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his hand.

      “I’m Cardone. This is Blair,” he said, nodding toward Nova.

      Nova took in the man who should be Cesare Giordano and hid her surprise, although she did share a quick glance with Joe. Joe’s slightly lifted eyebrows suggested that he was having a similarly amazed reaction.

      The man’s perfectly cut slacks were black; his long-sleeved silk shirt purple with a red crown pattern over one pocket. It was either an expensive Armani or a fine knockoff. Open at the throat, the shirt framed a heavy gold necklace, the chain holding a massive, two-inch bull’s head with sapphire eyes and polished black horns, probably onyx. Very expensive—with cuff links to match. The shoes were Bruno Magli, of O.J. Simpson fame. He whipped off a pair of sunglasses with metallic, hide-your-eyes lenses. If this was a disguise for a SISMI agent, it was certainly a good one. Her thought was, Beverly Hills pimp but with lots of class.

      “Delighted, delighted. I’m Cesare Giordano,” he said smiling effusively. “So pleased to welcome you to Rome, once the capital of the known world. While you are in Italy, you will be my responsibility.”

      Before either she or Joe could respond, sleek Cesare Giordano was at her side with the speed of a sprinter. She smelled just a delicate hint of a fruity cologne. He reached for her photocase. But she was also quick. She pulled it back before he could relieve her of it.

      “No, no. Really. You must let me carry your case. A beautiful woman should not be toting luggage through Rome.”

      “How about some ID?” she said.

      He held up a hand dramatically, smiled, nodded. He pulled out a wallet from his slacks pocket and flipped it open. A SISMI badge bore his picture and the name Cesare Giordano.

      She handed over the camera equipment. “Very thoughtful of you.”

      “My honor, I assure you. Shall we proceed to baggage claim area. I presume you do have luggage?”

      “Right,” Joe said.

      “And how was your flight?” Cesare asked. Without waiting for an answer he commented on what he felt was the excellent quality of Alitalia service, comparing it one after the other with Lufthansa, British Airways and Aeroflot.

      Side by side, she and Joe followed the SISMI agent through the airport to the baggage carousels. With pleasing speed, their bags arrived.

      They followed Giordano outside into a warm bright June morning, marred by the stink of petrol and the noise of heavy traffic and landing airplanes. A car—a black, four-door Alfa Romeo—waited nearby, presumably granted this parking privilege because of the importance of the arrivals being picked up. Or, perhaps, because of Giordano’s pull.

      Giordano clicked open the trunk. He had been making more or less one-sided conversation from the moment he had led them toward the baggage claim. As he put Nova’s aluminum case inside, he said, “It is my task to make you both comfortable.” He relieved Joe of his duffel bag, stowed it in the trunk, and then Nova’s. “I shall take you to a hotel at once. You may wish to relax a bit. I suggest you also sleep if you can today so as to readjust to time lag as quickly as possible. Right?”

      Nova heard a sound from his car, looked up, and there in the back window she saw a small, white dog. A Lhasa apso.

      “That’s my dear Principessa,” Giordano said.

      Maybe it was the dear, but Giordano suddenly reminded her strongly of Penny. Giordano’s gay too. He has to be gay. Either that or he’d created a brilliant cover.

      He held the door for Nova to sit in the front seat. Joe settled himself in the back. Principessa settled herself into Nova’s lap, at first wiggling and licking, but quickly curling up to be petted.

      “Are we to stay in Rome, Mr. Giordano?” Nova asked.

      “Oh please, please. Not Mr. Giordano. I am Cesare.”

      The car, with Cesare in enthusiastic control, pulled into the traffic. They were out of the airport area in good time.

      “Yes,” he finally said as they moved onto the freeway leading into Rome. “Tomorrow you will meet at a SISMI office here, in Rome, with Aldo Provenza, the case officer in charge of operation Global Dread.”

      Cesare suddenly stuck his long arm across Nova’s chest to point out her window. “Now you see that splendid mansion! I am the creator of its absolutely glorious interior. I certainly wish we were not so pressed for time. I would love to show you some of my work. But we will save that for another day.”

      Joe said, “Don’t you work for SISMI?”

      “Would I be guessing correctly if both of you are thinking, ‘It’s just not possible this charming man is a SISMI agent.’ But I am. I’m accustomed to that reaction. But I assure you, I am their most important asset in all of Italy. Yes, I am. I am—with all due humility—Italy’s premier artiste of interior design. I have access to the homes of not only the rich and famous, but also the would-be rich and famous. And if I show up at someone’s door, anyone’s door, I am welcomed with open arms. And now, seeing you both, I am certain we shall make a perfect team. You are foreigners and, like me, you look nothing like agents. Amalfi, for her natives, is a small world, and outsiders are always noticed if they are not obvious tourists. You two are perfect.”

      Again, Nova flashed on a comparison of Cesare with Penny. Her neighbor owned La Jolla’s most prestigious beauty salon and was every bit as proud of his work as Cesare. But while Cesare was showing every indication of being garrulous, Penny was a man of few, but carefully chosen, words. He shared with Cesare, though, a belief in his importance and artistry. Before long, it should become obvious whether Cesare was a blowhard or the real thing.

      He continued to describe every notable point of interest along the freeway leading into the capital. Nova continued to stroke Principessa, who seemed to be a perfect lady.

      All at once, Joe chimed in with, “You know, Cesare, Nova and I have both been here before. Several times.”

      Nova turned to look back at Joe. He let his eyes roll skyward, clearly not thrilled by Cesare’s steady verbal stream.

      “Oh, of course. I would imagine that both of you are experienced travelers.”

      The car lurched left, Cesare changing lanes abruptly, ostensibly to avoid crashing into the bakery truck in front of them. She saw Joe grip his briefcase tightly just as she swiveled forward again to watch the road—and Cesare’s driving.

      “I myself travel relatively little out of the country as my work consumes any spare time I might have. But it is such a pleasure to point out those features of Rome that only a native is likely to know.”

      Nova glanced back at Joe. His arms were crossed, his eyes staring out the window. He was too good an agent to let his feelings show on his face unless he chose to, but she knew him thoroughly and imagined that in his mind he was gritting his teeth.

      Poor Joe, she thought, but with a secret smile. She was actually enjoying Cesare—although he did seem a bit too excited by his own conversation to be driving.

      “Have you heard about the bombing in Madrid yesterday?” Cesare asked.

      “I haven’t heard or read any news since day before yesterday,” Joe answered.

      “I predict it will be the handiwork of Al Qaeda,” Cesare continued.

      “Determined bastards,” Joe replied.

      Soon they were within the city’s embrace. Narrow streets ran beside the arches of a thousand-year-old aqueduct. She simply could not imagine how anything made of bricks and concrete could last that long. What fabulous stories those bricks could tell! Flowers gaily graced second floor windows and balconies of buildings that seemed to sag with age. A constant flow of people in cars and on bikes passed going in all directions.

      Their car swept through the Piazza Venezia past the Vittorio Emanuele monument, and then down the crowded Via dei Fori Imperiali. On her right she recognized

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