Rules of Vengeance

“In England?”

“Possibly. Possibly abroad.”

“If there’s anyone who could pull it off, it’s her. You have your hands full. Me, I’m just looking to even up the scorecard.”

“You made quite a scene at the hospital this morning. Was Prudence Meadows another of your agents who was wound too tight, or was it her husband?”

“No comment.”

“Watch yourself, Frank. Remember, we’re only cousins.”

“I’ll be on my best behavior.”

“Thank you,” said Allam earnestly. “Actually, this was meant to be a courtesy call. We received word that Jonathan Ransom is in Rome. It’s our belief he’s trying to find his wife. I can tell he’s not one of yours. Leaves a trail a mile long and half again as wide. I’m sending a team down there to work with the carabinieri and see if we can run him to ground. I’ve a feeling he knows more than he’s letting on. Anything you’d care to add?”

There was another lengthy pause, and Allam had the distinct impression that fat old Frank Co

“Are you free for lunch tomorrow?” asked Co

“I may be able to find an opening in my agenda.”

“Good,” said Co

“Yes?” Allam listened closely as Co

But there was no one on the other end of the line. Co

45

Jonathan leaned his shoulder against the church’s wooden door and was relieved to feel it open. Stepping inside, he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Candles flickered at posts around the building’s interior. Moonlight streamed through stained glass windows lining the nave. He advanced down the aisle and slid into a pew. He didn’t kneel, but laid his elbows on the bench in front of him. The church was still, the only sound that of his ragged breathing. Slowly calm settled over him. He was safe, if only for a few more minutes.

To his left was a chapel built into a side alcove. The altar was simple, adorned with a brocade cloth. A rough wooden crucifix hung on the wall behind it, with an elongated marble Christ.

Outside these church doors, the Italian police were combing the streets for Dr. Jonathan Ransom. He had to assume that they’d passed on news of his presence in Rome to their counterparts in London. At the same time they’d spread word to the local police forces in the vicinity. His capture would figure high on the priority list of every Italian policeman between Milan and Sicily.

Seated in the half-dark, Jonathan took stock of his position. He was not cut out for a life as a fugitive. He wasn’t one to jump down his “rabbit hole,” as Emma had called her escape hatch, and disappear from the world. Sooner or later he would be caught. The question was not if, but when. It was a matter of delaying the inevitable.

He unfolded the papers he’d taken from Luca Lazio’s office. It was too dark to read, but he knew the words. A nicked renal artery had resulted in Emma’s losing six pints of blood. She would have been delirious when she’d been transported to the hospital, perhaps even near death. In agony, drifting in and out of consciousness, she’d given her name as Lara. Not Eva Kruger, not Kathleen O’Hara, and not Emma Ransom-all well-known, practiced aliases-but Lara. And after the surgery, when asked for her last name, she’d refused it.

Jonathan could come up with only one reason why.

Lara was her real name. She had no alias to accompany it. Only the truth. And the truth she must keep hidden at all costs.

Jonathan rose and sidestepped to the center aisle. He spent a moment staring at the altar, gazing up to the ceiling and the oils depicting the Fall of man, the Resurrection of Jesus, and the Second Coming.

Turning, he made his way to the front door. A wind had sprung up outside, and somewhere it made its way through a crack in the church walls, sounding a high-pitched keening. He stopped to listen, hearing his own fear in the shrill wail. Suddenly the wind died, and he felt his uncertainty go with it.

He opened the door and went onto the street.

46

Frank Co