The Body in the Piazza (25 page)

Every once in a while she turned the flashlight on briefly to search for signs of an old drive. Shortly after she passed the villa, she found what appeared to have once been some kind of cart track. If it didn't lead anywhere, she would return and keep going.

The
zanzare,
mosquitoes, now were out in full force, and Faith wished she'd thought to pack a stick of insect repellent back in Aleford. She also wished she'd thought to pack some kind of knockout drops that she could have added to Olivia's grappa—tonight she'd been imbibing, several glasses of wine and then the after-dinner drink. Olivia's trusty pistol would have been a big help, but entering her room, locating it if it was in fact still in the drawer, and leaving without drawing any attention to herself, would not have been possible save only in the worst sort of crime novels.

What kind of mosquitoes were these anyway? Same incredibly irritating whine, but they stung like bees and seemed able to penetrate even her shoes. She flashed the light about in an arc and was rewarded by what looked like a more traveled path, wider and with distinct tire tracks, ahead. When she got to it and turned, she saw it extended in two directions. One, judging from the angle, led to the village road, the other her destination?

What had been a slight breeze began to pick up, and soon an odor wafted in her direction. There may not be any swine there now, but she was approaching a place where they had unquestionably once wallowed. She passed a small brick structure with no roof and the walls caved in on two sides. Beyond it she could make out a cluster of slightly larger buildings. There was a banged-up Ape farm truck, pretty much a tiny cab and flatbed built around a three-wheeled scooter. Tom had been fascinated with the one the Rossis had and was no doubt intimately acquainted with the brand now, if this was what they had used to transport him here. Her spirits lifted. Unless another car had dropped the kidnappers off and left, this meant there couldn't be more than two of them guarding her husband.

Faith circled the darkened buildings, trying to figure out where he was being kept. She was sure he was here. He
had
to be. One of the buildings was in better shape than the other, and she concentrated on that. It seemed to have several rooms, or animal stalls. There was no glass in the windows, if there ever had been, but at the rear, the windows were barred, presumably to prevent escape and performing the same function now. There was no choice. She had to take a chance.

She stood on tiptoe and peered in the nearest one. Flashing her light, she could make out a large blanket-covered lump on the dirt floor.

“Tom?” she whispered.

The lump moved slightly.

“Tom,” she said a bit louder and more urgently. His head popped up from the dirty blanket. At least it was protecting him from bites, although there might be predators other than mosquitoes lurking in its folds.

He stood up and came to the window. His hands were tied together in front of him. He looked rumpled, but not hurt.

“I knew you'd figure it out, darling,” he said softly.

Faith tried to kiss him, but the windowsill was too wide. She pushed her hand between the bars and stroked his face.

“You haven't done anything? Said anything?” he said.

“No, but I can. It's Jean-Luc, right?”

“Yes. I couldn't sleep last night, so once it was light I went downstairs and was looking online to see whether I could figure out why Freddy had written the theater's name when Luke tapped on the window behind me and motioned me out, pointing toward the hill. He looked extremely agitated. Like a jerk I didn't stop to think he could see what I was doing, although I'm sure he'd figured it all out the moment Hattie dropped the pen. Maybe even before then—but anyway that we were with Freddy when he died.”

“Len Russo saw you running. Were you trying to get away?”

“No, but I
was
running. When I got outside, Luke said that he'd come to the house to get help. That he was walking the way he does early every morning and found a woman who seemed to be unconscious. He wanted to know if I knew any first aid.”

“Which you do.”

He'd even updated his CPR certification last winter. Ah Tom, the Good Samaritan. She didn't have to hear the rest to know what happened.

“He said he'd go get the Rossis and phone for an ambulance. I said I'd see what I could do in the meantime. The next thing I knew I was trussed up and in a burlap sack on the back of one of those roller skate trucks. I saw it when we got here and they took the sack off.

“The guards who are here now have been hitting the bottle pretty heavily from what I could see through one of the cracks in the boards and they're asleep. Unless we start shouting, they won't hear us, but I'll keep this short. They just want me—and you—on ice until sometime tomorrow. One of the guards speaks English, there are always two, but they change. He keeps telling me so long as we don't make trouble, no one will get hurt. But, Faith, someone
is
going to get hurt—unless we stop them. They're planning to assassinate the French minister of culture, François Dumond, at tomorrow's matinee in the Teatro Verdi!”

F
aith's mind was whirling as she walked back to the house, not daring to shine the light after what he had told her. The guards didn't know Tom could speak French, and with that plus a bit of Italian, he'd been able to figure out what was going on. Jean-Luc wasn't French for a start, or rather didn't consider himself French. He, and the others, were Corsican, members of the Fronte di Liberazione Naziunale Corsu, the National Liberation Front of Corsica, a terrorist group. Tom said they were dressed in camo with black hoods showing only their eyes. Faith remembered the fatal attacks by the group—deadly bombings in France and French property on Corsica. In the late 1990s the highest-ranking French official in Corsica had been assassinated, and now they had planned another high-profile one on Italian soil. That was what the initials F.D. meant in Freddy's note: “François Dumond.” The Teatro Verdi was home to the Orchestra della Toscana and they were performing a special matinee program devoted to French composers with the visiting minister as guest of honor.

Seeing Tom at the Web site confirmed what Jean-Luc had suspected—that the Fairchilds, who might be CIA or just very nosey tourists—were on to the plot. He knew they hadn't alerted anyone, since nothing had happened, and he intended to keep it that way until he and the others were long gone after the assassination. At least, Faith thought, she hadn't been seeing things. Jean-Luc had obviously switched the notebooks at his villa after seeing her notice it. They must have been scouring it for information.

It was time to call Hope again. Her sister had friends in high places all over the globe. Then Faith herself had to go to Florence in the morning and find Sylvia with the great scarves in the straw market. How could she have neglected to buy gifts for her mother and mother-in-law? But when she announced this to the group at breakfast she wouldn't add that she also planned to squeeze in a little culture. A concert.

S
he wouldn't have pegged Olivia as a shopper, but as soon as Faith said that she hoped there would be time for a quick trip back to Florence to pick up some gifts, Olivia announced she wanted to go, too. That she had promised to bring her friends souvenirs of her trip. She seemed like such a solitary figure, no mention until now of friends—or family. The girl remained an enigma in so many ways, shedding her Goth persona and then adopting it again as the week had gone on. Faith never knew who would appear. Perhaps that was the intent.

“I should have picked up the mosaic frames I saw,” Terry said eagerly. “Plus I want to get more postcards.”

“You'll be home before they get there and you've spent enough of my money,” Len said. He seemed more hungover than usual, and Faith wondered if he had a flask in his room. Even now, his speech was slurred.

“
Your
money? I don't think so. Maybe I'll make a stop at Prada, too,” Terry snapped back.

Francesca quickly intervened. “We can take the van and everyone who wants to come along is more than welcome.”

Faith could have kissed her. Plan B had been sneaking off on Gianni's Vespa, trusting she could find her way back to the city.

The Nashes were off on one of their jaunts. Faith had passed them on her way into the dining room. Constance had looked particularly cheerful and called out, “We're so eager to hear all about your husband's visit to Siena. Such a treat!”

Roderick, as usual, had been mum.

G
ianni dropped them in the city's
centro,
arranging to pick them up again in two hours. The Rossis had suggested people use the afternoon to pack so they could enjoy the trip to Lago Trasimeno and the meal without feeling pressured. The group had agreed that a couple of hours in Florence would be enough.

“Although,” Hattie said, “can a body ever get enough of Florence? I think it was Oscar Wilde who said ‘when good Americans die, they go to Paris' and I'd stick ‘Florence' in there instead. For a start Italians are way nicer people than the French!”

No one contradicted her, and it was true, Faith thought, that Italians were incredibly kind and friendly, the exception being when she'd tried to buy stamps, but that could have been her fault. She never had gotten euros straight.

She had sat in the rear of the van, first on, last off, so she'd be able to speak to Gianni out of everyone else's earshot.

“I have to stay longer in the city and won't be here when you pick us up. I'll get back on my own, don't worry. If anyone asks where I am, you can say I ran into a friend from home who will bring me back later.”

Gianni did not look happy. “Are you sure . . . ?”

“I'm sure,” Faith said firmly. “And don't worry about what Francesca will say.”

His brow cleared. “Okay,
a più tardi
.”

“Ciao, and see you later, too.”

The name Hope had given her literally opened doors, and after giving the condensed version of events to one person in the British consulate, Faith soon found herself sitting across from a distinguished-looking man in a beautiful, well-appointed room directly overlooking the Arno. She couldn't help but notice framed lists of every consul since 1698 and before she got down to business, she thought she should express her sympathy at the consulate's closing.

“Yes, pity,” he said. “Probably will become some fancy hotel. But you didn't come here to offer your condolences, however deserved. I've been filled in, but frankly, it all sounded a bit hard to believe until Frederick Ives was mentioned.”

“That's why I came here instead of going to my own consulate,” Faith said. “I don't know what Freddy's job was, but I was sure his name would mean something to the right people.”

“Why don't you start at the beginning?”

So Faith did.

The most crucial thing now was to tighten the net and trap as many of the perpetrators as possible without endangering lives, especially the ministers', both the cultural one and Tom. The hitch was keeping the farm buildings under surveillance without alerting the terrorists that their plan wasn't secret anymore. The same with the theater.

“I'm sure no one saw me come in, but perhaps I should leave by a less conspicuous entrance,” Faith said. “I only have about forty minutes to get to the concert hall. I've located the street on the map. It's a bit of a walk.”

The diplomat looked shocked. “You must be mad! You can't go and risk putting yourself in danger. And what about your husband? If they see you there, they may—let's be blunt—kill you both.”

Faith pulled out a huge pair of sunglasses she had picked up from a vendor on the way and a scarf, not one of Sylvia's, alas—that would have to be another trip. She tied it around her head, a fashionable turban.

“I doubt anyone will recognize me. For one thing, they won't expect me to be there, and people see what they think is going to be in front of them—the minister in this case. All their attention will be focused on him. My husband and I discussed the risks. Unfortunately, we have to take a gamble. We know that Jean-Luc is involved, possibly the leader, but we don't know whether anyone else in the Cucina della Rossi class is. I can vouch for Gianni and Francesca, but during the week everyone else has raised certain suspicions. I'm the only one who can identify them if any of them are in the audience. They should all be back at the villa now.”

He gave in but insisted on providing her with an escort.

“One of our agents. And I think you'll approve.”

He took Faith out, using a private elevator before opening a door that led to a lovely garden and then another door that he unlocked at its rear.

Olivia was waiting on the other side.

S
itting in the Teatro Verdi in the minutes before the concert was to start, the hush punctuated by discreet coughs and the rustling of programs, Faith reflected she was surprised, but not shocked. It all made sense—why Olivia popped up every place she was, that she had been Faith's tomb rescuer, why she'd been with Freddy's killer near the Duomo—trailing him—and why she would be armed. Faith resolved not to tell her or her superiors how easy it had been for Faith to find that out; she'd already decided she wanted to stay friends with her—a link to Freddy, and moreover the woman could cook!

They were in the front balcony, and of course a seat had opened up next to the one Hope had reserved for her sister. They had a perfect view of the orchestra seats and by looking up could see the other balconies as well. Olivia had morphed into an Italian schoolgirl with an extremely short skirt, Uggs, which seemed to be worn year-round here as in the USA, and a wig that transformed her hair into a blond cap cut. On the way to the theater, Olivia had tried to convince Faith that she should leave. Olivia knew everyone in the class, too, but Faith had been firm. She had to see it through. For Freddy . . .