.'
As they drank, Isabella watched how her father and Maria looked at each other. She thought of Leo and felt a stab of sadness. Her father had found true love twice in his life: would she be lucky enough to find it once? She slipped off her engagement ring and put it into the pocket of her trousers.
As if reading her thoughts, Bacci hugged Isabella, and whispered, 'If an old buzzard like me can find true love, Bella, anyone can -- especially someone as beautiful as you. If you want Leo back, he'll come, I promise.'
'Sure, Papa.'
'I mean it,' he said, stroking her hair. 'It's a scientific certainty, and one day I'll prove it to you.' She smiled at his optimism.
WHENSHETURNED AWAY, SHE DIDN'T SEE HIM TAKE TWO HAIRS from her head, check that the follicles were attached and place them carefully on a dish next to the notepad by the phone, which read:
Marco Trapani.
Find out more about Kappel Privatbank and Comvec.
Kappel anniversary 9 August.
SOME HOURS LATER AND SIX TIME ZONES AWAY, A PREDATOR SWAM through the Caribbean. Its tail fins were almost four feet long and its slick black skin gleamed in the moonlight. As it neared the shore of St Martin in the French West Indies, it raised its head.
Light from the moon reflected off the crescent of sand and La Samanna, perched high on the bluff overlooking the Baie Longue. The hotel's exclusive beach cottages lined the palm-fringed bay. It was almost three o'clock in the morning in August, low season in the Caribbean, but lights still shone in a few cottages.
Reaching the shallows the creature lay still, ensuring that the coast was clear, then rose to its full height. Max Kappel was over six feet five inches tall and covered from head to toe in skin-tight black neoprene. He wore no scuba gear, just the simple equipment of a free diver: a small facemask and outsized fins. He removed the fins and strapped them to his legs, then pushed the mask on to his forehead and counted the cottages. He headed for the fourth.
He rinsed his sandy feet in the water-filled shell on the veranda, then glanced through the locked sliding doors that led into the lounge, and crept to the bedroom window. The louvred glass slats were open but a
fine mesh prevented mosquitoes entering the room. The air-conditioner was switched off and the ceiling fan whirred noisily. He peered through the slats and smelt a heavy, cloying perfume. A man lay on the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, fat sun-tanned belly rising and falling with each snore. He was naked, save for a thick gold neck chain, gold watch and two gold rings. His stubby penis was still erect. On one bedside table a torn cndom wrapper lay beside a smudged white line of cocaine and two blue tablets. On the other, a bottle of Armagnac stood next to three empty glasses. The rims of two were smeared with lipstick. The man's companions had departed. The party was over.
He heard distant footsteps and eased into the shadows. The Corsican might be en vacances, but he would have a bodyguard in attendance. He waited until the footsteps receded, then moved to the sliding doors. The sea air had corroded the simple metal catch. He pulled out a wire from one of the waterproof pouches attached to his belt, bent it into a loop, then inserted it into the small gap between the doors and curled it round the catch. He pulled, and heard a small click. As silent as a shadow, he stole into the sleeping cottage.
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