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THEY ARRIVED just after nine at the broker’s house at the top of a hill about an hour outside Rome. Luca wouldn’t be expecting them for at least another half hour, with the beginnings of a plan in hand.
“No wonder he charges so much to get in,” Remi said, as Sam drove up the winding road. The palatial-sized villa, taking up the entire hilltop, overlooked the lights of Rome in the distance. The sky glowed a muted gray-gold from the late-summer sun, dipping below the horizon. Judging from the number of cars parked in the graveled lot on the south side of the estate, most of the guests had already arrived. An electric shuttle was parked near the gate, two young men in dark suits leaning against the vehicle, one of them laughing at something the other said, until they noticed Sam and Remi’s car.
The younger of the two walked over, leaned down, looking in the driver’s window, moving from Sam to Remi, then down to their clothes. Before he had a chance to comment, Sam nodded his head toward Remi, saying, “Ristoratori.”
The young man gave a knowing smile, pointing to the left, telling them to check in with the guard at the back gate.
“Grazie,” Sam said.
“Caterers?” Remi asked, as Sam drove toward the rear of the house, pulling off to the side, once the shuttle drivers went back to their conversations.
At least fifty cars were parked in the lot, which was, thankfully, sloped away from the house and surrounded by oleanders. The thick bushes, some with white blooms, some with pink, grew high enough to offer cover. Sam grabbed his backpack, took out a pair of binoculars. He and Remi ducked behind one of the oleanders, Remi keeping watch out toward the parking lot, while Sam got a better look at the house.
The entire villa, set on the crest of the hill, was surrounded by a high wall topped with shards of glass. Guards manned the gates at the front, where the guests were shuttled to before they’d have to walk up two flights of stairs to get to the front door. He couldn’t see the gate around back, but the shuttle driver had mentioned a guard there as well. Several hundred-year-old sycamores stood like sentries on this side of the wall, possibly offering a way over, but from here he had no idea what good that might do.
Remi glanced at him. “A helicopter would be nice right about now. Along with a small army.”
“We have two guns,” Sam said. “We’re going to have to make do. You think you could bluff your way past those people?”
She studied the couple arriving at the door, the tuxedo-clad man handing his invitation to the guard. “That depends. Next step in the plan?”
“You get in, then find a way I can get in.”
“Great plan, Fargo. I was hoping for something a little more specific.”
He lowered the binoculars. “A place that size, we need a little recon inside so we know where to go once we’re in there.”
“You realize we’re dressed like burglars.”
“Isn’t your dress still in the back of the car?”
“My dress, yes. But what about shoes?”
“Dazzle them with your beauty,” Sam replied. “Who’ll notice what you were wearing on your feet?”
“Except every woman in there?”
“Unless they’re carrying guns, they’re not the ones I’m worried about. Trust me, Remi. I’ve seen that gown on you. There’s not a man in that house who’ll be looking at your shoes.”
“You’re expecting me to walk in there without more of this plan in place?”
“I didn’t marry you just for your looks. That was a happy bonus.”
48
In the years that Selma Wondrash had worked for the Fargos, she’d gotten used to the sometimes odd requests they made, never mind the long stretches of working without a day or night off for weeks at a time, and the more often than not twenty-four-hour access the Fargos needed whether they were volunteering their time for a search and rescue operation or they were on the hunt for a lost treasure. That they paid her an exorbitant salary to compensate for this time made little difference in Selma’s life except to say that she could retire today and not have to worry about how she’d survive. The truth was, even if they weren’t paying her, she’d do it for free. They were more like family than employers, and she knew they felt the same about her. Which was why this sudden inability to get in touch with them troubled her. Perhaps it was because she was twenty years older than the Fargos, but she likened the experience to what parents must feel like when they can’t reach their kids by phone and they don’t know where they are.
The hardest part of waiting was the unbidden imagining of all the terrible things that might have befallen them—especially in the Fargos’ world. Which was why she was staring at the phone on her desk, tapping her fingers.
Lazlo, sitting at his desk next to her, said, “They’ll call. You know how they are when they’re in the middle of something. Usually a jungle or some desert island.”
“Except they’re in Italy, where there’s a surprising lack of jungles or desert islands. And they’re on their way to a function probably filled with mafioso running a fencing operation for fine art.”
“Right up their alley,” he said. “You know as well as I that they’re loving every second. Why, I have no idea, but they do.”
“What if something happened and that’s why they’re not calling? We could start a used-car lot with the number of rental cars they’ve ruined. Those two are in enough near disasters that I’ve had to start coloring the gray in my hair.”
