Telling Lies (20 page)

“
Certainly, of course, sir.”

“
Gary?” questioned Alexandra Hammersmith when she picked up the phone barely a minute later. “What did you say to Mrs. Hudson? She’s clearly upset.”

“
Fuck Mrs. Hudson,” snapped Gary Hammersmith, “and listen to me.”

The recording hissed with a slight hum through a long pause, and Rebecca could almost see Alexandra Hammersmith calculating how to deal with her angry stepson. She chose the calm approach.

“
Fine, Gary. Why don’t you tell me why you called.”

“
It’s about our Japanese friend,” he replied cautiously as though he were afraid that someone might be listening. “He’ll be in New York the day after tomorrow.” Rebecca could hear the hatred in his voice at the mere thought of the billionaire.

“
You know this for a fact?” Alexandra inquired in surprise.

“
I do. The associate we placed in his entourage just contacted me with the details.”

“
Which are?” she interrupted.

“
Our friend is scheduled to arrive at nine a.m. the day after tomorrow on his private jet from England and will be landing at Islip Airport. He plans to go directly to the city to a private residence at the Stanfield Hotel.” He recited the details like a sycophant hoping to get into her good graces.

“
And?”

“
He’ll be bringing a very special item with him.”

The man is maniacal.
Rebecca listened to the elation that now filled his voice, replacing the hatred of just moments before. She glanced at Lior, who was still stone-faced, his energy as focused as a laser splitting open a diamond.

“
At least the money we paid your associate was well spent,” Alexandra told her stepson.

“
Yes, it was.”

“
What do you plan to do next?” she asked like a teacher leading a small child to the right conclusion.

“
Why to pay him a visit, of course.”

“
Good. Let me know when our business is done.” She ended the exchange.

Yuri shot another look at Rebecca, who shook her head no.

“
Lior? Lior?” she called his name, bringing him back to the present. “We should get this information to Elan as soon as possible,” she said, thinking of their section head in Tel Aviv and his private instructions to her about this mission.

He’d taken her aside before he left New York and told her to shadow Lior’s reports of the team’s activities with those of her own. They were to be sent directly to him. The tacit understanding was that she was not to mention his directive to Lior. She’d wondered about it at the time but hadn’t questioned her superior, who hadn’t felt the need to explain himself. Rebecca knew that Tel Aviv wasn’t happy with the stunt Lior pulled at the Delrusse gallery. They felt it was a rogue move, dangerous and unnecessary. She was beginning to realize that there was much more involved with this mission than she’d been led to believe. And it all seemed to revolve around the man in front of her. “Lior,” she called again, to the figure who was still sitting silently, deep in thought. “Elan will want to hear this.” She chose her next words carefully. “So he can decide how to proceed.”

Lior rose from the table and moved around the room, stopping at the window. He placed his hands on the frame and leaned his long, wiry body toward the panes of glass, which reflected his image in shimmering waves. He stood that way for several minutes, gazing outside into the early afternoon sunlight. Rebecca let out a small, hopeful sigh.
Good, I’ve gotten through to him; he’s considering what I said.
Then, he turned and looked at her, and she knew she was terribly mistaken.

His eyes held her in place like nails on the lid of a coffin. “No, Rebecca,” he shook his head slowly and deliberately. “Not on your life.”

Without realizing it, her hand slid protectively over her stomach as his words sunk in. The icy shard had returned, stronger and more insistent than ever.

Upper East Side

New York City

Laurel was draped across her overstuffed living room couch, the lights dim, the glow from the flat screen TV coloring her face with flickering shadows. Every ten seconds or so, she’d press the remote’s last channel button, surfing between the
Late, Late Show
with Craig Ferguson and
Late Night
with Jimmy Kimmel. Brad Pitt was the featured guest on one, Bruce Willis on the other. Both were promoting their latest films, a psychodrama and a shoot ’em up action flick.

She sighed and hit the button again. Laurel had spent the last several hours waiting for Aaron to come to his senses and call her back. TV had been a last resort in trying to lower the tension level a notch and distract her from reliving her lunch with Monica and her disagreement with Aaron.

Laurel looked back up at the screen. Brad was showing that killer smile. A flick of the button and she caught Bruce giving Kimmel his famous action hero sneer.
How do I choose?
Laurel mused, pushing thoughts of Aaron to the back of her mind as she cruised back and forth between these two hot-bodied, handsome hunks. Blond or bald? Washboard abs or bulging biceps? She tucked a stray wisp of silky dark hair back into the scrunchie that held her ponytail and tugged at the bottom of the old, comfortable tee shirt she’d tossed on as pajamas.
I’m sure either of them would run right over in a heartbeat if he saw me now
, she told herself.
Or, maybe run the other way
, her meaner, inner voice taunted.

Both stations went to a commercial break, and Laurel took the opportunity to head for the kitchen and rummage around in the fridge. Gathering up an apple, a jar of peanut butter, and a knife, she made it back just in time to hear Bruce telling Kimmel how he and Demi were still such good friends and how much he liked her new, younger husband Ashton Kutcher.
Yeah, I’ll just bet
, smirked Laurel slathering peanut butter onto a slice of apple and popping it into her mouth. No one likes to be replaced by a younger model, not even Bruce Willis.

Actually no one likes to be replaced period.
She flashed on Aaron. It was nearly 1:30 in the morning, and he still hadn’t called. They’d spoken briefly after her lunch with Monica and that conversation had morphed into an argument in record time. Laurel felt it was more of a debriefing than a conversation and told Aaron to back off. He told her he was only trying to do his job and protect
her friend.
What was
that
supposed to mean, she’d asked. Nothing, he’d answered and told her he’d call her later.

Well, it was later and still no Aaron. She didn’t understand what was going on between them—why their relationship always seemed to be so adversarial. She had had plenty of disagreements with her dad—it was how their relationship worked—and even with former boyfriends. But somehow, this was different. She thought she was falling in love with Aaron and that it was mutual, but maybe she was wrong. Maybe it would all be over before it really even started. Laurel picked up the remote and turned off the set. The screen went blank. Now, if only her mind would do the same.

* * *

The phone shrilled, startling her awake, causing her to drop the jar of peanut butter that rested on her lap. The last thing Laurel remembered was staring at the blank TV screen, trying not to think of Aaron.
How long have I been dozing?
she wondered as the phone rang again. She shook herself awake and stumbled to answer it. The clock on the cable box flashed 4:03, and her stomach lurched.
Oh my God.
Fear made her heart beat faster.
Aaron would never call her at this hour. No one who knew her well would.
The last time her phone had rung before dawn, portended the worst day of her life, the day she lost her mother.
Dad.
The thought immediately flashed through her mind. Something must be wrong. She snatched at the phone with trembling fingers. “Hello,” she said shakily. “Dad?” She could barely get the word out.

“
Laurel?” the voice came to her in a burst. It was a woman. Not her father.

“
Laurel,
sono
Caterina. Caterina Toscana, from Florence.”

Laurel let out a sigh of relief. “Caterina?” Confusion and anxiety colored her voice. She glanced at the clock and took a breath. “Caterina, I’m sorry. It’s four in the morning here and I was … sleeping.” Alone, in front of the TV. She shook her head. But I’ll keep that to myself.

“
I am sorry to call you so early, but I am leaving in a few minutes for a flight to Sicily. I have to go to pick up some things for the gallery and could not wait any longer. I will be very busy while I am there and I will not be back in Florence for a few days. I thought I should speak with you now.”

Laurel was listening, trying to bring her brain around to what Caterina was saying. “Speak to me?” Uncertainty filled her voice.

“
Yes. I have information to share with you. About the pin.”

“
The pin?” Laurel pulled herself up. I must sound like an idiot, repeating everything Caterina is saying.

“
Si.
Yes.” If Caterina sensed Laurel was acting strange, she didn’t let on. “The lapel pin you saw amongst Freddy’s things at the
Questura
—the police station.’”

“
Oh my God, the pin Sargasso was wearing.” An image of the small shield with its black cross and scrolled, lettered banner filled her mind. “You found out what it means, didn’t you?” Her heart pounded again, this time with a rush of expectation.

Caterina took her time answering. “Yes, I did, and it is not good.”

Laurel thought of Caterina, thousands of miles away in Italy, and shuddered. “Are you—did you do something to put yourself in danger?”

“
No, no, don’t worry about me. The person who helped me discover
il significanto
, ‘the significance of the pin,’ is very discreet. I am fine,
davero
, ‘really.’ ” She paused. “But, I am afraid it is, how would you say, worse than we imagined.”

Laurel’s mind was filled with questions. She tamped them down and let her friend continue.

“
This pin is the symbol of a very ancient, very exclusive society,
La Società della Croce Nero,
The Society of the Black Cross. One that dates back to the fifteen hundreds. Its founder was Ludivico Alonzo D’Abruzzi, a wealthy
Duca
and distant relative of the Medicis. From what I have learned, the Duke was an avid art collector,
allora
, well, more than that, who coveted the Medici’s enormous collection of art and antiquities.
S’fortunata
, there were many others who thought the same way and gravitated toward him. They seemed to have banded together to form this society, a club, dedicated to acquiring the art they coveted. Their methods were unorthodox, even for the times they lived in. Ludivico had a grand villa near Volterra, which the Florentines ruled at that time. It seems that he and his friends were not beyond recruiting
assassini
to help with acquisitions. Those noblemen who were not willing to part with their collections were often accused of crimes and executed, or simply eliminated, and their families were forced to sell their possessions to survive. Ludivico and his
amici
amassed many, many works of art. When he died, by the hand of one of his own collaborators, the society went underground to protect itself. The members created the pin you saw so they would recognize each other easily. The letters in the scroll are
SdCN
and stand for its name. It seems that it has survived the centuries, but of course, changed with the times.”

“
Become more aggressive?” Laurel thought of Fredericka Bellabocca’s death.

“
Esattamente
,” said Caterina.

“
But how does Sargasso fit in? How could he have become a member?”

Caterina hesitated for a moment. “The Society is not merely in Florence anymore.” She snorted in disgust. “They are worldwide, so I have been told. They are still very exclusive and with not too many members. Yet, every so often new people are accepted if they are sponsored by an existing member.”

“
So Sargasso had a sponsor? Someone who brought him in?”

“
Yes, I’m afraid he did. An American.”

“
Tell me his name, “Laurel demanded.