From: Delphi@oracle.org

To: C_Evans@athena.edu

Re: negotiator, Lindsey Novak

Christine,

Congratulations to you and your team for recovering Lena Poole. I know her family was overjoyed at her safe return. However, I was devastated by your news that Teal Arnett is still in the hands of her kidnappers. This isn’t the first time, or likely to be the last, that an Athena student’s bravery has gotten her into trouble.

You asked about contacts in Europe. I have the woman you want. Lindsey Novak. She’s a professional negotiator very experienced in taking back stolen goods, from art thieves or kidnappers. She’ll have the contacts you need. I’ve attached her most recent info.

If there’s anything else I can do, my resources are yours.

D.

Dear Reader,

I have loved writing every one of my Bombshell action-adventure/thriller books. I groove on the idea of powerful women who take charge of saving others, and maybe even saving themselves, while falling in love with a man who finds their moxie a turn-on. And so it was a delight to be invited to write The Good Thief as part of the Athena Force series, stories of truly fabulous women and their heroism. The added plus for me in this adventure was that Lindsey travels to beautiful, mysterious Prague, Czech Republic, in its winter wonderland time of year.

I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me and read about my other books at www.jhand.com.

Judith Leon

The Good Thief

Judith Leon

www.millsandboon.co.uk

JUDITH LEON

In July 2004 Silhouette Books showcased Judith’s women’s action-adventure, Code Name: Dove, to launch their new Bombshell line, and the book made the Waldenbooks bestseller list. The second and third books in the series, Iron Dove and Captive Dove, were released soon after.

Her epic historical Voice of the Goddess, a love story about a Bronze Age heroine, written under the name Judith Hand, won numerous awards, and her second epic historical, The Amazon and the Warrior, was published by Tor/Forge as a tie-in with the Brad Pitt movie Troy. Her book won the San Diego Book Award in 2005 for best historical novel. With friend and colleague Peggy Lang, Judith has completed a political suspense novel about a woman who runs for the U.S. presidency.

Her great passions now are promoting her two nonfiction books, Women, Power, and the Biology of Peace and A Future Without War, and her Web site about ending war, www.AFutureWithoutWar.org.

To Hal, the Marko of my life.

Acknowledgments

There are many friends and colleagues to whom I owe profound thanks. I created this story with my friend and writing partner, Peggy Lang.

She is a brilliant story editor, and we have begun to write novels together. She helped me to envision and compose The Good Thief. I am also profoundly indebted to my long-standing writers groups for their always-honest reviews: A. B. Curtis, Donna Erickson, Pete Johnson and Judith Levine, the Friday team; and Chet Cunningham, Al Kramer, Bev Miller, Tom Utts and others of the Monday faithful. And for their story input and editing, I have two delightful editors to thank at Silhouette Books: Tara Parsons and Stacy Boyd.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Prologue

Lindsey Novak fought a rising sense of panic, fought an image of standing before her father having failed. She couldn’t let that happen.

A waning moon, still nearly full, shone above the White Tank Mountains northwest of Phoenix on the last Thursday night in March. The mild night air made conditions perfect for the final event of the Athena Academy’s unique senior triathlon. Seventeen-year-old Lindsey checked the glowing display on her watch: 3:32 a.m.

She stifled an urge to shout at Gloria Muñoz, the current leader, that they needed to move faster—shouting would do no good whatsoever.

With her five teammates, Lindsey had been hiking and jogging for exactly four hours and thirty-two minutes, working their way southwest from their original helicopter dropoff at an elevation of 2,800 feet in the northernmost ridge of the regional preserve.

She heard the whump-whump of the helicopter first. “Down!” she said in a hushed voice to the others. “The chopper!”

Their single-file lane instantly broke, each girl diving toward the nearest mesquite bush or darting into a moon shadow cast by a boulder. Lindsey’s shoulder hit a rock. The nearest bush snapped. She winced in pain and inhaled the pungent scent of sage. Gloria killed the light of the one allotted flashlight.

Damn. Even if they weren’t spotted, hiding would cost them precious minutes. At sundown, Lindsey’s team, the Dianas, won the horseback relay on the Sonoran Loop of the competitive track. By 10:30, they had come in second on the bicycle course. This put them in a close second overall with the Persephones, their most serious competition. With a bit harder push, they could capture the lead. All girls at the Athena Academy for the Advancement of Women were assigned upon admission to a support group—a sort of team or coven or sisterhood—and each group picked their name from a character in Greek or Roman mythology.

The Dianas were tired but pumped, and Lindsey needed the big win as much as she’d ever needed anything. Her dad would be waiting in the park’s amphitheater along with the other girls’ parents. Mom would be there, too, of course, but Dad would be so incredibly proud of Lindsey if—no, when—the Dianas won this major test. His high expectations for her were the main reason he’d sent her to Athena, the extremely low-profile, highly selective, and premier high school for girls in America, really in the whole world, and Lindsey simply couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him. Not even once since she was twelve and she’d lost her nerve and didn’t even place in a skiing race had she disappointed her stern but loving dad.

She felt something, looked down, and realized that her legs were exposed—and that a scorpion had crawled up onto her boot, tail raised. Lindsey froze.

The searchlight of the chopper sliced back and forth through the darkness, approaching them and driving critters skittering in the brush toward them. If the scout in the chopper ID’d the Dianas, they’d be penalized fifteen minutes. The Academy, partially supported by secret Department of Defense funding and from such government agencies as the CIA, NSA and FBI, also had close ties to nearby Luke Air Force base. The men there enjoyed helping out in the annual event.

Rachel Stein gasped and swatted at Lindsey’s shoulder. “Your legs.”

“Freeze, chicas!” Gloria commanded, just before the beam missed Rachel by inches.

They wore desert camouflage hats with leafy twigs stuck into the band, black turtleneck shirts, camo pants, fingerless black gloves and hiking boots. Each carried a two-liter water bottle, Lindsey’s now less than half full, ChapStick and simple food items. The team also carried water-based paint balloons for tagging, one knife, one pen flare and one simple first-aid kit. The designated leader always held the flashlight and the rappelling line and pitons, which had come in handy twice so far.

When the chopper finally passed, Lindsey flicked the scorpion off. She started to stand, but what felt like claws tore through her shirt. She swore. A cluster of razor-sharp thorns from a scrubby cat’s claw acacia had shredded her forearm. Man, oh, man, she hated this plant. Ecologist Edward Abbey had said that everything in the desert either “bites, stabs, sticks, stings or stinks.” He was right.

The way her classes had combined concepts, like biological adaptations and survivalist training, constantly amazed Lindsey. If women were to make things better, they had to hone every asset, every ability. Be all they could be, as her dad, a former army special forces commander, would say. Principal Christine Evans even brought in accomplished instructors to teach Lindsey’s favorite subject, art. Her dad, however, encouraged art studies only as a hobby. Mom’s income as a textbook illustrator hadn’t brought in much money and so didn’t measure up to what Dad believed Lindsey could achieve.

“Water break and alpha change,” Gloria said. “Lindsey, take us in.”

“Right.” A quick swig of water, a chunk of power bar and a handful of peanuts, and they were off again, Lindsey in the lead. “Okay, they almost caught us because we’re in the wash. We need to bend south, anyway.” She set a faster jogging pace.

The chopper followed trails and the long, meandering dry washes that gleamed white in the moonlight, the idea being to drive the five teams into challenging terrain. The White Tank Mountains were essentially a series of ridges running east and west. The Dianas had already crossed or skirted three main ridges. With one more to go, they’d soon be in the public area with its many trails. Before coming in, though, they had to find a “treasure” in Waterfall Canyon. Each team’s prize would be in a different location and they would know it because it would bear the initial of their name.

The distant lights of Phoenix lay like a spill of diamonds to the southeast, and even in the ravines, gullies and canyons, the city’s ambient light was obvious. The girls kept Polaris shining over their left shoulders. In this park, Lindsey knew where she was, even at night. She hiked through it several times a year and had spent the previous evening poring over maps.

She risked sweeping the flashlight beam across a rocky stretch. From the other side of the ridge, coyotes suddenly yipped the way they did over a fresh kill. Chills ran up her back at the sound. She held up her hand for a stop signal, and listened hard. When the yips grew fainter, team members audibly breathed again.

Leaving the wash would slow them down but the chopper was a bigger problem. “Go!” Lindsey said, and they scrambled over the rocks toward a protected arroyo.

This was a good time for one of their cheers. In a low voice, she chanted, “Dianas know no fear!” The others responded, instantly and softly: “No way, Jose!”

Lindsey called, “Dianas persevere!”

The response: “You bet, Suzette!”

Then all together, “Go, Dianas!”

They normally screamed the last line, but now each spoke barely above a whisper. If they alerted other teams to their location they risked getting pelted with dye balloons. If yellow glow-in-the-dark paint splattered a team member’s clothing, the team would suffer a ten-minute loss for each girl hit. The Dianas were definitely the team to beat. Pelting any of them would be a bragging-rights victory. All Athena girls wanted to be like the famous Cassandra team that graduated five years ago, and the Dianas were shaping up to match the Cassandras’ exploits and achievements.

“Over rock and ridge, gully and gravel, the Daring Dianas trekked on,” Crystal said softly in her exaggerated movie voice-over tone, “jogging with goat-footed precision, panting and sweating, moving ever closer to victory.” She wanted to become a screenwriter.

Out of the inky silhouette of a stand of organ-pipe cactus, black blots seemed to spew toward them, emitting tiny screams and squeaks. Bats. Lindsey raised her arms around her head, and the high-pitched noise rose and then apparently stopped as the bats’ echo-location went into an overdrive inaudible to humans. They veered off then, shy things that they were, perhaps scared up by a great horned owl.

She’d felt no panic, no pounding pulse. Lindsey had seen only one snake so far, a mildly venomous nocturnal lyre snake coiled in a rock crevice, its head raised. She’d not even blinked as she faced its stare and directed others to move back, and then, finally, moved away herself.

Athena and the desert had been good for her courage. Understanding the desert’s creatures had erased a lot of blind fears. Snakes. Bats. Coyotes. Scorpions. She understood them now, knew how to act and so had conquered the terrors they had given her at first. She could rappel down cliffs that once would have paralyzed her. She could handle guns and knives and wield a bow and arrows. Athena girls were being prepared to protect and defend as well as change the world for the better. She did have a fear, though, that she hadn’t admitted to anyone. Little eight-legged things. Even a picture of a spider sometimes gave her goose bumps. She’d been that way since childhood. But she loved it that the other girls considered her the most daring, so if this particular hang-up ever seriously threatened to freak her out, she would just use force of will to get past it.

She inhaled deeply. The pervasive sage and creosote smells had freshened with moisture. The team crossed what Lindsey was sure was Goat Canyon Trail. When they entered the wide wash of Dripping Spring Canyon, Lindsey knew her direction was true. If all went well, they were a mere hour from the amphitheater. By 4:00 a.m., they’d found the treasure underneath dried cactus wood beneath a park sign bearing the letter D. Lindsey noted that the letter, unlike the sign, wasn’t weathered. It had been placed recently. The sign explained the formation of the “white tanks,” natural stone cisterns sculpted by flash floods. Underneath some dried cactus wood, they found their treasure: chocolate bars and something shiny. The girls gasped at the beautiful gold pendants cast with the image of Athena.

Someone hissed, their secret sound for stop. Everyone crouched and froze.

“Voices,” Portia whispered, “eight o’clock.” Heads turned west. Nothing.

And then the chopper returned, following the bends of the wash. They eased into shadows, pressed into bushes, again losing time as the chopper whomped by.

The sounds gradually faded, the team heard voices more clearly. Portia hand signaled where she thought their competitors’ course lay. Lindsey calculated her options. Since, in true Athena thinking, no points would be gained in paint-tagging another team, only a point loss in getting tagged, she would not let them be sucked into losing time in an ambush. She signaled by pointing away from the voices and toward the rocks.

Soon they were nearing the area with the most vegetation. This would probably be a shorter route in the long run, anyway. And wasn’t there a cistern, up ahead, a “white tank”?

An image of the new sign posted above their treasure flashed in her mind. Had that been a clue, the key to success from that point? Lindsey felt a flush of certainty. Going through this region of tanks was the fastest way.

Dropping down the rock face by rope took less than ten minutes. They reached a passageway so narrow, only one girl at a time could go through.

“It’s black as starless space down there,” Crystal said.

Lindsey signaled the others to wait. She moved a limb of a paloverde tree, stepped into the passage, and switched on her flashlight. Left behind, the Dianas blended into shadows. Within ten paces she came upon a rock “tank” filled with water, a deep pool of ink. It would be cold, and no telling what things lurked in it, but they’d be heroes if they pushed through and down to the amphitheater in record time.

The edges gave no footing, so the only way out was through. She shined her light into the leafy gorge beyond and saw a sight that chilled her to the bone. The beam shimmered across dozens of giant gray spiderwebs. A scream rose in her. She bit her hand in time to keep the scream inside.

Above her shoulder, a spider dropped along the rocky wall from its line of sticky web, doing a little rappelling of its own. White speckles sprinkled its body. She scurried back to the team, grateful for the dark. Otherwise, they’d see a completely white face. Her hands were sweating and her heart’s beating throbbed in her throat.

“Can’t go that way. The…uh…water…something moving in it. Like a snake.” She couldn’t return her teammates’ look of surprise, her lie forcing her gaze to the ground. She was the designated leader from this point. The decision was hers to make. Moaning quietly and sulkily complaining of lost time, the girls climbed their way back out, and when they nearly reached the top, the Persephone team popped up, whooping.

“Kowabunga!”

Paint balloons flew at the Dianas, Lindsey taking the first hit. Persephones scurried away before Dianas could reach the top and fire back. A clean getaway.

It was all Lindsey could do to keep from crying. They came in well behind the Persephones, and because of the paint splatters, their score put them at third in the overall triathlon.

“We’re so proud of you, honey,” Lindsey’s mother gushed at the closing ceremony.

She stood there with some paint still caked in her hair, wanting to disappear.

“Third, huh?” Her dad patted her on the cheek. He swiped a finger over her bangs, noting the paint. “Let’s talk about this later, before your mother and I leave. See what you could have done differently.”

She’d failed. At the big party in the gym the other girls would talk. Her father would hear about the dark passageway and about her retreat.

For two days, Lindsey could scarcely eat, and her father’s disappointed pat dug itself a nasty little spot in her memory to remind her of the costs of fear.

Chapter 1

Perfect pizza!

So many reasons to come to Naples, Lindsey thought as she finished off the final bite of a slice she’d ordered while waiting to meet her backup man. The fabulous view of Vesuvius and the bay; masterpieces at the Capodimonte Art Museum that took her right out of the here and now and into a different world; an exciting air of danger and intrigue from the city’s long history with the Mafia; and, of course, the best pizza in the world.

Eager to get into action, she drummed her fingertips on her water glass. She was waiting for Marko Savin at a patio table in the restaurant across the street from the world-famous National Archaeological Museum where she loved to browse, on quieter days, the best finds from Pompeii and Herculaneum.

A sudden strong breeze stroked her neck. February winds off the bay could be quite chilly. Yesterday it had rained. She flipped up the collar of her black leather jacket, guessing the air temperature probably hung around fifty-six degrees. Billowy, gray clouds raced across the sky.

She pushed the plate away and took a drink of bottled water. A sturdy Chianti, as the waiter had suggested, would make the wait easier, but she needed to be at her clearheaded best for today’s buyback.

After a month of investigation and then wangling, wheeling and dealing with a thief, she would buy back a painting, a small masterpiece, for its rightful owner. She would purchase an exquisite work by Artemisia Gentileschi. The little-known oil—three feet by four feet—was entitled Cleopatra at the Bath.

Artemisia had painted this Cleopatra in 1650. Lindsey loved the artist because she was one of the few acknowledged women masters of the time. During WWII the Germans stole the painting from the parents of Lindsey’s clients. Recently, the grandson of an ex-Nazi officer who’d gone into hiding after the war had apparently stolen the piece from his own grandfather and put it up for sale on the black market. Lindsey’s underground contacts—which were extensive since she had carefully cultivated them after becoming a middle-woman in this business over five years ago—ranged from street sages to shady “fences” to auctioneers, cabdrivers and snooty museum buyers. One had not only been able to help her find the painting, but shared the rumor with her that the grandson, Heinie Gottschalk, wanted the money from the sale to take his little drug-running business to new highs. Or lows, depending on how you looked at it.

She sighed. Maybe that was true. Maybe not. She didn’t allow herself to judge or guess at what people did with the money exchanged in the buys. Her job was to serve clients who could not get justice through the legal system. Insurance companies, private businesses and individuals—at one time or another, she’d negotiated a deal for them all. The black-market buybacks sometimes felt a little shady. After all, her clients didn’t like paying for items they rightfully owned. But if her fees sometimes felt like thievery, she at least had the consolation of knowing she was a good thief, on the side of justice.

A man at a nearby table cleared his throat and stared at Lindsey’s hand. She stopped drumming. Why hadn’t she at least ordered coffee? She recalculated the time to reach Capodimonte Park, the site of the exchange. She’d set up the buyback there not just because the location was convenient and public, but also because of the poetic justice involved. The Capodimonte Palace, built in the late 1700s and now the site of the art museum, displayed what was perhaps Artemisia’s best-known piece, done in the chiaroscuro style of the more famous, but in Lindsey’s opinion not more talented, Caravaggio, and entitled Judith Slaying Holophernes. Lindsey would buy back a piece of stolen art under the caring eye, so to speak, of the artist herself in the sense that Artemisia lived on in her work.

Lindsey checked her watch. 12:56. Still early. But Savin obviously wasn’t. Maybe he’d had a hard time renting a motorcycle on such short notice? She hated last-minute changes.

If she were meeting a friend or even doing business for NSI—Novak Sicurezza Internazionale, her father’s security company—time could be experienced Italian style…casual. She had, however, never worked with Marko Savin before, and today’s exchange, like all buys, was potentially dangerous. Everything had to be executed with care. That included timing.

When Lindsey, in a rush early this morning, had called her father from the Florence airport, explaining that a motorcycle accident resulting in a seriously pulled muscle had put her usual backup, Tito, temporarily out of commission, her dad, former Colonel Anton “K-bar” Novak, had highly recommended Marko Savin. “They don’t come better,” K-bar had said. “I can get him down to Naples for you quickly, no problem.”

She crossed her long legs the other direction, black leather pants creaking with the motion. All five-foot-nine of her was in black: black leather, a black turtleneck cashmere sweater under the jacket, black boots. She’d secured her long, dark-red hair in a French braid at the back of her head, pulling it severely away from her face and slicking her bangs away from her forehead. No gentle femininity when dealing with thieves.

Art thieves as a rule didn’t engage in violence. She didn’t anticipate any problems today, but an unbreakable rule was to show strength—and be prepared for anything. More than once, a seller had tried to double-cross her, taking the money and then attempting to flee with the art. Instant wire transfers were not as common even five years ago and unmarked cash was a terrible temptation. Twice she had barely escaped from attempts by third parties to kill both her and the seller and steal the art. You just never knew. She worked carefully. She did not take unnecessary risks.

12:58. She watched the traffic streaming past the museum, the tourists strolling in and out, and finished off her water. Some of Lindsey’s own handiwork could be seen in the museum, which gave her a thrill. Between her junior and senior years at the Athena Academy, she had volunteered as a gofer and assistant for an art restorer in Pompeii, and two pieces Lindsey had researched and assisted in restoring were displayed right across the street. How cool was that!

Athena Academy. Memories rushed her. The Dianas. The painful shame of losing the senior triathlon. The Dianas had, of course, eventually forgiven her for that awful blunder. She’d even been reinstated as “head daredevil.” But her ten-year reunion was this year, and part of her dreaded going, knowing she’d take terrible teasing. Oh, Lindsey, I’ll never forget how you looked with all that glow-in-the-dark paint splattered over your head. Ha-ha-ha.

She shook her head. Was it ever possible to fully escape shames of the past?

Time? 1:02.

A motorcycle zipped into a spot two doors down from the restaurant. A man she judged to be a couple of years older than she, shut it off and dismounted. He looked toward the restaurant, and Lindsey figured he had to be Marko Savin. She’d not only picked this time and place, she’d told her dad that she wanted Savin to rent a motorcycle, not a car. “I drive a car,” she had explained to K-bar. “Tito is always on a bike.”

Good-looking, she thought as Savin strode toward her. Confident. Maybe even cocky. That could also mean excessive risk-taker, but she would keep an open mind.

He walked straight to her, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat.

“You’re late,” she said before she could stop herself. Now why had that popped out? She hadn’t meant to launch their day with criticism.

“No, I’m not,” he countered, grinning.

Maybe she’d been thrown off stride by his looks. She took in the short-cropped dark brown hair, deep blue eyes, ever-so-male five o’clock shadow and an intriguing scar under his left eye that she immediately wanted to touch, if not kiss.

I’ve been without sex way too long.

She stuck out her wrist, displaying her black watch’s neon-blue time display, at the same moment he stuck out his wrist, displaying his silver watch’s black numerals. They both checked the time, and laughed. His watch said 1:00, hers, 1:02.

“It’s nice we’re both right,” she said, happy for a chance to get back on a positive track.

The waiter arrived. “I’m not ordering,” Marko Savin said. He had one of the most beautiful baritone voices she’d ever heard. His English had a mild Italian accent. K-bar had explained that Savin was born and raised in Venice but had traveled widely.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” she hurried on as the waiter sauntered away. “I appreciate your stepping in at the last moment.”

“When your father calls, I come. I owe him a great deal.”

“He said he found you serving in Kosovo, in the French Foreign Legion.”

He nodded. “The Legion taught me a lot, but it’s a rough crew. Working for your father’s security business is more to my taste. And it let me return to Italy.”

“What we’re doing today should be an easy job. I don’t know if Dad told you what I do as a side venture, when I’m not selling for and promoting NSI business.”

Marko Savin angled the free chair at their table and propped one booted foot on it. He wore a black leather jacket with black jeans. “He says you buy back stolen goods for their rightful owners.”

“Correct. Today I’m purchasing a painting for a million and a half American dollars.” While thinking again how wonderfully deep blue his eyes were, she nodded to the bulky white cotton satchel at her feet. It held a four-foot-long tube which, in turn, held a quality reproduction of the painting. “I’ll trade the tube in this satchel for the tube that has the original. There’s a minor difference in their labels that only I would notice.” On at least four occasions this little bit of confused identification between the original and the copy had worked to good effect for her. A way for her “steal” the painting back if the deal went bad. It might not be needed, but again, better to be prepared for all eventualities than sorry for assuming all would go well.

She explained the history of the Nazi theft of the painting.

Savin frowned. “I don’t get it. You’re paying off a thief, an ex-Nazi, for a painting he stole. Owners shouldn’t have to buy back their own stuff.”

“The owners just want their painting back.”

“Seems to me that’s a job for the authorities. They catch the bad guys, retrieve the art, return it, and punish the crooks.”

“I’m hired when owners discover that the authorities aren’t going to be able to retrieve something the owners very much want returned.”

“Isn’t that sort of interfering with a criminal investigation—for money?”

His questions were starting to annoy her. “When the authorities can’t deliver, people hire me. They’re willing to pay a substantial retrieval fee. The fee is, of course, gratifying, but the real satisfaction—the reason I take the risks—is because I get to see the joy on my client’s faces when I return what they loved and thought they had lost forever. I can assure you that I only work for legitimate owners or their representatives.”

“You said the guy is a Nazi! Pretty much scum.”

She glared at him. “The seller isn’t a Nazi. His grandfather was. But, yeah, I’d deal with a Nazi. I deal with whoever has what owners want returned. And that’s why you’re here. Sometimes things can go sour. So, you in or no?”

Savin stared right back, then shrugged. “Sure.”

“Okay. Here’s the action,” she continued. “You and I go to the meet, you on the bike, me in my rental car. We arrive a minute apart—you first—and we make no connection. They aren’t to know I have muscle behind me. I’ve made my reputation—I am the best and intend to stay that way—by never coming armed and making certain that buyers and sellers get what they expect. I presume you’re carrying.”

He patted his chest where under the leather jacket she assumed he had a gun. She’d already figured out from the bulge on the calf of the leg propped on the chair that he carried a knife.

“That’s fine,” she continued. “But there’s to be no use of weapons unless it looks like someone is going to kill me. Okay?”

“Got it.”

“What I do, and my reputation, depends on being clever, not violent, but I will get the painting back, and I will not get killed doing it.”

He smiled. It made his blue eyes twinkle.

From the white satchel she pulled out a map of the Capodimonte Park grounds. She explained where he would park and where Gottschalk was supposed to meet her—on an access road about a hundred and fifty yards away.

“If I need help, I’ll jab my fist into the air. Or,” she slid a small black box to Savin across the table and as he reached for it, his finger brushed the back of her hand. She felt a quick spurt of warmth to her face, her body’s response to a profound sense of pleasure at his touch.

Stunned, she drew in a slow breath, then, “If I press this,” she touched the center of a silver moon pendant, “the green light on your box will go red.” The slim moon disk contained a built-in transponder, activated by a three-second touch.

“Don’t come in unless I signal, okay? Any questions?”

He shook his head, then said, “I like your earrings. They’re exactly the color of your eyes.”

For a moment she couldn’t find words, surprised at the sudden shift of topic and tone. Her earrings, a gift from K-bar and her mom when she graduated from the Academy, were half-inch, oval studs set in silver. “They’re gray star sapphires. From India.”

“Very beautiful.”

She felt herself warming, knew that her face was reddening. How embarrassing.

She checked her watch. “It’s time to go.” She lay ample euros on the table, grabbed the satchel and, keeping her eyes off of Marko Savin, headed for the street.

Chapter 2

Lindsey drove the rented red Fiat uphill from the center of Naples through heavy traffic. The city spread across hills that allowed those spectacular vistas of Vesuvius rising in all its imposing splendor, an ancient sentinel watching over the bay, its peak shrouded in clouds. Everything was going well, even on schedule.

She kept Marko Savin in sight all the way to Capodimonte Park. With Tito, she stayed focused on the deal, but thoughts of the surprising rush of pleasure she’d felt at Marko Savin’s touch kept intruding.

K-bar had said Savin wasn’t married. She couldn’t resist wondering what his “type” might be. She had always wanted to share her passions and joys and hardships with a special companion. So far, however, the only man she’d ever had a serious relationship with wanted her to quit taking the risks involved in her art buybacks. And he hadn’t even known about the sometimes extremely dangerous courier jobs she did, in secret, for the U.S. government as an Oracle agent.

She knew other Athena women who had sacrificed their lives of high risk for family, but that would never be Lindsey. Retrieving art, sometimes masterpieces, stolen and precious to their owners, gave her life meaning. Most of her assignments as a courier were important, some critical to U.S. security, and that also gave her life substance. This was who she was.

Saying no to the possibility of love and a family of her own had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. Sometimes, alone at night, she would get the blues and think she’d made a mistake, but, she’d inherited her mother’s cheerfulness, and in the morning she’d look forward to the day’s action.

No one in this life gets everything.

She pulled over and waited, carefully watching for one minute. Maybe she could risk some fun and adventure with this man. No ties. She would very much like that—if he showed any interest. He had seemed to. Why else comment on her earrings and her eyes with a look that said he couldn’t stop mentally undressing her?

When the sixty seconds had passed, she drove through the entry and through extensive grounds with spacious lawns, now brown with winter, passing groves of leafless trees and a number of old buildings, including the palace that was now a museum, all of them tied together by looping access roads.

Heinie Gottschalk was waiting at the prearranged spot, seated in the back of a black Alfa Romeo sedan, parked as directed and accompanied only by his driver. She’d agreed that Heinie could bring one man with him and had said, “Sure, he can be armed.” Her main line of defense against treachery by Heinie, or any seller, didn’t rest on strong-arm measures. She could be counted on by both sides to be an honest broker, no violence, no treachery and total discretion.

She parked the Fiat in front of the Alfa Romeo and turned off the motor. A hundred and fifty yards away, Marko sat on his bike, apparently studying a map or newspaper.

Carrying the white satchel with its slightly protruding tube, she strode to the Alfa. The driver stepped out and opened the rear door behind the driver’s seat. Lindsey slid inside, sharing the seat with Heinie. He was perhaps twenty-five with neat shoulder-length blond hair and a flashy pinstripe suit. The diamond stud in his ear had to be at least a carat and a half.

Heinie spoke English, in which he was fluent. “So, we’re ready to trade?”

“Let me see the painting,” she countered. As he reached for it, she slipped her hand into her jacket pocket and palmed the tiny GPS transponder, the size of a dime. She had to slip it into the tube with the genuine painting and quickly because in the end, he might refuse to leave her alone with Cleopatra.

He handed her the tube she had supplied to him. “I need to have a few moments in private to inspect it,” she said.

“Why the fuck would you need to inspect it? You think I try to cheat you? I know your reputation and I deal in good faith.”

“Others have tried to cheat. Before we part, you will be able to verify that the wire transfer has been made. Right now I verify the painting’s authenticity. It’s all part of keeping everyone honest.”

“What’s in your tube there?”

“The tube has an accurate copy of the painting, in case I need to check any details. You may search it if you’d like.”

Heinie didn’t move, as rigid as if he were made of stone.

“If I can’t inspect the painting in private, Heinie, I won’t wire the money. You need to let me do my job. You and your man should stand at the front of the car.”

Finally he opened his door and hauled himself out. He signaled and the two of them moved to the front of the car, looking across the grounds. Looking toward Marko, actually.

Lindsey had studied art and art forgery. She knew all the techniques used to establish whether a statue, painting, lithograph, or other work, was the genuine article: pigment analysis, infrared analysis, or X-ray fluorescence to determine the age of the canvas or if metals in a sculpture were too pure. Sometimes these methods could pick up the artist’s fingerprints left in the paint. “Craquelure” was the study of the distinctive network of fine cracks on very old pieces that were virtually impossible to replicate. She could even identify unique brushwork and perspectives to see if these were consistent with known genuine pieces. The problem with this was that forgers made the same analysis, and great forgers were able to re-create them. Even experts could be fooled. But none of these fancy techniques were needed for the Artemisia.

She opened the tube he’d given her, tilted it, and the painting slid into her hands. As she set the base of the tube on the floor, she dropped the GPS into it and heard it hit with a quiet thunk on the bottom.

She unrolled the painting just enough to expose the back side, lower right corner. From her pocket she took a small lighter, and held it close to the painting. Her client had informed her that only the family knew the painting had been signed on the back using urine with the three words, Owned by Genovesa.

Invisible writing had a long history. Milk, vinegar, fruit juices and urine, all had been used and all darkened when heated. The words soon appeared.

“Hello, honey,” she said, longing to pull it out and gaze. She put away the lighter, returned the painting to its tube and knocked on her window.

Heinie returned to her. “Satisfied?” he asked in a sulky tone.

Gee, might he have been raised as a spoiled brat? She ignored him and pulled out her BlackBerry. He watched her intently as she keyed in the information that would transfer one and a half million American dollars to a bank in the Cayman Islands. She waited. Finally she read aloud, “Transfer complete.”

It was his turn to verify. He started to punch keys in his own communicator but the driver, looking behind them, yelled, and as he fumbled to pull his gun, a hulking figure in black rushed him. The door beside her flew open and a big hand yanked her out of the car. Another grabbed Heinie. She stared into the black barrel of a Beretta semiautomatic pistol. The hulk in black slugged Heinie’s driver. He dropped to the ground. In the distance a motorcycle roared to life.

“Du verdammten schwein,” a gray-haired old man screeched at Heinie.

A dark-gray Daimler now blocked the Alfa Romeo. There were four of them, including the old man. She figured the old guy had to be Heinie’s granddad.

Hellfire and damnation!

Two of the old Nazi’s goons grabbed both tubes and her satchel. Another clubbed Heinie with the butt of his own gun. Heinie’s yowl was earsplitting and he fell to his knees.

Clearly the old man intended to steal the painting back from his grandson. She pointed to the tube holding the original and shouted, “Sie konnen nicht mit dem Bild—”

She was going to tell them that she had placed an incendiary in the container, and she would incinerate the picture rather than let them take it again. Not true, of course, but she’d used the ploy before to get the upper hand. The key, after she calmed everyone down, was to offer more money.

Instead, Marko Savin, racing in a loud roar across the lawn, distracted everyone. Heinie’s driver, having regained his senses, pulled his gun and blew a hole right between the eyes of one of the old Nazi’s men.

Chaos! The old man and his remaining two guards sprinted to their car, each clutching a tube, as Heinie staggered to his feet. Lindsey ran after them, but had to duck behind the Alfa Romeo when both goons turned and started firing.

Marko brought the motorcycle to a sliding stop on its side with the motor still roaring. Ducking bullets, he dived behind her Fiat. The old Nazi and his goons made a U-turn, running up onto the lawn on the other side of the access road, and burned rubber as they headed toward the park’s exit. Both tubes were gone. Artemisia’s Cleopatra. Gone.

Chapter 3

Lindsey stood dumbstruck for a second and then turned to Marko, furious. “I didn’t give you the signal.”

“I consider drawn guns a signal.”

“They wouldn’t have hurt me.”

“How the hell can you know that?”

“Later! We have to catch them. Take the bike.”

He had the good sense not to argue. She leaped on behind him and hugged his waist. They reached the exit. No sign of the gray Daimler. They could go right, left, or straight ahead, heavy traffic in all three directions.

“What now?” he called back to her over the motorcycle’s noise.

She pulled out the BlackBerry, pushed three buttons, and picked up the signal from the GPS. “Left,” she said. “And hit it. Go through stops when you can.”

Her pulse raced as he wove in and out around cars, bicycles, pedestrians and buses. They started south on the Corso Amadeo Di Savola, but soon the GPS signal indicated that the Daimler turned west. She pointed right, toward the next cross street.

“I see them,” he called out. “Two blocks ahead.”

For agonizing minutes, they made headway, then traffic would interfere and they’d drop behind only to gain again. After fifteen minutes they reached the section of Naples called Vomero, an elevated area filled with views in all directions where they kept up the crazy cat and mouse in a heavily commercial area with all sorts of offices and pedestrians.

They sat waiting at a red light, the Daimler only a block ahead. “Hang on,” Marko called to her.

He gunned the bike and they blasted straight through the cross traffic, barely avoiding a truck.

The light turned green for the Daimler; it moved ahead. Marko skimmed the outside of their lane and then swung into oncoming traffic to go around two trucks blocking their way. She looked forward over his shoulder, right into the grill of an oncoming van whose driver was frantically honking his horn. She sucked in her breath as they zipped back into their own lane. She could hear the van’s driver cursing.

They were within a limousine’s length of the Daimler. “I’m going to stop their car,” Marko yelled, and she sensed he’d drawn his gun.

“It’s too dangerous for pedes—”

She heard the shot. The Daimler’s left rear tire blew, and the car jerked left and then back to the right. Normal traffic parted to flow around it. The driver pulled the Daimler to the curb and everyone bailed out, including the old man.

The three thieves ran into the cross street. Marko stopped the bike. Lindsey jumped off. Together they dogged the three men who suddenly veered left. The men ran past the ticket booth to the Via Toledo Funicular, and shoved their way into a car. Lindsey watched in horror as the door closed behind the three men, and the funicular began to descend. Another cable car would not arrive and then begin the steep descent, she knew, for at least ten minutes. All three men grinned back at her. One held up one of the tubes.

We’re going to lose them! I’m going to lose the Artemisia!

Her stomach twisted.

“Shit!” Marko said.

Lindsey scanned their surroundings, fighting disappointment, and saw that a long flight of stairs descended alongside the funicular. She pointed.

“The bike,” Marco exclaimed.

They ran back to the bike, and Marko drove them to the head of the sidewalk. “Hold on tight,” he said, stating the obvious.

They bumped their way down the stairs, which thankfully had few people coming up. Almost all the foot traffic was heading down and Marko stayed well to the left, yelling in Italian for them to clear out of the way.

She ignored the shocked stares of the people they passed. She accidentally bit her tongue, tasted salty blood. Too soon they had to detour to a side street, then an alley, but they didn’t lose sight of the funicular. Finally they caught up and as they passed the cable car, she took perverse pleasure in the amazed looks on the faces of the three men. She prepared herself for one hell of a fight.

“No gun,” she said to Marko, thinking of the hordes of people who would be waiting at the bottom to board.

Marko nodded.

When the three thugs entered the street, Lindsey and Marko sprang after them. The old man didn’t even try to run. She singled out the smaller thug, and Marko headed for the larger one. They were, apparently, woefully out of shape. Her man turned and charged her. She landed a forward kick to his diaphragm and he went down with the follow-up chop to the back of his neck. She kicked him over onto his side and, as he gasped for air, she grabbed the tube he carried, and took his gun.

Marko dispatched the man with the other tube, apparently with the same ease. He mounted the bike. Panting, laughing and flushed with a sense of triumph, Lindsey hopped on behind, clutched both tubes fiercely, and they took off. Hot damn, she’d done it again.

“Ooo-rah!” she whooped as they passed a row of plump elderly women in black dresses waiting in line at the funicular.

Given all the havoc they had left in their path, perhaps including a dead body in the park, witnesses might be describing a woman in black leather and red hair and a man also in black and looking like a criminal. The authorities might very well be watching all transport stations, so they ruled out getting onto a plane dressed as they were. She had used a fake ID and paid cash for the Fiat so she left it to the police to return it. She and Marko picked out a small, no-name store that sold men’s and women’s Levi’s jeans and sweatshirts. At another store they bought new clothes and duffel bags for their leather ones. She bought a cheap black wig and black eyebrow pencil and he bought reading glasses. At 4:30 p.m. they caught a flight back to Florence.

On the plane, with her treasure secure in the bin overhead, Lindsey ordered that Chianti she’d missed with her pizza, and Marko joined her. She explained what she had intended to do in case of trouble—threaten to incinerate the painting if the old Nazi and his gang thought they could take it from her, and offer them more money instead. “It’s worked for me before.”

“Tell you what. I apologize. I acted from the gut when I saw the gun.”

“Well, I admit that you saved my client any extra money.” She smiled. She liked a man who felt strong enough in his masculinity to actually apologize. She sipped the wine, thinking that Marko was earning points rapidly. He’d shown himself to be bold. Smart. Courageous. And a damn good fighter.

“Your dad told me you were tough,” he said and then laughed, that beautiful baritone. “I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t that karate kick.”

She shrugged with a smile. Like K-bar, he was impressed with her daring.

“I’d like to see you again, Lindsey. Would you like to go skydiving tomorrow? I have a buddy, a hotdog instructor.”

Her hand froze in midair. She slowly lowered the wineglass. She’d never been skydiving. The idea was…pretty intimidating. She felt her chest tightening, a sure sign her body didn’t really like the idea. Why had he picked skydiving, for heaven’s sake?

“According to K-bar you’re a real risk-taker,” Marko added. “Ever been skydiving?”

She shook her head. Of course, her father would describe her as a risk-taker. Wasn’t that the image she always projected to him? Part of what he admired about her?

“Okay. Skydiving sounds fine. Let’s do it.”

Marko explained what she ought to wear and that he’d pick her up at 10:00. For the rest of the trip, they talked about his joining the French Foreign Legion, the action he’d seen in Afghanistan, the Ivory Coast and Kosovo.

“Why did you join?”

“Oh…” His jaws flexed, as if gritting his teeth. “My family background is a little on the shady side. I…wanted to break away.” He smiled with a hint of mischief. “And I wanted to see the world.”

And he wants to keep things vague, she thought as the plane began its descent, so she asked no more questions, and he didn’t offer any more information about himself. He’d left his car, a very sexy black Maserati GranSport Spyder with a red-and-black interior, at the airport in a high security lot. Whatever he did for K-bar must pay very well, or else he’d lied about separating himself from his family background. You didn’t make that kind of money in the FFL.

Lindsey used a motorbike or taxis for transport in Florence and had taken a taxi to the airport. Who could resist a ride with a handsome man in a fantastic car?

They drove in quiet, comfortable silence. She also liked a man who didn’t feel that he—or she—had to talk all the time.

It was still dusk when they stood at the door to her apartment. Her six-room spread on the top floor of a six-story building on the south side of the River Arno nestled below the hilltop where the Piazza Michelangelo offered thousands of tourists one-eighty-degree views. From her dining room window, she could see the Ponte Vecchio. She was tempted to show Marko her view.

He hesitated, body language betraying his desire to be invited in. He looked past her at her painting hanging in the entry. “That’s quite a work of art.”

Nice try. She smiled. “Thanks.”

“You didn’t…did you paint it?”

She nodded and they shared a long moment. But she wasn’t ready to take things to the next step. Not yet. “A long day,” she said, smiling. “I look forward to tomorrow.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her, a long, delicious, hungry kiss that sent waves of heat through her body. He didn’t move his hands over her, just held her gently.

“See you tomorrow, then.” He turned and walked away with Lindsey still savoring his kiss.

Right. They’d be jumping out of a plane together. Was she beyond insane?

Still thinking of Marko, she pulled some leftovers from her refrigerator and turned on the TV while finishing the last of the pasta salad. An Italian sitcom. She made a point of watching these to hone her ability to understand Italian humor. A glass of wine and more thoughts of Marko. She switched to CNN, and as she rinsed her plate in the kitchen, the television’s commentary riveted her.

“…students from an exclusive high school near Phoenix, Arizona, Athena Academy, were abducted and have been missing for more than twenty-four hours.”

Athena girls? She raced back toward the TV. The screen showed photos of two smiling teenagers. “It is now believed that the girls were taken to Colombia. The abductor hasn’t demanded any ransom, Academy principal Christine Evans reported.” And that was the end of the report.

Christine being quoted on CNN! Dear God.

Christine Evans had been the Athena Academy’s principal since the school opened. She’d accepted the position after retiring as a captain from the army, having been blinded in one eye by a training accident. She not only had the job of hiring staff and running the school; Christine was in charge of assessing the students for potential work in government security agencies after their graduation. The Academy had been partially funded from the “discretionary” (unlisted and unexplained portions) of the budget of the DoD from the beginning. One pivotal Academy founder had actually been the head of the CIA. He realized the potential value to the United States of a military-type prep academy for women. Many Athena graduates worked for various government agencies. Lindsey, herself, was now a courier for Oracle because Christine Evans had singled Lindsey out as a potential recruit.

The news report had said Colombia. That didn’t sound like a simple kidnapping, Lindsey decided as she walked into the home office where she spent so many of her waking hours. Her computer suite offered three oversize, linked monitors. She could drag her mouse from the left, continue through the center screen and end all the way over on the right screen. One of her art projects could be going on one screen, the Internet or television on another and documents on the last.

She immediately logged onto AA.gov. This Web site linked Athena grads to each other, ran a terrific, newsy blog and offered a host of services like links to articles on up-to-date equipment and weapons, or even where to get the best health insurance.

The featured item on the home page offered a new video of Christine. She looked tired, making her eyelid droop a little over her blind eye. In her early sixties, she was still an attractive and healthy-looking woman, barely changed over the last ten years. Lindsey clicked on the feed and watched her former principal express her sorrow and then reveal more details of the kidnapping.

“You all know how hard the Academy works to keep a low profile. Shannon Connor’s dogged pursuit of us on the ABS network is quite regrettable.”

The Web site wasn’t secure. Lindsey wouldn’t learn much more there. She checked her e-mail and sure enough, she had one from Christine. The time in Phoenix, at the Academy, would be just after 10:00 a.m. “Call—private,” was all the e-mail said, the code instructions for using her secure cell phone and the secure satellite connection. Lindsey placed the call and Christine’s secretary answered.

“We’re putting out an alert to a special list of Athena grads, Lindsey. Hold this line and I’ll transmit Christine’s message. It’s all the information we have so far.”

“Holding,” Lindsey said. Then she listened as an obviously prerecorded message created for this secure line came on.

“I fear,” the Athena leader said, “that there is a drastic breach of security in this kidnapping. Those of you who have followed the tragic and bizarre story of Athena graduate Lorraine ‘Rainy’ Miller Carrington and her ‘egg babies’ will understand why.”

Lindsey had indeed followed the story of the ova that had been stolen years ago during a clandestine operation from a very young Athena student, Lorraine “Rainy” Carrington. She’d been only twelve. Much later, events revealed that a perverse scientist had genetically manipulated the stolen “eggs” in a way intended to enhance the resulting children with special talents. He’d then implanted the modified eggs in unsuspecting surrogate mothers. The insider term for these girls was “egg babies.” The full extent and results of these experiments were still largely unknown, although the girls that were known to have resulted from them were indeed gifted with some extraordinary abilities. The genetic modification process apparently only worked on eggs with two X chromosomes.

“The abductor,” the recorded message continued, “attempted to take three of our girls—Kayla Ryan’s daughter, Jazz, and two others, Teal Arnett and Lena Poole. Jazz is fourteen. Lena is fifteen, and Teal is seventeen. They’d gone together to the movies when someone abducted them.” For a moment Christine’s voice rose. Then, “Thank God, Jazz escaped. This is perhaps the only fortunate thing to happen so far.”

Lindsey clicked through the Athena Academy Web site, searching out the girls’ pictures as the recording continued.

“I’m especially concerned about the lack of a ransom demand, deeply troubled. I’ll provide updates on this secure connection as soon as possible. We’re asking you to keep your antennae tuned for any clue as to the perpetrators and the whereabouts of the captives.

“As this kidnapping demonstrates, our days of keeping an extremely low profile may be waning. You wonderful young women are becoming a force to be reckoned with around the world. One final thought. The good guys and the bad guys are taking note of the increasing numbers of Athena alumni in positions of power and influence. Allison Gracelyn of the National Security Agency is here with us. Katie Rush, who is with the FBI and an expert on missing persons, has made extraordinary progress and is now in Colombia. Together with our ‘Athena Force,’ we’re going to get our girls back.”

The recording ended. Lindsey hung up. She studied the faces of the three girls in their class pictures and bookmarked the sites.

What a mess. Lindsey knew that Rainy’s eggs had been harvested in secret. They lied to her, told her that she’d had an appendectomy. She never found out, before she was killed, that she had three daughters. The scientist at Lab 33—what was his name? Aldrich something. But the “egg babies” controversy was over and done with. A year ago they shut the lab down. What in heaven’s name was going on?

Lindsey wanted to do follow-up research immediately, but a wave of fatigue leached away her concentration. And tomorrow she would jump into the sky. Of course, she wanted to look good on her way down—before she splattered.

Marko had already seen her hair sleeked back, which made her look almost brunette. She’d do the French braid but let wisps fall at the hairline. She was tired. Nevertheless, she exfoliated her face. Then her whole body. God, her nails were a mess. She did a quick sport manicure. And touched up her pedicure.

It was 11:30. She sighed. Time to crash.

Ooooh. Bad choice of words.

In her sleep that night, she dreamed of falling.

Chapter 4

Gesù Cristo e mamma-goddamn-mia, Marko thought as he drove to his place.

Lindsey…

He absolutely shouldn’t mess with the boss’s daughter. He loved women and plunged wholeheartedly into passionate relationships that burned out in disappointingly short times. If that happened with Lindsey, K-bar would never again give him the primo clients, let alone hire him to head up the new private extraction team. Hell, he’d probably fire him, and blacklist him from the personal security business. Actually, K-bar was capable of much worse.

The tires of the Maserati screeched as Marko took a corner too fast. He paid little attention. His mind was on other things.

Okay, say the passion didn’t burn out, he said to himself. K-bar would do almost anything to protect Lindsey from winding up with the wrong man. He probably had her lined up to meet rich sons of diplomats, or some of his wealthy clients.

Marko was pretty sure he wasn’t the right long-term guy for Lindsey. Yeah, they had the adrenaline rush thing going. But she was so well educated, classy. The final shock had been her painting. She was an artist, too. That painting…he kept picturing the way she’d captured the moon through branches….

At least he’d impressed her with the skydiving idea. How many sons of diplomats could offer that?

He pulled into the garage he rented and walked three blocks to his tiny second-floor apartment overlooking an alley. He’d put all his money into the car. Such pleasure it gave him to send his mama a picture of himself beside it and tell her he’d earned it. She alone in his family would be proud of him. The rest of the lot were exactly the kind of people Lindsey dealt with in buybacks—the thieves, not the clients.

Marko came from immigrant trash, though his great-great-grandfather had been part of the Russian aristocracy before WWI. Lindsey’s draw was more than skin-deep. She was everything he admired, maybe even what he wanted to be. Marko had been a poor soldier just out of the FFL when K-bar hired him six years ago. For the last three years, he’d been earning real money. He could speak the untutored Russian of his family, Italian, of course, French and English. He knew he could advance in a business like K-bar’s. He just had to get rid of his rough edges.

He called his friend Claudio who said there was a jump tomorrow and Marko and his girl were welcome. Marko hung up and stared down at the shabby tan carpet and then out into the night sky above the neighboring building. By what mysterious process had he looked at Lindsey and seen his own ambition and potential?

Lindsey looked a bit pale and didn’t say much on the forty-minute drive down al autostrada except to ask how many jumps he’d made.

“The next will be my 578th,” Marko said before reviewing safety issues and explaining about the drop zone. “You’re going to love it.”

They reached the little airport at Arezzo for an adventure in paracadutismo, parachuting, at 10:45 a.m. He and Claudio personally packed the chute for the tandem jump he and Lindsey would make.

Marko said, “A certified parachute rigger put in an altitude-sensitive device that opens automatically if for any reason we’re both unable to pull the cords.”

Lindsey looked even paler.

“But we will both be acutely conscious and loving it,” Marko said.

Lindsey laughed nervously. She pulled a bright yellow nylon suit over her tight but stretchy black ski clothes. Marko stepped into his orange suit. Several divers were boarding the small plane, whooping and laughing in their wild bicolor jumpsuits of turquoise and white, red and purple.

“They’ll jump ahead of us,” Marko said. He attached the tandem harness straps to Lindsey around the tops of each thigh and over each shoulder and under her arms. The tight shoulder straps emphasized her breasts, which he’d already surveyed more than once.

After a few more instructions, their plane was in the air, climbing and making a wide loop to the south, passing by the northern shore of Lake Trasimeno, a blue mirror of the sky. He pointed to Isola Maggiore, Major Island. “Not a very imaginative name.”

“In Italian, everything sounds romantic. It doesn’t have to sound imaginative,” Lindsey said.

At an altitude of six thousand meters, Marko attached Lindsey’s clips to his own straps in four places, powerfully connecting the two of them. He stood beside her as the others were lining up beside the transport door. One of the jumpers accidentally bumped Lindsey backward, thrusting her body against Marko. He was surprised to feel her shaking. Could the female daredevil be frightened?

He spoke softly into her ear, “Would you like to just watch this first time?”

She looked at him over her shoulder. “Of course not! I’m making this jump.” She shoved her goggles down over her eyes.

He did likewise. The door opened and the formation divers leaped from the plane, yelling and whooping. The plane began dropping and quickly reached five thousand meters.

“Okay, your turn,” Claudio yelled.

“Jump,” Marko said.

They made a paired spring into the sky. Arms like wings, they leaped into icy wind. In belly-to-earth position, they would drop for sixty seconds. Strands of her hair slipped out and lashed at his face a little. Her legs spread apart, and he hovered over her as if about to mount her in their free fall over the patchwork terrain below. They kept touching in places, her backside bumping at his groin. It was both erotic and exhilarating.

To the south, puffy arcs of color opened. The formation flyers. Marko yanked their cord also. With a jerk, their canopy wing chute opened. He held Lindsey around the waist to guide her upright. They floated gloriously as the earth approached, bumped down only a few feet off the assigned target.

Lindsey came alive, screaming with delight and laughing. After he’d gathered the chute, she grabbed him and planted an amazing kiss on his lips. No tongue, but full of passion.

When she pulled back they both grinned, a distinct sense of shared awareness in the moment of pleasure.

Back in Florence in the late afternoon, she didn’t invite him in. She took his hand and tugged him in. They flew at each other the second the door closed. He moved his hands over her slim waistline, her hips, her firm breasts. He was about to take her sweater off when the phone rang. She kept kissing him, but after the fourth ring, she pulled away.

“I guess I’d better get that,” she said.

He laid his head back on the sofa in frustration as she answered and then watched as she grew more and more focused. “I’ll call you right back.”

“Marko, something has come up. I have to take this call and then get to work.”

He looked at her, groggy with lust. “This is American humor, right?”

She shook her head, leaned over and kissed him, a thorough hello kiss, not a goodbye buss. “I can’t thank you enough for today.”

“That seems to be true,” he said with mock sadness. “When can I see you again?”

“Soon. I hope.”

His Maserati was inadequate comfort on the cold ride home. What could be more important to her than making love to him at that moment? Mamma goddamn mia.

Chapter 5

Lindsey closed the door and sagged against it. I was scarily close to hopping into bed with Marko Savin. I must be out of my mind!

She’d been on the verge of doing something she would have surely regretted. It was way too soon for that much intimacy. Maybe it was the intoxication of the day that had her close to losing herself with him. She’d sipped the old adrenaline cocktail and loved it. “Adrenaline fright” was definitely an acquired taste. She’d almost wet her pants with relief after they landed and had forced herself to jump again to banish any remaining doubts about her nerve. What a thrill! That’s what happened when you conquered your weaknesses. Just like K-bar said.

Thank heavens Allison Gracelyn had interrupted before Marko had slipped her sweater over her head. Stopping at that point was sensible. Sane.

With Marko’s taste, like an especially sweet orange, still lingering, the feeling of his touch still fresh in her memory, Lindsey dialed the secure number Allison had given her some time ago. The gifted computer programmer worked as a code-breaker at the National Security Agency in Ft. Meade, Maryland, and lived in Chevy Chase. There was only a six-hour difference between Florence and Maryland.

They exchanged quick hellos. “Are you still with Christine in Phoenix?” Lindsey asked. Lindsey pictured Allison and her straight, shoulder-length hair, the soft yet keenly intelligent eyes.

“Yes. I’d appreciate your attention on this, Lindsey. Have you followed the kidnapping?”

“Yes. I called the Academy and listened to the recording by Christine. What’s the latest?”

Lindsey grabbed a diet soda and headed into her office.

“FBI Agent Katie Rush traced Teal Arnett and Lena Poole to a gang of Colombian lowlifes.”

Lindsey typed in her AA.gov password and then brought up the photos of the girls, their names listed below their photos.

“The short version,” Allison said, “is that Katie went to Colombia and helped to free Lena, but Teal stayed with her kidnappers on purpose.”

“A seventeen-year-old girl didn’t escape when she had the chance?” Lindsey studied Teal’s image. She looked like a normal teenager. Blond-streaked chestnut hair pulled back in a ponytail, clear hazel eyes, vivacious. And yet, those cheekbones… There was some American Indian blood in this girl somewhere. “She looks like the kind of person people call an ‘old soul.’ Is she…?”

“Teal is definitely special. I’ll get to that in a minute. Lena says Teal thinks there is something much bigger going on. Something…well, strange and terrifying was how she put it. The good news is that we know that Teal is on a plane from Colombia to London. I’ve contacted the British SAS and called in some favors. They’ll have a team waiting when the plane lands, rescue Teal, and arrest the kidnappers. I’ve also twisted the arm of an NSA friend and we’ve got a secure satellite that will be able to pick up the plane’s arrival at Heathrow.”

“It looks like things will be okay, then. If you have the kidnappers, you can get to the bottom of this.” Lindsey sat back, swigged her soda, and wondered where she fit in.

“Yes, and no. Teal has proven psychic abilities.”

Wow. She picked up a pencil. “Okay.”

“And, Teal, like Lena, is an amazingly fast runner. Amazingly fast.”

Now tapping the pencil, Lindsey suddenly felt the conversation wasn’t going in a direction she’d anticipated.

“Jazz was the third girl. Like all Athena girls, Jazz is very bright and has her own special gifts, but nothing beyond the ordinary. We think the attempt to take her was accidental. The kidnappers wanted Teal and Lena. The girls were lured to a pickup location. And Teal and Lena share something else. In addition to having these standout abilities, there is this profoundly disturbing fact: Their mothers underwent fertility treatments—at the very same clinic, the Women’s Fertility Center in Zuni, New Mexico.”

“It’s unusual. Seems a rather large coincidence. But why so disturbing?”

“Lindsey, the clinic may have connections to Lab 33. We’re starting to think that they may be Lab 33 babies.”

“Oh, good God.” Lindsey leaned forward in the chair and tossed the pencil onto the desk. “More egg babies?”

“Exactly. An Athena grad, Kim Valenti, is working with Lynn White to decipher the files that were rescued when we took down Lab 33 a year and a half ago.” Rage and disgust boiled in Allison’s voice. “There’s still much that we don’t know about Aldrich Peters’ genetic research. The encryption is difficult to break. Very frustrating for Kim and Lynn. Also, a lot of the data was destroyed. But, yes, it appears that Peters didn’t just harvest Rainy’s eggs. He took and then secretly manipulated the eggs of other women, as well.”

“That’s sick. Disgusting.” Lindsey felt a chill on the back of her neck. “Isn’t Lynn one of Rainy’s ‘daughters’?”

“Yes. It’s a mess. If you knew Rainy’s daughters, or Teal and Lena, you’d say it’s a wonderful thing that they were born. But the method, if it’s true that they are genetically modified egg babies created by Peters, is absolutely abhorrent.” Allison’s anger shifted to sadness. “If Rainy were alive, she’d be utterly confounded.”

Lindsey recalled something that might explain Allison’s deep passions. “Weren’t you especially close to Rainy?”

“She was my best friend. She was the senior mentor to the Cassandras and every one of them will tell you that she made them the tight-knit, formidable group they became. A most extraordinary woman.” She paused, sighed. “Rainy’s murder—I still can’t talk about it.”

Last year, when the new science building was dedicated to Rainy, Lindsey had attended the ceremony. “At the dedication, I actually met Lynn. She seemed normal…but she’s—” It seemed somehow rude to call Lynn genetically modified. “Enhanced in what way?”

“All three of Rainy’s daughters, Lynn, Faith and Dawn, are a continual amazement. It’s mind-blowing. Lynn is blindingly fast. Faith is psychic. But Dawn’s abilities to heal herself are astonishing.”

“How do I fit in?”

“We’re beginning to worry that somehow, someone from the outside has learned of Teal and Lena’s talents, and that’s why they were taken. Katie is working with a psychic who is occasionally in contact with Teal. That’s how they located the plane.”

Lindsey still couldn’t see a way to help.

“Katie thinks the kidnappers are middlemen,” Allison continued, “and that they very likely don’t know the real value of the girls or who is really behind the kidnapping.”

“Ah!”

“Yes. That’s why I’ve called you.”

“You want me to scour my European underground contacts and see what’s up?”

“They are going to London. That suggests that a British, or possibly other European party, is behind the whole thing. See what you can find out. Particularly anything with a whiff of genetics involved. I’ve set up a site here at the NSA that holds everything we have about Lab 33. I’ll be updating it regularly about the kidnapping, as well. I’ll have some photos of and files on the few individuals we know who worked with Peters and escaped the lab bust. We’ve also been able to decipher scraps of information on the genetic manipulation process. We know what was done, but not how. If you have any questions, call me. Katie and I watched from a satellite when the private jet carrying Teal took off from Bogotá. As I said already, we know the flight plan they filed said London’s Heathrow as the final destination. Do you want to watch the arrival when the SAS guys pick her up in London? The plane is due to land around six this evening London time, seven your time.”

“Absolutely.”

Allison provided a Web address and two passwords that would give Lindsey access to the data on Lab 33, the kidnapping and the feeds from the NSA satellite. Lindsey checked the clock on her computer screen. The plane would reach its destination in about twenty minutes.

“By the way,” Allison added, “Lena said the kidnappers videotaped her and Teal using their abilities during staged escape attempts. This makes me think they wanted proof of what the girls could do.”

Lindsey shook off another chill on her neck. “I understand.”

They exchanged farewells and Allison hung up. Lindsey stood and stretched. She felt exhausted. The adrenaline rush from the skydiving, and from all that lovely physical contact with Marko, must have expended itself. She needed a caffeine hit before she spent time with the Lab 33 file.

As she made her way to the kitchen, a sad weight pressed on her heart for Teal, who would probably never know who her real father was. And who, if she was ever told the manner of her conception, would surely have some psychological hurdles to conquer.

Alternately sipping the strong cappuccino and scrolling through the kidnapping file, Lindsey learned a bit more. Most interesting, the psychic who’d worked with Katie Rush, Stefan Blackman, was pretty certain Teal could only make that kind of strong contact with someone like him, or like Teal herself.

She opened the file on Lab 33 and started to read about Aldrich Peters and his egg babies. At ten to seven, she put the NSA satellite feed onto one of her side screens and monitored the London airport as she continued to skim the egg baby file. The plane was late, but finally it landed and the SAS, fully armed, swarmed inside.

Ten minutes crawled by. After fifteen minutes of total inactivity, a handful of SAS men left the plane with three men, doubtless the cockpit crew, given their uniforms. Lindsey sat up and leaned toward the screen. This didn’t at all fit with what she’d anticipated. Where was the girl? The SAS men walked out with the crew, went to the cars, got in, and drove off.

Something was wrong.

Chapter 6

Lindsey continued to stare at the scene on her computer monitor. Clearly, Teal was not on the plane the SAS had just searched. Could Allison have gotten her information wrong?

Lindsey’s secure cell phone rang. “Did you just see that?” Allison asked without preamble.

“Teal is not on the plane, right?”

“I know absolutely that she boarded their private jet in Bogotá and the flight plan called for the trip to be nonstop. When I learn more, I’ll contact you.”

“I’ll be here. I’ll be checking my contacts who may have information about this kidnapping or about genetic engineering.”

“This changes everything. We thought we had her safe.” Allison’s voice held an edge of urgency.

Allison, who Lindsey had never known to be anything but amiable and polite, hung up without formalities, clearly, terribly worried. Lindsey didn’t just need information about who was involved and why, she now needed to find where Teal might be. Assuming Teal was still alive.

Well, put that thought right out of your mind, Lindsey Novak! You will operate on the assumption that Teal is alive.

She kept two separate files for her information contacts: legit and shady. She opened up the legit file on her hard drive and scanned names: media contacts, private investigators and professionals in a wide range of disciplines that mostly related to art, archeology or anthropology. But there was one contact in genetics. Beatrix Riegler in Geneva of World Care Watchdogs International. WCWI exposed illegal traffickers in medical or scientific areas the way Amnesty International exposed tyrants who imprisoned people unjustly.

Lindsey combed through the file. Beatrix had sources for information about the sale of expired drugs sold on the black market. She monitored sales of untested drugs—like antiaging and cancer treatments. She dogged global traffickers of body organs for transplants and blocked sales to corporations or insurance companies of the medical files of private citizens. The latest scam Lindsey had discussed with Beatrix was the black market in stem cell lines stolen from legitimate laboratories. Unsuspecting buyers had no real way to know if the lines were contaminated.

The phrase human genomes grabbed Lindsey’s attention. WCWI monitored the ongoing DNA project in Maldovia, a massive database of human genomes second only to the original one set up in Iceland. Every citizen gave a sample of their DNA and answered an extensive questionnaire about their medical and psychological history. This information was matched to the surprisingly complete birth and death records kept in the country for nearly two hundred years. WCWI made sure that the data collected on the population wasn’t sold to anyone except licensed users/researchers—medical, genetic, or historical—and under strict conditions. If someone were seeking illegal information on genetics, WCWI might hear of it.

Lindsey checked the clock—it was not too late to call. No one beyond her contacts must know what she was searching for, and even then, this kind of information wasn’t something to be discussed via easily compromised phones or e-mails. For this she’d have to make contact in person.

Using her landline, she dialed the number. Beatrix had a sweet voice, and she answered at once with a cheery, “Beatrix hier.” The strains of Brahms played in the background mixed with sounds of laughter.

Lindsey’s German was much worse than Beatrix’s English. In English Lindsey explained that she needed to meet with Beatrix tomorrow.

“This is rather sudden, Lindsey.”

“It’s urgent.”

Lindsey heard a long sigh. Beatrix owed Lindsey, but knew she was going to be asked for information. After a moment’s silent pause, Beatrix said, “I’m swamped at work. What have you in mind?”

“I can take an early flight and meet you in the WCWI lobby at twelve-thirty.”

“A bit later, please, I have a lunch meeting. One o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

Satisfied, Lindsey hung up. This was the source most likely to pay off. She faxed a message to the charter company for the Learjets her father’s business leased, telling them she’d need a 7:30 a.m. flight for the four-and-a-half-hour trip. Then she made a tuna sandwich and returned to the computer, eating as she pored over the legit files.

After forty minutes, she closed the files, discouraged. From a baggie in the freezer, she retrieved the key to a locked jewelry box in a bathroom drawer. In the box, under some fake jewelry and the bottom lining, lay the flash drive with the file of all her contacts that were not so legitimate. Of course, most of them did have some legitimate cover, but it was their contact with the darker world that put them on this list.

She inserted the flash drive into the computer and starting at the top, analyzed each entry. Although her eyelids grew heavy and her eyes burned, she didn’t skip anyone.

The annoying ring of her landline phone shocked her awake. She lurched upright, her hand knocking her empty cup onto the Oriental carpet.

What time is it? The last time she remembered looking at the clock it had been eleven-thirty. It was now one-thirty in the morning.

She snatched up the phone receiver. Allison was again at the other end. “I know it’s very early for you,” Allison said. “I apologize.”

“No problem, Allison.”

“We have new information. Do you know Samantha St. John?”

“Athena alum?”

“Yes. She works for the CIA. Sam’s been on this mess from the beginning. She accessed CIA satellite intel tracking the plane carrying Teal. The plane lost altitude and three people parachuted from it well before landing in Britain.”

Lindsey sucked in a sharp breath. She saw herself only a day ago terrified as she stood at the open door of the plane with Marko holding her. Her heart went out to Teal. The poor girl, young and frightened and forced to leap from a plane.

“Obviously,” Allison continued, “one of the three had to be Teal. They were likely picked up in the ocean south of Ireland. Authorities are searching, Lindsey, but you need to put this information into your calculations. I didn’t want to wait until morning.”

“I agree. I want to be in the loop at all times.”

They hung up, but Lindsey was too awake now to go back to sleep. She returned to her list of possible sources. Ten names. Ten chances to find Teal, each less promising than the one before it. Her references were geared for art, not human trafficking. Beatrix just had to come through.

She went to the bedroom closet. To each of her contacts, she presented different but appropriate personas. For Beatrix it would be tailored and professional. And it was cold in Geneva. She started sorting through her outfits.

With her strategy in place, she set the alarm for 5:45. She needed to be at Novak Sicurezza Internazionale by seven in the morning to explain to K-bar, who was always at work before anyone else, that she needed a couple of days off.

Novak Sicurezza Internazionale, or NSI, occupied the two top floors of a lovingly renovated four-story building four winding blocks from the Uffizi Gallery. Views from K-bar’s fourth-floor office were of the Ponte Vecchio, the river Arno, and the city’s red-tile roofline. Other NSI offices looked onto the Campanile di Giotto in the Piazza Duomo.

Her father allowed her to kiss his cheek. He smelled of expensive cologne—like nutmeg—and was dressed, as always, in an impeccable Italian suit, this one a charcoal gray that complemented the white streaks in his dark-red hair. His eyes, like hers, were also gray. She only resembled her mother, Lindsey often thought, in personality: artistic, empathetic and enthusiastic, not the natural daredevil that K-bar was. Loretta Novak had been a textbook illustrator. She’d died in an auto accident seven years ago, when Lindsey was twenty-one. The shocking loss had made Lindsey’s relationship with her father even more complicated. And the emptiness still sometimes felt unbearable.

“So you are back safely and soundly from Naples,” he grumbled.

“And with the recovered Artemisia on its way by special courier to its rightful owners.”

K-bar dropped into the brown Italian leather swivel chair behind his desk and leaned back, making the leather creak. K-bar Novak was engraved on his gold nameplate. His employees might be surprised to know his name was Anton, but they all knew the story of how a young Special Forces commander with a few too many beers in his belly had chased a man out of a house of prostitution wielding his KA-BAR knife. Big-screen hero, her father. When she was young, she’d called him both “Daddy” and “K-bar,” but the latter had stuck at some point.

“So. To what do I owe the honor of your appearance this early on a Monday morning?” he asked.

“I need to take a couple of days off.”

“More art business? You know, I was counting on you to bring in the Berlin telecom account. They’ll need advice and staffing for all their operations in Guatemala and Honduras. I don’t have anyone as persuasive as you, Lindsey.”

“Damiano can handle it.”

Her father said nothing. She loved working for NSI and knew K-bar expected that one day she would take over the entire security business. But for now, he also accepted that she had another passion and never interfered when she asked for time off. She would let him think it was another art recovery deal. He had no idea she took on operations for Athena or served now and then as a courier for the U.S. government.

“Okay. But keep me informed. By the way, how did Savin work out?”

“Marko’s very…take-charge. But it all ended well. I actually went skydiving with him yesterday.”

K-bar’s eyebrows shot up. “Marko, huh? He’s a good man on assignment, Linds. I’ve never employed better. But skydiving with him? I never can figure why women can’t see when a man is just on the make.”

Lindsey took a deep breath to keep from blushing. “It’s not a problem. Really.”

“Easy to say. Marko is a typical Italian male. New woman every month. Then when it doesn’t work out for one reason or another, he’s off again. Women are attracted to Marko Savin like barflies to beer.”

She laughed but felt even luckier that she hadn’t gone to bed with Marko. On some level, she’d sensed what K-bar was saying. “I agree that a woman would have to be nuts to get involved with him. Don’t worry. I just considered it a chance to do something exciting that I’d never done before.”

“You liked the skydiving?” He gave her a challenging look. It was always a question, always a test for him.

“Fabulous,” she said, her voice firm.

“Sure you’d like it. Nothing after the Athena Academy would be too much. I’ve always been glad your mother and I sent you. It made you tough. You’ve always managed affairs of the heart just fine.”

“Right. I’m a ‘no tears’ kind of woman.” She was skilled at walking away from anything sticky. Distancing herself. She was good at that.

He frowned and leaned forward, arms on the desk. “You sure this is just an art thing you’re doing, Linds?”

She laughed. “If I told you what it was about, I’d hafta kill ya.”

She stood, wanting to kiss him on the cheek again, but knowing the gesture would only make him uncomfortable, she left.

Chapter 7

Lindsey resisted the urge to tell the cabdriver once more how urgently she needed to be on time for a meeting at the Place des Nations. Beatrix expected her in five minutes, but they were stuck in traffic on Geneva’s Pont du Mont Blanc. The cabbie couldn’t change that miserable fact.

At 8:00 a.m., a half hour later than planned, she’d hurried aboard the private jet in Florence. In Geneva, she spent another fifteen precious minutes connecting with a taxi. It was now 12:55. If she didn’t make it on time, Beatrix could use that as an excuse to avoid seeing her.

A young girl’s life shouldn’t depend on making transportation connections, Lindsey thought as the taxi burned fuel going nowhere fast.

The bridge spanned the southern tip of Lake Geneva where the lake flowed into the Rhone River. A thick layer of ice created by winds gusting off the lake covered benches on the quay on the north shore in white. The famous Jet d’Eau geyser was, of course, turned off for the winter. Everything seemed pewter-colored, the buildings, the lake, the sky, the peaks of the Savoy Alps beyond Geneva. Despite the warmth of the cab and her black Cossack-style coat and boots, Lindsey shivered. The gray, cold day mirrored her mood.

Her cell phone rang. Beatrix. Lindsey explained the traffic mess and added, “I’ll be no more than ten minutes late if I have to get out and run.”

“You still wouldn’t make it. But I was calling because I must cancel. My lunch appointment is lasting longer than anticipated.”

Lindsey clutched the telephone, her pulse accelerating. Remain calm. “Just tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you there afterward. I only need a few minutes, Beatrix.”

“Do you realize that I could be fired just for being seen with you, if your line of work were discovered?”

Beatrix was overreacting. Probably. “I’ll wait till your lunch meeting is over and—”

“No, Lindsey, I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I have to prepare for an—”

“Beatrix, when you hear how important this is—”

“Dear girl, I have all the high-priority crises I can handle, thank you very—”

“R-JUV-8.”

The connection between them fell silent. Last year, Lindsey, in a dicey contact, had stumbled onto a shipment of an antiaging serum claiming to be chock-full of human growth hormone but being instead a mix of herbal derivatives and an illegal new, and very dangerous, stimulant. She’d involved Beatrix, who then received credit for the confiscation of six million dollars’ worth of the product. Beatrix owed Lindsey a favor or three. Since Lindsey worked outside of legal channels, Beatrix was extremely nervous about dealing with Lindsey.

“Are you there, Beatrix?”

Beatrix sighed. She gave Lindsey an address in the Paquis district, one of the few interesting areas in this city, which was, for such an international population, pizzazz-challenged. Behind practical gray stone walls, powerful people met and conducted world affairs. World Council of Churches. World Intellectual Property Organization. Eurovision. All those banks. Virtually every major NGO, and, of course, the diplomats. Geneva was unofficially the world capital of bureaucracies. “We can meet there. No one I know eats there and I can return to work quickly.”

The menu outside indicated that the steamy restaurant, Bistro Eidelweiss, offered typical Swiss and French food. The tiny lobby was crowded. Lindsey immediately spotted Beatrix’s brown chignon and on her way to Beatrix’s table she passed hot fondues and soups, onion tarts, crepes with all kinds of fillings. Her stomach growled. All she’d eaten on the jet was a health bar topped off with coffee.

By the time an obviously overworked waiter signaled he’d soon be there to take Lindsey’s order, Beatrix had already listened to Lindsey’s story about the possibility of trafficking in genetically modified human embryos. She checked her BlackBerry, then shook her head.

“Whatever it is, it’s monstrous,” Beatrix said. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I’ll help. We’ll just have to work around your…fascinating connections—even if it means I lose my job.” Her blue eyes sparkled with what looked like determination. “Kestonians are looking to develop human supersoldiers. Their new dictator, Vlados Zelasko, is a nut. The idea is outrageous and impossible. We log the movements and actions of Kestonians wherever they turn up. I can provide you with the names of all the labs we’re watching, but that’s all I have that could be relevant.”

Human supersoldiers. Extra strong. Extra fast. Superhuman eyesight and hearing. Human weapons. Exactly the kind of thing that would bring a huge black-market price. And maybe no longer an impossible idea at all. “That’s exactly what I’m after—”

“Oh, my God!” Beatrix blurted out as she hid her face with her purse.

“What?” Lindsey said.

“The man that just came in, he works with me.”

“Shall I—”

“Just leave, okay?”

Lindsey reached across the table and squeezed Beatrix’s arm. “Done. You take care. And thank you.”

No specific leads. No crepes. No fondue. She rose and made her way back to her coat and hat, her stomach demanding that she eat a mountain of pasta very soon.

Chapter 8

His name was Iacapo Donato, but Lindsey called him Jake. Known publicly as a highly respectable antiquities dealer, his various and nefarious ties extended far beyond the world of thousand-year-old kraters, coins, or marble busts—things that were occasionally reasons for Lindsey to contact him about underground rumblings. Jake had also helped her father find the son of a billionaire Moroccan, kidnapped despite her father’s security team. Jake had learned of a shipment of illegals from Morocco into France. The smugglers of cheap labor also had the boy. NSI had successfully returned the boy to his family.

It was quite possible that Jake may have heard of something involving a kidnapping, maybe even specifically about the high-profile kidnapping of two American girls from Phoenix, Arizona. Checking AA.org, Lindsey saw that Shannon Connor, a former Athena Force student with no love for her alma mater, had also been on international broadcasts of BBC and CNN, continuing her negative spotlight on the Athena Academy.

When Lindsey had called Jake from the jet to make sure he’d be at his private club in Florence tonight, he’d invited her instead to his villa for the evening. “I’ll be showing off my latest acquisitions—and more,” he said in his affected British accent. “Wear that marvelous jade gown.”

So. Formal attire instead of cocktail. The dress was actually sage-green, but definitely the sexiest thing she’d ever owned. Stretch satin and nearly backless, its modest neckline set off a faux emerald necklace while the daring cut of the sides displayed more of her breasts than an unescorted woman in Italy should reveal. The floor-length sheath was slit only to midthigh level, but the back plunge and clinging fabric made underwear impossible.

Dress and heels. Nothing else, except necklace and earrings and her fluffy hunter-green mohair shawl.

Jake’s villa lay sixteen kilometers from Florence. She pushed her Alfa Spider above the speed limit through the village of Malmantile, which had grown around an old Tuscan fortification on the road to Pisa. The villa, perched on the side of a shallow canyon, had been added onto a centuries-old square tower. Five stories tall, its crenellated top had been roofed and glassed in. The four-story front section and the three-story wings featured romantic balconies and rows of narrow arches. The place was architecturally stunning and filled with pricey antiques—all watched over by Jake’s staff and all for sale.

Inside, she checked her shawl, ascended a broad staircase to the second floor, and worked her way through elegantly attired guests toward a buffet table without spotting Jake. He was probably in the gaming room in the back where high-stakes, illegal baccarat and roulette were played. Jake’s payoff from her for his efforts was always two things: five percent of her finder’s fee and that, every time she came to him soliciting information, she spend at least two hours in the back room schmoozing with his gamblers and looking her most alluring.

Before she could select any of the gorgeous morsels on the buffet, a man’s hand clapped her bare back and swept her from the table. Beppo, a glorified fence for stolen goods, whisked her onto a balcony into the shock of cold air and thrust her backward in a motion so smooth and sudden, she had no immediate defense. Smelling of stale tobacco, he leaned on top of her like a tango dancer bending over his partner, and the rail pressed painfully into her spine and kidneys.

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