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Nicholas and Mike already had their credentials out. Mike said, “Good afternoon. Do you speak English?”
“Si, yes.”
“I’m Special Agent Michaela Caine, with the American Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Special Agent Nicholas Drummond. We need to speak with Cassandra and Ajax Kohath.”
The woman didn’t look surprised to see two American federal agents on her doorstep, nor did she look surprised to hear English. She merely nodded and gestured for them to come inside, and closed the heavy wooden door behind them.
“You will come with me. I will announce you.” Her English was heavily accented but clear enough.
Mike’s first impression of the Kohath palazzo was one of great wealth. They stood in a long foyer that led into an open square interior garden. Of all things, the whitewashed walls were dominated with canvasses of modern art, eight large pieces, all with unrelenting white backgrounds, each bisected by a wide, thick paint slash of red or black. Like the artist had taken a large paintbrush, dipped it into the paint color of his choice, and swiped it across the white canvas. The pictures were so very much at odds with what she knew the Kohaths revered and treasured, it was jarring. She imagined these paintings were originals, and probably worth thousands, go figure that. She also imagined the artist was laughing all the way to the bank.
The maid stopped at the end of the foyer, waved for them to join her. As they entered the interior courtyard, Mike saw the Kohaths had turned the open space into a garden filled with marble sculptures—each representative of a different culture—probably from their digs. Some were very old, missing feet, or hands, or heads. She saw beautiful Ionic columns connecting great marble arches that held up the higher stories of the palazzo. She remembered the Joslyn Art Museum in Omaha had a garden similar to this. It was a feast for the eyes.
Nicholas did not appear to be either amazed or impressed. He looked annoyed. Then she saw why. Three security guards had stepped forward from the outer edges of the garden, all wearing black, all armed, all watching them closely, looking ready to shoot them where they stood.
She saw two more guards standing at the far end of the garden. The maid stopped beside them.
A big guard with a blond buzz cut stepped forward. “Your weapons,” he said, and he held out his hand. He was a Brit and a bruiser, heavily muscled, his eyes flat and hard. Could she take him down? She flexed her hands, felt a shot of adrenaline. She was ready.
“I don’t think so,” Nicholas said. “Where you from? Bristol?”
Buzz Cut kept his hand out. “If you want to speak to the Kohaths, you do it unarmed. No, not Bristol.”
Nicholas said, “Close, though, right? You’ll only take my gun when I’m dead, mate.”
“Very well. No gun, no talk. Escort them out, Chiara.”
The maid appeared by Mike’s right elbow, gesturing toward the front door at the end of the long foyer. But before Nicholas could decide what to do, a cultured female British voice said, “That won’t be necessary, Harry. See my guests to the Blue Room, please.”
The bruiser’s name was Harry?
“But, ma’am—”
Mike and Nicholas got their first look at Cassandra Kohath. Tall, fit, striking, and somehow off, were Mike’s first thoughts. Maybe it was her eyes, Mike couldn’t be sure.
Lethal was Nicholas’s.
“The Blue Room,” she said again, and without another look or word, walked back down the hallway that led off the garden.
Buzz-cut Harry only shook his head.
“I guess that’s Cassandra Kohath,” Mike said.
“Yes, follow me.” And Harry set off.
After two right turns, putting them at the back of the palazzo, Harry stopped in front of an ancient open door.
“You’re really off,” he said to Nicholas. “I’m from Oxford.” He moved to stand against the wall, arms crossed.
“Not that far off,” Nicholas said.
Mike said, “May I use your restroom, Harry?”
Harry didn’t say anything, but he must have made some sort of sign because the maid appeared from the shadows.
“Through there, signora,” she said, and she pointed through an archway.
Harry started to follow her. Nicholas said, “Hey, Harry, I doubt she needs help. Why don’t you stay here and guard me and my gun? We can discuss which pubs you liked best in Oxford. Ever toss down a pint at the Swan and Castle? No, how about the Lamb and Flag?”
