It was almost midnight when Fabiana Odorico wandered into her boss’s office.
“I saw the light,” she said. “I thought it was only me here.”
Lumaga turned away from his computer. “There’s something wrong with the world when the chiefs work later than everyone else.”
“Maybe it’s why we’re the ones who got the promotions,” she said.
“Promoted at work, demoted at home,” he said. “Anything going on?”
“I stayed late for a call with the Toronto police. They brought in Marco Zuliani for questioning.”
“On what grounds?”
“It turns out that our Zulio is a confidential informant for them. They’ve got a big problem with a lot of competing drug gangs in Toronto. The ’Ndrangheta is only one of them. They’ve got Somalis, Russians, Albanians, Punjabis, biker gangs, white supremacists—all of them competing for turf. Zulio’s been a police CI for years, dishing dirt on his rivals. He’s playing the long game.”
“So, what did he say about his cousin, Matteo, getting dumped in the sea as fish food?”
“Not much. He said he didn’t know anything about the circumstances.”
“Did they tell him that his pal, Ferruccio, got killed?”
“He said he was surprised to hear it. He told them he was a good kid who wasn’t in the business as far as he knew.”
“The business—meaning drugs.”
“That’s right. I had them ask him if Matteo and Ferruccio had anything to do with each other in Spain. He told them he didn’t have any idea.”
“Did they think he was telling the truth?”
“The cop I talked to, who’s been running him for years as an informant, told me he thought he was evasive, but that’s as far as they could take it.”
“So, the Canada connection is dead.”
“As dead as Ferruccio and Cinzia, I’m sorry to say.”
“And the rest of the case?”
“I’ve got nothing. The Spanish authorities have no idea where Ferruccio’s been living in recent years and no information on his source of income, which was considerable. Guess how much money they found in his bank account?”
“I hate guessing games.”
“Seven eighty thousand euros. For the past five years he’s made deposits—in cash—of fifteen thousand euros per month, regular as a clock.”
“How is drug money so regular and uniform?” Lumaga asked.
“Good question—I have no answer. There’s also nothing from the crime scene. The final forensic report is in and the killer left no traces behind. It was very professional. And Cinzia’s background was completely clean. I think she took in an old boyfriend and got caught in his situation, whatever it was. It’s all very frustrating. Any joy with the Andreason case?”
“No joy. Just agony. You know the Slovakians that Marcus Handler killed—Duris and Beno? I just got some alarming news from the Slovakian police. Two days before the attempted abduction at the hospital, these guys flew into Rome from Bratislava on Ryanair flight 1452. Not surprisingly, more than half the passengers were Slovakian. But Duris and Beno had something in common with six of the passengers. All of them served in the same army unit—the 5th Special Purpose Regiment. It’s an elite special operations group that handles counterterrorism missions. But it’s worse than that. When they were discharged, all eight of these guys went to work for the same mercenary group called Millennial Tactics, that’s based in Luxembourg and sends men for hire into conflict zones, mostly in Africa, but all over the map.”
“You mean there’s six more of them in Italy?”
“Yes, and we don’t have any idea where they went when they left Ciampino Airport and what they’re doing here. I just put in a call over to Vaglio, who’s in charge of the night duty at Filarete to be extra vigilant. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to reach him. There’s private security at the villa also, no?”
“I was critical of Mickey Andreason for bringing them in, but right now, I’m grateful. I was just about to call the house. The Cutrìs are staying there.”
Odorico waited while he rang the landline. When there was no answer, he looked up Armando Cutrì’s mobile number and tried that too. Then he tried Vaglio again.
“I don’t like this,” Lumaga said, getting up and reaching for his holster. “I’m going over there.”
“I’m coming too,” Odorico said.
He winked at her. “You can even drive.”
*
Giancarlo Zanardi had not been wrong about the starlight. The combination of a clear, cold night and a sliver of a moon turned the Milky Way into a glorious light show. The only light pollution from the summit came from the glowing tip of one of Marcus’s cigarettes and Colonel Carter’s flashlight during one of his trips to a clump of bushes. When he returned to the fold one more time, he felt the need to explain that his prostate gland was the size of a kiwi fruit and that he was scheduled to have it “shaved down” when he got home.
“Too much information, Virgil,” Marcus muttered.
“It’s 11:55,” Zanardi called out. “It’s not too late to tell me what’s supposed to happen at midnight,” he said hopefully.
“You’ve shown admirable patience,” Mickey said. “Let’s see if you can control it for five more minutes.”
“Yes, absolutely,” the guide said, breaking off a piece of dark chocolate.
Carter tried his mobile phone again and complained that there still wasn’t any signal. “I wish to hell I could communicate with Antonio over at CUFOM. If there’s UFO traffic in the area, he’s going to know it. He’s got his network of sky gazers on the alert.”
“Did I hear you mention UFOs?” Zanardi said. “Is that what this is about?”
“What did I just say about patience?” Mickey asked.
Celeste had been sitting on her own. She got to her feet and came over to Marcus.
“Could I have one?” she asked.
“A cigarette? I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I used to.”
“You sure you want to start again?”
“My nerves are going wild,” she said. “Yes, I’m sure.”
She sat beside him and lit up.
“How long are we going to have to wait past midnight when nothing happens?” he asked.
“Something will happen,” she said, closing her eyes at the nicotine rush.
Mickey’s phone began to chirp with a voice mail message. He pulled it out, declared that he had one bar, and began to listen to a message from his office about a supply-chain problem. Everyone else, with the exception of Celeste, reached for their phones addictively. Zanardi’s wife had left a text, inquiring when he’d be home tonight, Antonio from CUFOM sent Carter a WhatsApp asking if he’d seen anything over Torriglia yet, and Marcus saw a text from an unassigned Italian number.
Marcus, this is Leonora Cutrì. Tonight the girls told me about strange marks they saw on the wrist of their Gray Woman. It was the first time I heard about this. Perhaps they already told you but if not here is a picture that Elizabeth drew of the marks. Good luck tonight. I am praying.
He tapped on the photo to download it.
The download was painfully slow.
When the image was ready, he blinked at it in non-comprehension.
There were seven black dots in a singular array.
The Big Dipper.
*
The moment Odorico turned her steering wheel toward the entrance to Villa Shibui, he knew there was trouble. The gate was half open and one of the leaves was hanging, touching the gravel.
“Oh, my God!” Odorico shouted. “Man down!”
They both jumped out and knelt on either side of Vice Brigadiere Vaglio’s bullet-ridden body.
“He’s gone,” Lumaga said.
“There!” Odorico said, spotting another body on the gravel. It was the other Carabiniere on duty and he too was beyond help.
They both drew their weapons and headed down the drive on foot. Lumaga swept his torch side to side. There was no sign of the vehicle that must have crashed through the gate, but they quickly found two more bodies, both with catastrophic head wounds.
“Canterbury men,” Lumaga said. “Spread out, Fabiana. Go left, I’ll go right. We need to get inside.”
“Should I radio for backup?” she said.
“Yes. Do it. Ambulances too.”
On the way to the house, by the barn, Lumaga’s torch found a boot. Standing over the body, he recognized Tim Wheelock, the team leader he’d liaised with in establishing the joint security protocol.
He met Odorico at the front door. She had found another Canterbury man by the trash bins.
“All four dead,” Lumaga said, “plus our guys. Fucking disaster. Let’s go in.”
“I called in the Reparto Operativo,” she said. “Their tactical team is mobilizing. Should we wait?”
“I say move now.”
“I’m with you,” she said.
*
Marcus grabbed Celeste’s hand. She misinterpreted the gesture and smiled, but when he roughly yanked it toward him and rolled back her sleeve, she tried to pull away.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“This!” he said, pointing to her tattoo. “This!”
“What about it?”
He let go and showed her his phone. “Elizabeth drew this tonight. She saw it on the wrist of the Gray Woman.”
He saw fear. She opened her mouth to say something.
*
The door to Victoria and Elizabeth’s bedroom was open. Lumaga went in first, pistol up, ready to engage a threat. Odorico was a step behind.
She flipped the light switch.
Armando and Leonora Cutrì were duct-taped to chairs.
The girls’ beds were empty.
Lumaga ripped the tape off Armando’s mouth.
“The girls! They’ve been taken!” he cried.
*
“Look!” Carter shouted, and everyone snapped their necks back and stared into the night sky.
“Good God!” Mickey yelled.
Marcus’s lips parted, but he said nothing. He raised his good arm to protect his eyes.
Celeste looked up, started to flee, then ran back toward Marcus.
The rocky summit was suddenly bathed in a blinding, pure, white light.