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Authors: Kitty Pilgrim
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Fiction, #Romance
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Kitty Pilgrim
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First Scribner hardcover edition July 2011
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ISBN 978-1-4391-9719-6
ISBN 978-1-4391-9727-1 (ebook)
To Maurice
The tension of life has tilted dangerously towards the material side of the watershed, disabling the balance of our soul; so that we are constrained at intervals to leave the social structure of our time, and turn away for our stability to breathe in quiet, hoping for the Unexpected.
—F
REYA
S
TARK
, E
PHESUS
,
I
ONIA: A
Q
UEST
Chapter 3: Guaymas Basin, Gulf of California
Chapter 4: Villa San Angelo, Anacapri, Capri, Italy
Chapter 5: Hotel Metropole, Monaco
Chapter 6: Fifth Avenue, New York City
Chapter 7: Hôtel de Paris, Monaco
Chapter 8: Port Hercule Marina, Monaco
Chapter 9: Monte Carlo, Monaco
Chapter 10: Sporting Club, Monte Carlo
Chapter 11: Udachny Motoryacht, Monaco
Chapter 16: Oceanographic Institute, Monaco
Chapter 19: Monaco Fencing Club
Chapter 20: Villefranche-sur-Mer, France
Chapter 23: Porto Mediceo, Livorno, Italy
Chapter 29: LuEsther T. Mertz Library, New York Botanical Garden
Chapter 31: Grand Bazaar, Kusadasi, Turkey
Chapter 41: Oxfordshire, England
Chapter 42: Cliffmere, England
Chapter 45: Golden Horn Inn, Oxfordshire
Chapter 58: Flight SK 4414, Oslo to Longyearbyen
Under Roman law the Latin expression “terra nullius” meant “land belonging to no one,” or no-man’s-land. In international law the term refers to territory that is not under the sovereignty of any state. Sovereignty over terra nullius is achieved through occupation of the land.
P
eter Stapleton sat with his feet up on the leather ottoman. A light rain misted the dusk outside the window; evening was just setting in. He had done nothing all day except work on his portfolio. While everyone was piling into financials, he had moved into the safety of cash and a couple of choice investments. He flipped through his broker’s reports. It looked like he got out in time. The whole world was in a credit meltdown, banks collapsing like bamboo huts in a tsunami.
He looked past his monogrammed velvet slippers propped up on the ottoman. The fire was just dying down again. He would ring for more wood in a moment. Oh, on second thought, Magda would have left for the day. It was time to get dressed for dinner. Sara and David had a great cook, and meals at their home were always a delight. Not that he needed it, five stone overweight and still gaining. He really should get a grip on the weight; the doctor just kept shaking his head every time he went for a checkup.
He looked back at his financial documents. The Packton Fund was the ticket; that fellow in Chicago was a genius. And, of course, there was that little deal that Andrew had put him on to. The return on that was almost criminal. He took a sip of his highly sugared Earl Grey, but the tea had gone cold.
There was a noise a floor below. Magda must still be here. He rang the electronic bell beside his chair. Nothing. Only the sound of the clock on his desk. Must be his imagination. No, there was the noise again. It sounded like things falling to the floor. Peter Stapleton got up, heaving his enormous bulk out of the leather chair. Better check that out. It could be a window open, things blowing about.
He started down the stairs, feeling a little light-headed after sitting all afternoon. He had tried to stave off his indigestion after lunch, had drunk some tea. Lamb chops were always a bit heavy, nothing to be alarmed about. Of course, the sticky date pudding wasn’t really necessary, but Magda did it so well. The heaviness had sat on his chest on and off all afternoon. Walking about now, he started to feel a bit nauseous and clammy.
As he moved down the stairs he heard the unmistakable sounds of the contents of his living-room bookshelf being pulled to the floor. What was going on?
He glimpsed the intruder as he stood in the doorway.
What in the bloody hell?
The man was slight, dark, wearing a sweat suit and Wind-breaker, still wet from outdoors. Peter Stapleton looked at the spots of rain beaded on the nylon. It must be raining hard. He must have just come in.
That was his last real thought. Suddenly he felt very short of breath, his face flushed hot. His vision blurred and he was racked with a searing pain in his left arm. The man started toward him. Dark, foreign-looking. Not English. Peter Stapleton reached out to him, a perfect stranger, as he fell.
F
or the last hour, John Sinclair had been crouched over a fragment of bone sticking up from the earth. With a small camel-hair brush he flicked away grains of soil.