Monday, June 27^th

Trent and Darcey arrived at Heathrow airport at 9:05 a.m., London time. Though they had dozed in their adjoining first class cubicles, their body clocks were still set at 3:05 a.m., New Orleans time. They moved in a sleepy daze.

They passed quickly through British customs and found the driver from the Ritz Hotel who had been sent to greet them. As they drove through London’s busy streets in the hotel’s Rolls Royce, Darcey enjoyed pointing out some of her old haunts from her days as a student at the London School of Design. She didn’t ride in a Rolls in those days.

Finally shown to the elegant Trafalgar Suite that would serve as their quarters for the next few days, they showered and fell into bed for a nap.

Darcey was awakened two hours later by voices in the suite’s large drawing room. Trent had ordered a room service breakfast for them. A British breakfast as he recalled from his one visit to London several years earlier.

There were eggs baked in stoneware plates with slices of tomato, meaty bacon, a spiral of peppery Cumberland sausage, and grilled mushrooms. There was coffee and a selection of teas. Toast and muffins.

“Welcome back, Darcey,”

The next month went by quickly. They played tourist much of the time.

In London, there was high tea at the Ritz with Champagne, finger sandwiches, scones with strawberry preserves, and clotted Devonshire cream.

Darcey was alone only one day. Trent spent that day at the headquarters of London’s Metropolitan Police. Better known as Scotland Yard.

Two weeks in Paris. The Louvre. The Eiffel Tower. Cabarets and bistros in Montmarte. Harry’s New York Bar where the French 75, that delightful concoction of gin, lemon juice, simple syrup, and Champagne, was born.

They traveled to Versailles for Bastille Day, France’s own celebration of independence. An elaborate celebration featuring light shows erupting from the 50 fountains at the magnificent palace built by Louis XVI. The same palace where Louis signed the agreement that brought France officially into the American Revolution on the side of the American colonists.

In Paris, as in London, Darcey was alone for one day. Trent spent that day at the Ile de la Cite’, headquarters of the Paris Police Prefecture. The director of Interpol drove in from his headquarters in Lyon for the meeting.

From Paris they flew to Italy for a week in a Tuscan villa that once housed an olive press on a still working vineyard and olive grove. They drove into Florence one day to visit the Galleria Academia Firenze, the home of Michelangelo’s Statue of David. Trent had seen the statue and thought it the finest art ever created with stone and chisel. He still marveled at the artist’s ability to carve veins in the stone hands.

He thought Darcey’s gaze lingered a bit long on David’s famous exposed genitals. He pointed out the political symbolism of the statue was in the eyes, casting their stern warning glare in the direction of Rome. Symbolic, he said, of the determination of 16^th century Florence to remain independent. Darcey didn’t seem interested in politics. Or David’s eyes.

As in London and Paris, Darcey spent one day alone while Trent drove back to Florence to meet with the Anti-Mafia Investigation Department, the Finance Police, and the Carabinieri, all of which had an interest in the Mafia and money laundering.