White Shotgun

FIVE

The commercial sprawl continues until the bus swings around a corner, heading straight for a huge stone wall. At the last minute we swerve through a narrow gate topped by a statue of a wolf. Once inside the walls, we halt at the Siena bus station, a concrete island in a small piazza.

The driver waits as I bump along the aisle, impatient eyes meeting mine in the mirror. Out on the street, the air is baking and the spare trees are heavy in the stillness. The air brakes whoosh, and the bus is gone. I look hopefully for Cecilia Nicosa, but nobody approaches. I wait in the shade. The suitcase and rumpled shorts must immediately make me for American. I can’t get a signal on my cell phone. After fifteen or twenty minutes, I set out to find a landline.

Straight ahead there is a fortress in a park. Turning the other way, you face a jumble of signs. Il Duomo, the main cathedral, is in that direction, which must lead to the city center. I seem to be near a school. College students are lounging on the steps of an apartment building, and there is a large outdoor café a few blocks farther on. I tick off the possibilities. Cecilia is late. Cecilia didn’t get my text message. Cecilia is mistakenly waiting at the train station. I am starting to feel panicky, although there is no danger.

As I near the café, someone calls my name.

“Signorina Grey!”

A young man comes sprinting up from behind, waving. He wears baggy camouflage shorts and a T-shirt that says “Università di Siena.” He has thick black curly hair and wraparound sunglasses on a loop, a beaded choker around his neck.

“I am very sorry. I apologize for being late. I am Giovanni. The son of Cecilia.” “Ciao, Giovanni!” I laugh with pleasure and relief. He is one handsome dude. Half Salvadoran and half Italian is a hot combo plate. For a moment he hesitates, bouncing on his toes like a basketball player, then swiftly kisses me on each cheek. We hug. He smells like a boy.

“Sorry for the confusion,” I say. “There was a train strike. I had to take a bus. I sent a text—” “No, no, it is completely my fault. I was with a friend, studying for an exam.” “I was expecting to see your mom.” “My mother had to perform an emergency operation at the hospital. I am always late for everything.” He smiles engagingly. “The car is over there,” he says, taking the handle of the suitcase. “Your first time visiting? It is very amazing, you will see.” “You sound proud of your home.” “I love Siena. I would not live anywhere else.” “Not even Rome?”

He snorts. “What’s great about Rome? They are covered by gypsies, like these. Look out.” A clutch of young Romanian mothers and children is coming toward us. The women carry nursing babies wrapped in shawls, like walking Madonnas, except their eyes are smoldering with want and hate. The little kids are trained to swarm the victims and pickpocket while they are distracted.

“Watch your purse,” Giovanni warns loudly, all hyped up and seething with excitement.

“Not to worry. Got it covered.” Giovanni and I sidestep the situation, but instead of letting it be, he goes on the attack.

“Vaffanculo!” he shouts, with an obscene gesture.

The gypsies gather their ranks and move on with downcast eyes. Giovanni continues to shout at their backs. Nobody on the street pays attention.

“They steal your underpants,” he says.

I just smile. “Giovanni, how old are you?” “Sixteen.”

“Sixteen, and you don’t want to leave home? See the world?” He fumbles. “What I’m saying, it comes from my heart. Forgive my English—” “Your English is good.” “In Siena, we believe in the old things. Our blood, our DNA”—he pinches the flesh on his arm—“is pure. It is the same as the ancient Etruscans’. Science proves that we have lived here two thousand years. Right now we are inside the walls of the old medieval city. When you are inside the walls, everything is”—he searches for the word—“beautiful. Inside is life. What we love. Our history. Our church. Our family. Our contrada, which is the neighborhood where you grow up. In America,” he adds self-assuredly, “you call it ‘the hood.’ Inside, we preserve the Republic of Siena. Don’t worry, it’s not like a museum; there are good shops and restaurants, and even an Australian bar where they speak English and have English beer!” A Boddingtons right now would be awesome.

“Outside, there are only enemies. I know it sounds crazy.” He unlocks the smallest car I have ever seen, the size of a corner mailbox.

“Outside everything is bad,” the boy continues, with complete sincerity. “Outside is death.” Giovanni takes a quick route out of Siena and the commercial zone, soon putting us on a deserted country road that undulates through dense forest before breaking out above scores of fields stitched with rows of green. He drives too fast, one hand on the wheel, windows down, constantly jabbering in cheerful tones on his cell phone.

It is hard to find anything remotely lethal in the verdant countryside of cadmium-yellow blocks of sunflowers, cultivated rows of grapes, the lofty Tuscan sky filled with pure white clouds. No wonder they paint clouds on church ceilings; they have unobstructed views of heaven. But for one so young and trendy, Giovanni’s view of things is surprisingly entwined with morbid folklore.

What Cecilia described as “our little house on a hill” is a thirteenth-century compound built by Benedictine monks that later became a residence for a succession of cardinals. It even has a name — Abbazia di Santa Chiara, the Abbey of Saint Chiara — and the hand of the saint is preserved to this day in the sacristy of the abbey church, which is on the other side of the courtyard from the current family wing. Giovanni assures me the relic is a powerful blessing and an object of incalculable value, although a severed hand floating around does not sound to me like very good feng shui.

The road is banked by flimsy wooden poles lashed together. As the lane narrows, the cliff falls away. A hairpin curve reveals a panoramic view of the valley, and you can see the abbey in its entirety — the romantic twelve-sided tower, the two-story residential quarters, and the remains of the original tenth-century church, brutally exposed as if it had been cut in half, leaving nothing but crumbling buttresses and an empty arch.

We drive between rows of dark green cylindrical cypress trees, tips bending in the wind so they uncannily resemble a procession of monks with bowed heads. We turn into a gravel driveway that opens into an empty square big enough to hold a farmers’ market. The engine stops. In the quiet, all you hear is birdsong. The abbey looms around us, rows of iron torches reaching out of sixty-foot pale stone walls that have been standing for over eight hundred years. The scents are pungent — oil of lavender, meat roasting over cedar chips. To the left is the entrance to the restored chapel, where the hand of the dead saint lies.

“I’ll show you to your room and then I have to go.” Giovanni punches the cell phone yet again. “My dad just texted. He says to make yourself comfortable.” I look around. Comfortable, where? The fortified palace, first an austere monastery, then a seat of power for rulers of the church, is no less commanding in its present role as a private residence. The open space is bounded by potted palms and urns filled with geraniums, carefully pruned, not a paper cup to mar the raked gravel yard. The clean perspective of shaded walkways and sun-washed tufa-stone walls creates a solemnity even deeper than the monks’ devotion.

Who are these people who reside like old-fashioned royalty in a compound the size of a five-star resort? God may have lived here once, but the premises have since been vacated; this is about the ascending fortune of a single man. I feel more disoriented than ever, unable to imagine any connection to this foreign way of life, looking for a foothold to dig into for my work as an agent. The insistent beep of Giovanni’s technology does nothing to dispel the eerie sense that when I entered the shadowed hush of this ancient courtyard, the curtain parted to a strange reality.

• • •

I lie down briefly and wake up an hour later. The room floats in quietude. The bedspread is sage-green damask. At the foot of the bed is a folded cashmere throw. The cast-iron headboard is made to look like the tendrils of a sweet-pea vine. A strip of wallpaper with similar coils is set along the midline of eggshell plaster walls. There is one small arched window — no screen, no glass, just a pair of shutters over a grate that frames a grove of olive trees. I stick my face into the fresh air and listen to the regular splash of someone doing laps in a pool that is hidden from my sight. I am a pool rat. In Los Angeles I swim with a Masters team, a mile and a half every day. Nothing could make me happier than to work out right now. After the bus trip from Rome, my neck feels like a tangle of wire. I unpack eagerly, almost frantic from the nearby call of water.

My bedroom is on the second story of the monks’ quarters. I walk along an exterior corridor laid with terra-cotta tile where archways look down on the courtyard. Apricot-colored draperies are gathered in the arches, the sun hitting them like golden chimes. Centuries of leather sandals and whisperings of prayer have softened the air and smoothed the stone.

I head down a marble staircase leading to the garden, carrying nothing but a towel and goggles, an old rayon dress thrown over my Speedo. Almost naked, the still hot air is now my friend. I come to a stand of pines. The scent of pitch is intoxicating, heavy and tinder-dry. Several cars are parked in the shade, engines hot and ticking. I wonder if these are guests, come to use the pool, but then sharp male voices cut through the torpor.

Peering over a gate, I see Nicoli Nicosa, wearing bathing trunks, holding back an angry group of hard-looking men — field-workers, judging from the size of their forearms and hands. They wear track-suits, even in this heat. Nicosa has just climbed out of the pool, evidently surprised by their arrival. He is dark-chested, his longish hair slicked back, showing an aggressive profile. He has compact legs and a developed, hairy back; a street fighter.

He answers back, but they are like a pack of wolves stalking a lamb, going for the exposed soft belly of the rich man trapped in a corner of his own property, where nobody can see. The leader — gaunt, white-haired, in his seventies — is becoming more and more agitated, shouting and gesturing angrily.

The others join in the attack with rapid-fire Italian, repeating a word I have never heard—“alfiere” —all of them pointing at heaven, earth, and the dripping man in the bathing trunks. Nicosa has nowhere to go. To the right are a stone wall and a sloping hill of pine trees. Would he scale it and run? To the left is the pool. He might try for the cell phone gleaming on a towel thrown over a lounge chair. I know from the file that he is tenacious as a terrier; he would take a beating rather than surrender dominance. Yes, there it goes. The surge of adrenaline. The closed fists and challenging stance.

I push through the gate, calling, “ Buongiorno! Is that Nicoli Nicosa? Hello! It’s your relative from America, Ana Grey.” Dumbstruck, they all turn in my direction. Nicosa takes the moment to pull a pair of red sweatpants over the trunks and comes toward me with a tight smile. You can see Giovanni’s resemblance to his dad, both in looks and the hotheaded willingness to attack.

“My God, you must be Ana!” he says in unaccented English. “You couldn’t be anyone else. I am Nicoli, Cecilia’s husband.” We kiss on both cheeks but do not hug, as he is still bare-chested and wet. Instead he holds me at arm’s length and stares in wonder.

“You look just like my wife!” “Do I?”

Nicosa’s face is close enough that I can see the dark awareness in his eyes and the unspoken understanding that we are both playing for time.

“This is wonderful!” He smiles handsomely. “Cecilia will be home soon. You must be crazy to meet her!” “I didn’t mean to interrupt—” “Not at all.”

I face the group of angry peasant faces as if my heart isn’t going a mile a minute. Dry wind fingers the rayon dress. I regard them amiably. What are you going to do to us?

They leave. But not without the same muttered word Giovanni had thrown at the gypsies.

“Vaffanculo!”

When we hear the engines of their cars start up, I ask Nicosa if everything is all right.

“No, but never mind.” His voice is shaky; he has had a serious scare.

“Who are they?”

“Oh, some people who are upset with me. Somebody always is. But these are from my own contrada. Do you know about that?” “Yes; Giovanni explained. The neighborhood.” “Normally we have respect for other contrada members.” He falters. “I am embarrassed.” “Don’t be. You handled it.” Barely. I wonder if he will thank me for intervening, but that would mean acknowledging how close he came to having his butt kicked by his own neighbors, and clearly, he would rather put the incident behind us.

“Can I get you something?” He lights a cigarette and walks into the pool house. “You look like you’re ready for a swim.” “Would you mind?” I ask, tearing off the dress without waiting for an answer. “I’ll be a much better person after I get in the water.” He smiles quizzically and gestures toward the pool.

Oh, what a soul-saving dive. Hitting a hard freestyle, I glimpse Nicosa through the crook of my arm, grimly pouring a drink. Catching my look, he changes his expression to one of forced amusement. Raising a glass, he calls, “Brava!”

SIX

The wet swimsuit hangs over a chair in the sweet-pea bedroom. The mirrors of the mahogany armoire reflect a woman wearing white jeans and a black bra, frozen by indecision. My hair is as blow-dried as it will get in this humidity. I’ve put on eyeliner, eye shadow, and lipstick, which is a lot for me. Opening the doors of the armoire, the room revolves brightly in the polished glass, and then I’m staring into the despair of an empty closet. The sum total of my travel wardrobe rests on four lonely hangers.

This is when I miss Sterling, a lot. He would be lying on the sage-green bedspread wearing a Western-style shirt he ironed himself, jeans that have seen real horsehide, and soft R.M. Williams boots custom-made in Australia — completely oblivious to my pain. Getting dressed is easy for him: he is always himself.

“What should I wear?”

“Wear what feels comfortable.”

That’s just it. How do I present myself? As an FBI agent or as a long-lost relative? Girlie? Tough? There’s the chocolate-brown wrap dress I splurged on in London, imagining Sterling and me in one of those minimalist restaurants where everybody looks like a piece of art, but it seems too special just for dinner. How dressy do you get in an abbey?

The hell with it. I pull on a stretchy black lace blouse, step into a pair of high-heeled sandals, open the door, and stop — fascinated by the play of air and light outside. So much vitality is contained inside the walls of the abbey. You could stand here all day, absorbed in silence, watching the sun creep through the spikes of lavender. Open a door in Los Angeles, and all you get is noise.

The iron latch falls into place behind me. Bands of light ricochet through the archways as I descend the worn travertine steps. The last warmth of day remains heavy in the courtyard, which is empty except for Nicosa, alone at a wooden table beneath one of the portals that frame the loggia. The sight of him texting on his phone is disconcerting. If he is a mafia associate, he represents a new breed: a global businessman who operates in the economic overworld. I can understand Dennis Rizzio’s excitement. An ordinary FBI agent attempting to gain access to that elite brotherhood of power would be as effective as a peasant throwing pebbles at a castle. But here I am, already inside.

Not surprisingly, Nicosa also possesses a brawnier-than-average sexuality. Powerful men have it — the kind of animal magnetism that must have kept the Rome-based surveillance team wide awake while they documented the affair with his counterpart sexpot, Lucia Vincenzo. It is impossible for him to simply sit in a chair in this theatrical setting and not look larger than life, simmering with operatic passions, especially when his artistically cut black and silver hair curls with just the right panache along the nape of the neck, and his expressive face gleams with a masculine hint of sweat.

“Sit.”

He motions toward a cushioned wicker chair. On the table is salvation: a bottle of white wine in a silver bucket of ice.

“I’m glad we have some time to talk before my wife comes home.” Like that of the male guests at the London birthday party, the flirtatiousness is reflexive and without meaning, but he does have a way of making himself feel very close, as if his furrowed, animated face has become magnified with interest, following your every thought.

“How was your trip from Rome?”

“The train station was a nightmare,” I tell him. “But you’ll be happy to know that every spot at Caffè Nicosa was taken. Your company must be doing well.” “I have a secret weapon. His name is Sofri. He does not look like a secret weapon — he looks like Marcello Mastroianni with a white mustache — but he is an old friend and a brilliant biologist who cracked the genome of the coffee plant and created a new, genetically engineered bean. He is the reason for our success.” “In Italy, don’t you also have to know the right people?” Nicosa’s eyes hold mine. Within the coarse stone walls, the early twilight softens our skin tones so we gaze at each other with frankness — there is no hiding in this sultry light.

“What do you mean, ‘the right people’?” he inquires gently.

My cell phone rings. It is Dennis Rizzio.

“Sorry …”

“Go ahead,” Nicosa says.

Dennis’s voice is clipped. “Can you talk?” “For a minute.”

I look questioningly at Nicosa, and he reads it exactly. “I’ll get some glasses,” he says and politely leaves the table.

“Hi, Dennis. What’s up?”

“I received a call from Inspector Reilly of the Homicide and Serious Crime Command, Metropolitan Police. He spoke to you on the scene.” “I remember.” The dinosaur with the head cold.

“They recovered the Ford used in the attack.” “Where?”

“Aberdeen, Scotland. Pretty much burned to a crisp. Forensics has determined that the fire was deliberately set. Point of origin was the engine. Accelerant used was gasoline. They were trying to destroy the vehicle identification number on the engine block, but the team was able to recover another copy of it on the axel that the knuckle-brains didn’t know existed. They’re using it to trace the original owner.” “Witnesses?”

“If there are any, they’re under a rock. We’re talking a poor section, infested with gangs. The Brits are canvassing the scene.” “You don’t sound optimistic.”

“Why Aberdeen?” Dennis wonders. “It bothers me.” “Scots nationalists?” I suggest. “They did hit a diplomat neighborhood.” Dennis mulls it over. “I dunno, but they drove way the hell to Scotland for a reason. It’s likely they went there because they knew someone who would take them in after they dumped the car.” Nicosa is walking out the kitchen door with a corkscrew and two wineglasses.

“He’s coming back. Tell me quickly, anything more on the London attack?” “They used an Ingram MAC-10,” Dennis reports. “A crap gun used by your basic street thug. I’m guessing the shooters were hired hands.” “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise Dennis as my host sits down.

“Everything okay?” Nicosa asks.

“Fine.”

“Va bène.”

He flicks open a waiter’s corkscrew, effortlessly withdraws the cork, and pours wine into two squat glasses, not of cut crystal as I might have imagined, but everyday tableware.

“You ask about knowing the right people,” he muses. “I assume you mean the mafias? Italy, you will find, has always been a fairly lawless place. We have laws, of course, but nobody pays attention. We will always be a collection of dysfunctional tribal families ruled by old men who want to settle scores. But foreigners have the wrong impression. We are moving toward democratic capitalism; the old dons can’t fix everything. Salute.” We toast. The white wine is sweeter than what I am used to. Nicosa seems unfazed, so I venture deeper.

“It’s not just Italy, Nicoli. Criminal networks rule the world — and that’s no exaggeration.” I am about to add that they have become a main focus of intelligence efforts by the Bureau when he points to a red Ferrari parked near the gate.

“You see that car? I had another, just like that one. It was stolen in Rome in the morning, and they found it in Croatia the following afternoon. The collapse of communism has blessed us with a new breed of jailbeaks.” “Jailbirds?”

“Yes. Allora … what do you do in Los Angeles? I love it there. Some of it looks just like Italy.” “What do I do?”

I am about to explain that FBI agents do everything from bank robberies to counterterrorism when we are interrupted by the sound of tires on gravel, and a sporty green Alfa Romeo hatchback driven by Cecilia Maria Nicosa surfs through the gates to a space between two palm trees. There’s a whirl of exhaust, and then the smell of leather settles briefly.

The door opens fast and she calls, “Hello!” an exuberant hand waving even before the car stops. Then she emerges — mountains of auburn hair, large sunglasses with jeweled frames. She’s wearing a white lab coat over a tight-fitting silk sheath in vibrant shades of plum. She makes a diminutive figure in the solemn space of the sanctuary, but from her self-assured stride it is clear that she, like Nicosa, owns it.

We kiss back and forth in a fragrant blur, and next thing I know, her arms are around my neck. We hug wordlessly, tightly, for a long moment. Her body is heavier than mine, soft and voluptuous. The intensity seems a bit overwrought, considering we have never met.

Although Cecilia dresses like an Italian, she looks entirely Central American, like the Latinas I know in Los Angeles. The flat cheekbones, full lips, and broad nose show the African, Spanish, and Indian mix of our El Salvadoran background — the difference being that I received a dominant helping of Scots/Irish. She removes the sunglasses, revealing strong eyebrows and warm brown eyes, empathetic and searching, taking me in. We gaze into each other’s souls and my thoughts come to a flat-out stop — I’m face-to-face with a brown-skinned woman from another part of the globe with whom I have nothing in common.

“Do I say Buenas tardes or Ciao?” I wonder.

“You say—I am so happy!” We embrace again, awkwardly now, and when we step apart, the candid courtyard light permits no illusion.

She looks tired.

This is not a pampered social climber. This is a person in the real world, a doctor with a mind full of equations; a mother preoccupied with a teenage son; the wife of a man in the social spotlight, always under pressure to be fabulous.

As we walk, she murmurs, “I have a favor to ask. Please don’t tell my husband you are FBI.” “Why not?” I whisper. “I thought he knew.” She shakes her head.

“God!” I gasp. “I almost spilled the beans!” “But you didn’t tell him?”

“No. What’s the problem?” I ask. “Why can’t your husband know?” “Some people are upset by these things,” she says evasively.

“He asked what kind of work I do. What should I say?” “I don’t know!”

“I’ll think of something,” I reply, pleased that she is reaching out to me, and wondering what she’s hiding.

Nicosa comes toward us and takes both our hands.

“This is beautiful!” he cries. “Beautiful!” “Do you think we resemble each other?” Cecilia asks innocently.

“Definitely,” her husband affirms. “The same bone structure. The same wavy hair.” “My hair used to be Ana’s color, but now I have to dye it. Too much gray.” Cecilia shrugs. “Look. Our skin color is so different.” She holds her arm up to mine. “Coffee and cream.” “Still, the family resemblance is unmistakable,” Nicosa assures her. “Anyone could tell you two are related.” We grab the bottle in the ice bucket, and our wineglasses, and continue toward the southern wing, arms around one another’s shoulders, an ungainly trio, not quite matching steps. Cecilia heads through the open door first. It is double-thick aged wood reinforced with square-head nails that could probably stop a battering ram, but the antique iron lock could be popped with a hairpin.

“I notice you don’t have security.” Nicosa reacts as if he’d never considered it. “No security?” “Do you have an alarm system? I don’t see one.” I gesture toward the cloistered yard, apparently unchanged since 1132. “You’re isolated, with access from every direction. Forgive me.” I smile. “You asked what I do in Los Angeles? I sell home security systems.” When making up a false identity on the spot, it is best to stick to something you know.

“We’ll have to talk about that,” he promises.

I exchange a look with Cecilia, expecting a conspiratorial smile in return for keeping my ties to the Bureau a secret, but she lowers her eyes, unwilling to connect.

Inside the family quarters is the layered smell of old fires. The floorboards creak as we enter what used to be a small chapel, with pale stone walls curving toward the ceiling like hands steepled in prayer. The room has been modernized with milk-white couches and a flat-screen TV. In a niche that must have once held a statue, someone has placed a miniature wine cask. High in the vaulted ceiling is a tiny six-paned window, the only source of natural light. I imagine that if the chrome lamps weren’t shining, throwing a warm glow into the corners, it would be black as a closet in here.

We pass through a huge dining hall where naked plywood tables and folding chairs are stacked — before or after a party, or maybe always at the ready. The windows have been jazzed up with embroidered curtains, and one whole wall is a cupboard for china. The kitchen is cavernous, but it is the kitchen of a working family. A funnel-shaped brick fireplace dominates, with well-used iron grills. Do they actually cook over an open fire? There is also, of course, a gourmet range in stainless steel, and a pair of fancy refrigerators. Track lighting looks down on a ten-foot granite island with built-in sinks for preparing the baskets of tomatoes and baby zucchini, great bunches of sage and basil and loaves of bread that are making me faint with hunger.

Still in heels and the silk dress, Cecilia trades the doctor’s coat for an apron, refusing offers of help.

“No, no. You relax. I hope your ride on the bus was okay. Giovanni picked you up?” “Everything was fine. He said he had been studying — seems like a good kid.” “We are proud of him. He is going to carry the flag for our contrada during Palio. It’s an honor. They always pick the most handsome young man.” She caresses Nicosa’s cheek. “It used to be his father. Still is.” Nicosa removes Cecilia’s hand and kisses her palm with the passing intimacy of a long marriage. “Where is Giovanni?” he asks.

“He’s at soccer. After school he practices the flag, and then soccer,” she tells me with a smile. “Busy schedule.” “We had a nice talk.” I describe our conversation about his love for Siena.

“That’s more than we talk to Giovanni in a week,” marvels Nicosa.

Cecilia says, “He likes to talk in the car.” “Or shopping. He’ll quote Dante if you buy him a pair of tennis shoes.” Cecilia frowns, retrieving a melon from the window, swinging her hips around the kitchen in sensual display; just like Nicosa, she’s sexual and distant at the same time.

“You’re making him out to be a brat. He is not a brat,” Cecilia says.

“I would never say that about my son! He’s a good student and stays out of trouble; what more can we ask? Do you need me to cut the prosciutto?” “Non ora. Fra un pò.”

“Voglio vedere Giovanni giocare.”

“Va bène.”

Her husband leaves, and Cecilia lets out a sigh that probably says more than she would like me to know at this point. Her demeanor is guarded. Despite the excited welcome, she is hovering on the other side of the island and keeping her eyes on the food prep, as if to maintain a distance while evaluating the stranger in her kitchen.

“Nicoli wants to see a little of Giovanni’s practice,” she says. “We will have something to eat in a minute. I would have met you at the bus, but we had to perform an emergency C-section.” “Mom and baby okay?”

“The baby will have some problems,” she says, ending the discussion.

I try to let things unwind as if I really were just a long-lost relation. There are moments of awkward silence. She takes a bowl from the refrigerator and starts dipping zucchini blossoms into a batter she must have prepared between surgeries. I thought I was efficient. But these are petty thoughts. This is an industrious woman who is also a publicly betrayed wife. Despite all that, she and her husband seem to be — wildly and improbably — in love. It makes me see that Sterling and I are still way at the beginning.

“Do you think Nicoli bought my story about selling security systems?” “Sounded good to me,” she says. “Do you really?” “When I was on the robbery squad at the FBI, I used to collect the tapes from the surveillance cameras in banks. It’s about as technical as popping out a CD.” “Don’t worry; Nicoli wasn’t paying attention.” “But you’re still afraid to tell him I’m an agent.” “Not afraid. It’s just not a good time. He’s sensitive about politics.” “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Cecilia answers in a reserved tone, confirming my sense that we have taken several steps back from the warmth of our initial contact. “Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children?” “No children, married to the job.” Don’t push it. We have time. “How did you find out about me in the first place?” “I first heard your name when I was a child. My father told us that we had a relative in America named Ana, and if we ever wanted to meet her, we must work hard in school so we could visit. I never knew if you were real or something he invented so we’d get good grades. Who in your family came from El Salvador?” A delicate aroma of dough sizzling in olive oil arises from a large copper skillet.

“My father. His name was Miguel Sanchez.” Cecilia freezes on the spot, still gripping a slotted spoon. “Your father was Miguel Sanchez? I didn’t realize he was your father.” “What did you think?”

She fumbles. “I thought maybe he was an uncle or a cousin and that you and I were distantly related. But, Ana, he is my father, too.” I am not impressed. “Seriously, it’s a common name.” “Yes, it is a common name,” she snaps impatiently. “But for him to speak of a girl named Ana in America? That is too much of a coincidence. Did you know he was from the town of Cojutepueque?” “I thought it was called La Palma, but that could be wrong.” Cecilia has put down the spoon and turned off the stove.

“It’s in the mountains, thirty-five minutes from the capital, San Salvador. My mother was Eulalia. Together they owned a fish market. It started out as a space in the mercado but eventually they bought three stalls. She ended up running it because Papa wasn’t always there. He was often in America.” “Where in America?”

“Nobody knew. At times he would send money, so maybe that’s why she tolerated his absence. He would come and go. Then one day he never came back.” “Do you have a photo of him?”

“Somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember what he looked like. He died when I was five, and my grandfather threw out all the pictures.” Cecilia is shocked. “He died?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“How?”

I hesitate. “Are you sure you want to know?” She nods. “He was murdered.” “Did they ever find the killer?” “No. The case was never pursued. In fact, there never was a case.” “Capito. Because he was a Spanish man, in the country illegally.” I don’t answer.

Cecilia brushes moist eyes. “We never knew what happened to him,” she murmurs. “I was a teenager when he left for good.” “This is crazy.”

“My mother told me that he had a wife in America.” I remember the day I found the marriage certificate in a bank vault in Santa Monica, California, after my own mother died, proving that she had been married to Miguel Sanchez. Her relationship with a brown-skinned immigrant was the cause of my California grandfather’s lifelong rage at both of us (she, the whore; me, the half-breed), and why my mother and I stuck together, afraid of his explosive fits. I suppose I’m still fighting the bad guys because I couldn’t fight Poppy. Now the sudden recollection of my mother — for some reason, that damn worn apron made of soiled, quilted squares that had seen a hundred meat loaves and pans of brownies, which she would never replace because it was good enough — makes me soften with longing for her comforting presence, taken away too soon.

“This woman in America,” I press. “Did you know her name?” “It was a strange name. Like a princess in a fairy tale.” “Was it Gwen?”

My mother’s name. The recognition is instantaneous. Miguel Sanchez’s other wife. We stare at each other.

Oh my God!

“We are half sisters!”

We embrace, embarrassed, giddy.

“What do we do?” Cecilia’s brown eyes are wide.

“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Make dinner?” Cecilia throws a cold stare at the assemblage of dishes as if about to sweep it all aside.

“We should be making Salvadoran food!” “What is Salvadoran food?” “You’ve never had pupusas?” she cries. “Living in Los Angeles? Corn tortillas stuffed with pork? Next time I will cook them for you.” Our chatter becomes animated as we compare childhoods — what we wore to school, friendships, crushes, restrictions, dating, church. I cut the melon and remove the rind. Cecilia takes a package from a cabinet near the cold stone floor. Sliding the burlap wrapping away, she reveals a dark pink hunk of prosciutto, which she slices with the practiced care of a surgeon. Moments later, crescents of bright orange melon and transparent feathers of prosciutto are arranged on a platter. We lay linen on the table, set the silverware and pasta bowls. She minces garlic, lemon zest, and parsley with precise, aware movements; not hurried, not dismissive, not just throwing something in the microwave, and I try to slow down and follow the rhythm of her lead.

Nicosa returns with Giovanni, who is fresh from the field of battle — pink-cheeked, with muddied legs and reddened knees, his hair as soaking wet as if it had just rained.

“Cosa è sucesso?” Nicosa asks, sensing that something is going on in the kitchen besides pasta with cherry tomatoes.

“We just found out we are sisters,” Cecilia announces.

“È vero? Really?” “Half sisters,” I murmur awkwardly, still not used to the idea. “Same father, different mothers. Different countries.” “We are sisters!” Cecilia declares. “There are no halves.” Giovanni gives me a sweaty hug. “You are my aunt!” He grins.

“You understand why this happened?” Nicosa demands. “Because it is Palio.” Giovanni’s cheeks flush. I expect a cynical teenage reply, but instead he cries, “It’s true!” “They say that in July and August the people of Siena go mad from the heat, and that is when they have the Palio. You must understand the Palio is not just a race,” Nicosa explains, serious as a priest. “It is a time of analysis that arouses deep emotions. You abandon cowardice and embrace action. You defeat death and create life. The city is like a hole in time, every monument and painting in Siena possessing a symbol or a secret code that brings us back into the past. Show your aunt the famous Magic Square.” Obediently, Giovanni grabs a scratch pad and with dirt-stained fingers spells out the letters:

SATOR

AREPO

TENET

OPERA

ROTAS

“It’s a Latin puzzle that can be read in every direction,” Giovanni says, excitedly. “See how the word tenet forms a cross? This mystery”—he taps the pad—“is written on the wall of our own church, the Duomo.” Not for the first time since I have come to the abbey, I feel a chill.

“What does it mean?”

“ ‘God holds the plow, but you turn the furrows,’ ” Giovanni says.

I look quizzically at my new sister, staring at the letters over my new nephew’s shoulder. “What does that mean?” “There are two types of fate,” Cecilia replies. “The actions of God, and our own responsibility for our lives. Two kinds of fate have brought us together.” Nicosa pops the cork on a cold bottle of Prosecco. “Welcome to the family. Salute.” We four touch glasses.

“Congratulations, Giovanni,” I say.

“Why?”

“For holding the flag in the parade. Your mom says it’s a big deal.” “Oh.” He blushes. “Grazie.”

“It’s not simply that he holds it”—Cecilia begins, but Nicosa stops her by encircling her waist and stage-whispering in her ear.

“Shhh. She will see.”

“Okay, caro.” Cecilia smiles and lifts her mouth to be kissed.

But now we have a problem.

I am leaning against the pillows on the sweet-pea bed, on the phone with Dennis Rizzio.

“She’s not just a relative,” I say, covering my legs with the cashmere throw. “She’s my sister. Her son is my nephew. How can I do this?” “Did you and Ms. Nicosa grow up together?” he demands, a crackling New York counterpunch. “Did you two share a crib? You know this lady less than twenty-four hours. You know nothing about her. She’s a blank slate.” “I can tell you that she needs me. Why else would she want me here? She’s clear about not letting her husband know I’m FBI — she’s trying to walk some kind of a line. I don’t know what it is, except there’s fear and desperation that she thinks only someone close, like a sister, would understand. I feel a responsibility toward that. Also to the case.” I’m worrying the fringes on the blanket. “I hope I can do both.” “Trust me, she’s not a real sister. Your sister is the one who makes you drive three hours on the Long Island Expressway because it’s Mother’s Day and she doesn’t want to come to you. She’s a bossy pain in the ass you have to tolerate because she’s your sister, because if you don’t, your brother, who can’t stand her either, is gonna get mad. You and Cecilia Nicosa have nothing like that. No obligations, which is good. So don’t jump to conclusions.” “I think she’s still testing me.” “Why do you suppose she doesn’t want her husband to know you’re Bureau? Because he’s up to his neck in cocaine, and she knows it, and she wants her and the kid out. That’s her agenda. Nothing has changed,” Rizzio insists. “You’re in an ideal position. She reached out to you, remember? Like you say, she wants your help.” I find myself relaxing back into the pillows. The tension escapes with a sigh — I am back inside my comfort zone. Dennis is right. Let me do what I’m good at: pretending to be who I’m not. Put aside these notions of what family is supposed to be and accomplish the task.

“You’re more of a help to Cecilia as an agent who can get her out of there than as some bogus half sister. What does that mean, anyway? History. Words on paper.” Right, I think, wanting to be convinced. My loyalty is to the mission.

“Caught a break in the London attack,” Dennis is saying. “Are you interested?” “Sure.”

In truth, I’m pretty well past the whole thing. It was literally another time in another country. Italy has absorbed my focus now.

“The Brits traced the vehicle identification number on the abandoned Ford in Aberdeen to Southall, West London. The original owner, Mr. Hafeez Khan, says he sold it to ‘a foreign type’ as a junker for five hundred pounds cash. It had almost ninety thousand kilometers on it. No paperwork; the buyer takes the keys and drives away. The seller doesn’t even have a name.” I squirm underneath the covers.

“So there’s no way to ID the guy?” “Mr. Khan is sitting down with a police artist as we speak. It’ll be interesting if he comes up with a description of the same guy you saw in South Kensington.” “How did he contact the buyer?”

“The car was sold on Craigslist. They met in a parking lot. Like I said, no paperwork, but Mr. Hafeez did keep one remnant of the transaction. He didn’t remember at first, but he still had the buyer’s phone number. Are you with me?” “Barely.”

“Mr. Khan is a butcher, so what does he do? He writes the phone number of the guy who wants to buy his car on a piece of paper and sticks it on that nail where they put the receipts. The Met Police search his shop and it’s still there. You know that nail thing?” “Yes, I do.” My eyes are closing.

“Just like they have in every New York deli. They have them in London, too. And this entire case could turn on it. One nail. I thought that was something.”

SEVEN

Cecilia decides to give a party in my honor. It will be outdoors by torchlight at the abbey, in the ruins of the original church. I guess this is why she keeps banquet tables stacked up in the dining room, ready to roll. Someone else will do the cooking, but the key ingredients have to be assembled according to Cecilia’s standards, from individual shopkeepers she’s known for twenty years in the district of the noble contrada of Oca in the heart of Siena.

Oca district is clearly marked by green and white silk with a crowned white goose flying from every building — as opposed to Oca’s blood enemy, Torre, the Tower, whose blue and burgundy banners, showing an elephant carrying a tower, warn that you are entering enemy territory. Just like gangland L.A., sporting the wrong colors in the wrong district during Palio is either a deliberate challenge or just plain stupid.

We are dutifully wearing Oca scarves, flowing capelike over the shoulders, as we haul string bags filled with groceries up the forty-five-degree incline of Arte della Lana; it’s barely ten in the morning, and my neck is prickly with perspiration. We turn a corner and the street drops to S. Andrea Gallerani in a heartbeat. Ahead is another rise. If you graphed it, our little shopping trip would look like a killer hills workout on a treadmill.

And yet Cecilia is stepping doelike over the pavers in high heels and an Armani dress with tiny dots that she will later wear to the hospital, movie star sunglasses, and a buckle-encrusted marigold leather purse as big as a watermelon. I notice that the other women, young and old, all of them in Oca scarves like flocks of green and white hens, are also carrying handbags and wearing dresses — tailored cotton with belts, or splashy bosom-revealing rayon — going about their morning business with self-assured femininity. And here I am, dressed L.A.-style for a day in the sun: hiking shorts, adventure shoes, water bottle, and baseball cap, trudging behind.

Cecilia is so in charge of her world, you forget that it isn’t her world. Passing a shop with eye-catching patterns of blush peaches and dark plums reminds her of helping her mother at the fish store in El Salvador when she was five years old. Her stories are told in clean, thought-out paragraphs. Reflexively running Cecilia through my FBI profiling machine, I assess her as a high-functioning, fiercely well-organized, extroverted personality. Which means it will not be easy to get past her defenses. When she feels secure, she will tell me her secrets; why she asked me here and what her husband is up to. I must be patient.

“I had to arrange the fishes on the ice so that they looked like flowers.” She describes the design with a doctor’s hand — long fingers, graceful and strong — gold bracelets jumping. “I was also working in the house. We had no housekeeper — no need for one since we didn’t own things. We had coffee bushes growing everywhere, like weeds, and when I was little, I would pick the beans when they were red and sell them at the market. I would help with the laundry and take care of the pets. I had two dogs; they were my most beloved things in the world.” “I couldn’t have pets,” I say. “My grandfather wouldn’t allow it. I used to talk to the worms in the backyard.” Cecilia laughs so hard she chokes and almost stumbles. “Playing with worms? That’s very sad.” “I was happy when it rained and all my friends came out.” “Stop, you are making my makeup run!” She dabs her eyes under the sunglasses. It pleases me to amuse her. Not everybody gets my jokes, especially at the Bureau.

“We had beautiful wild birds,” she goes on. “We kept them in cages. I loved them, too. You know who was my favorite? That yellow one in the cartoon who is always making trouble, what is he called?” “Tweety Bird?” I ask incredulously.

Cecilia laughs again and blushes. “Yes, that’s him.” “You had one, a toy?”

“No, just a tiny room and a lamp. On the walls, I painted that little bird. I would spend hours painting him. It took me away from my homework or when I was overwhelmed and stressed out. My mother sent my brothers and me to private Catholic school, and then to the university — with no support from the government. My aunts and their husbands gave money to pitch in with my studies, so I had to do well.” “And our father? Miguel Sanchez?” “He wasn’t there,” Cecilia reminds me quietly. “He was in America, remember? Married to your mother.” “Not for very long.”

I am struck with a pang of envy. What if my absent father did spend more time with his El Salvadoran family? What difference can it make now?

“I guess we have that in common.” “What?”

She asks this kindly, as a question.

“It’s funny, but we both grew up without the same father. I have virtually no memory of him. Except for one blurry image … He’s just not there. And you didn’t get much of him, either.” “A little more, perhaps. I know his face. He was very friendly-looking. I’ll find that picture. He was playful, and he enjoyed making jokes, like you.” “You and I, we each have pieces missing.” After a silence, Cecilia says, “True.” “And we’re both half-and-half. You’re from El Salvador, but you might as well be Italian.” “I am not one thing or another,” Cecilia says.

Around the tourist attraction of the Church of Sant’ Antonio Abate there are stores with bombastic windows crowded with cheeses, chocolates, sausage, and mountains of gorgeously wrapped panfòrte, the signature fruitcake of Siena, with seventeen ingredients — one for each contrada — and hard as the brick of the houses that surround us in an almond-colored maze. The old lanes tilt and curve, go uphill and down and return to the starting point, like the meandering talk between us.

“What made you search for me?” I venture. “Why now?” “Didn’t you read my letters?” Cecilia asks. “I thought you knew about the inheritance.” “Yes, you mentioned it, but I wasn’t sure.” “You have an inheritance coming from the family. It’s small — a couple of thousand euros. It came when we sold the fish market, after my mother died.” “Thank you,” I say. “That’s very honorable of you to seek me out.” “I did want to meet you, after all these years.” “You made a big effort.”

“It was the right thing to do,” she says. “The money belongs to you.” She sounds awfully matter-of-fact, compared to the emotion in the letters, in which she begged for information about the American relation she had held in her heart for many years. Is she disappointed in what she found? Or, faced with it, has she reconsidered whatever bold moves she imagined?

As we walk, I’m figuring out how to go deeper. It is afternoon, and from the rows of houses, scores of green shutters have opened to the breeze. Old people are everywhere. And happy, too. They watch from doorways or perch on wooden fruit crates that they pick up and move as the sun moves. Cecilia introduces me to each and every nonna, it seems, and they respond with sweet attempts at English. “Hear you soon!” Finally we come to a small square with a fountain and another church.

“Fontebranda is the oldest fountain in Siena. Here I was baptized into Oca when we got married. If I was not baptized to the contrada, the marriage would be impossible.” “Can sisters tell each other absolutely anything?” I ask.

“Yes, of course.”

“I noticed that you and your husband are very affectionate — but you don’t sleep in the same room.” “We do sleep together, but not every night,” Cecilia replies tartly. “He starts snoring like a train and then I have to leave. I get emergency calls, I need my sleep.” “What does that do for your marriage?” “Probably saves it.”

We turn away from the fountain, down a steep side street.

“Did you want to be baptized into Oca?” “It was a bit strange, but they consider it an honor.” “That’s what I mean. You’re obviously a smart, independent woman, but it seems like Nicoli runs your life.” “It only looks that way,” she says, then smiles quickly.

“I’m not making any judgments — I’ve been there with men — but I’m concerned. After we spoke at the embassy, I went on the Internet and read about the affair he had with this mafia person who disappeared.” “That was difficult, but we worked it out.” “You worked it out about the mistress?” “Yes.”

“But what about the mafias? Cecilia — do you know if he’s involved?” “Okay, stop.”

“Here’s why I’m asking. Do you feel like you’re in any danger?” She jerks her head in surprise. “That’s ridiculous,” she says. “Not at all.” And she shoves me through a beaded curtain hanging in a doorway. Inside, a dank, cavelike store is presided over by a crone in black.

“I’m going to show you the best porcini mushrooms in Tuscany. I’m fine. Stop always being FBI.” By the time the guests arrive at the abbey it is night and the floodlit stone walls stand out in relief against the pitch-black sky. There is no roof above the half-dozen tables draped in white and laden with bowls of white roses. The women are glittering, in shoulder-length earrings, jackets woven with gold, long iridescent satin dresses, hammered bronze bracelets, and crystal-encrusted stiletto heels. The men look even more exotic; I have never before seen silk pajamas worn underneath a tuxedo jacket. They’re shaven-headed with a tiny earring or — like Nicosa — breathtakingly tailored in dark pinstripes. And the faces! Filled with character and power.

They are the ruling class — bankers and industrialists, with a couple of hungry writers and art dealers prowling the edges — whose belief in themselves and in their accomplishments seems to make them untouchable by the facts: uncollected garbage two stories high in Naples, human trafficking of eastern Europeans, reprisal murders in broad daylight, Chinese gangsters moving counterfeit goods at will, even the time-honored kidnapping for ransom of executives or their wives, are believed to be a “southern sickness,” of little consequence to the sophisticated north. The ruddy and rouged faces are a smiling blur of civility. The business at hand is to score points with their hosts in the high-stakes tally of social influence, as volatile here as it is in Los Angeles.

Cecilia takes me around. I get a quick handshake, and she gets a soulful exchange in Italian. I am the sidebar; she is the star. Her hair is up in a loose tangle, which emphasizes the diamond hoop earrings and the square neckline of a black sheath with spaghetti straps that turn into chains of gold snakes.

I have worked protection for celebrities who are addicted to the spotlight and can’t get enough, who will preen for anyone who stops them in the street, but that is not Cecilia. She is tense and keeps looking at her watch. I get the sense that she plays this role for Nicosa — for their marriage — but it does not come naturally, especially because she has been preoccupied about Giovanni, who still has not shown up at the party.

She had told me he would be there when we were in her closet. She had tried to talk me out of the brown wrap dress I bought in London with an invitation to enter her private oasis (where I couldn’t miss the price tag on the Roberto Cavalli snake-strap dress — about two thousand U.S. dollars), an enchanted forest of flirtatious fabrics, large enough to have its own window with a writing desk beneath. She kept plucking out hangers and murmuring, “This is your color,” although I had no idea why it was my color. The dresses scared me. I was afraid of ruining one just by putting it on. They had intricate linings you had to pull down carefully, or step into without catching a thread. I thought she was trying awfully hard to make this experiment in couture work. Her clothes were too tight in the waist and too wide in the hips for me, pointing out the disparities in our figures — and that after all, this sister thing might just turn out to be a bad fit.

She had been inflated and boastful that unlike most teenagers, Giovanni is so reliable; her friends are envious of how grown up he is; and how she loves to show him off. She might have also expected to show off the guest of honor, but the brown dress was an embarrassment. Losing patience when in spite of her luxurious offerings I kept saying, “No thanks,” she became the bossy pain in the ass sister Dennis had described, saying, “Never buy cheap things; it’s a waste of money!” and “You should start wearing makeup and look like a woman!” But now, in the sensuous candlelight of the outdoor party, as we chat with yet another diva with flat-ironed blond hair and blackened eyes, a white halter showing the crescents of her breasts (“They all think they’re Donatella Versace,” according to Cecilia), I feel like a little brown squirrel in the cheap brown dress. Like everyone else, the wannabe Donatella is obsessed with Palio. Which horse is best? Which jockey will ride for Oca? What is Cecilia cooking for the contrada dinner, a preposterous-sounding undertaking where the women convene in the kitchen of their contrada headquarters and whip up dinner for two thousand members — and the horse — seated at tables set up in the street. From whose apartment in the Piazza del Campo will they watch the tratta and the prova? It’s like listening to folks planning a tailgate party when you don’t understand football.

Luckily, Sofri arrives to save me.

Nicosa’s business partner, the brilliant scientist, turns out to be a white-haired, impeccable dandy with a hooked aristocratic nose and a folded square of green and white Oca silk in the pocket of a blue blazer.

“Sofri is the secret to our success,” Cecilia says, kissing him on both cheeks.

He graces me with a luminous smile. “It is a delight to meet your beautiful sister. Has the signorina seen much of Siena?” he asks Cecilia. “It would be my pleasure to show her. You must please be my guest for Palio.” “I’d love to. Nicoli told me you invented a new coffee bean. How do you invent a coffee bean?” He leans forward, speaking intimately. “The breakthrough came when I was able to decode the coffee genome. Then it was a matter of identifying the genes that produce characteristics of sweetness. But my passion is to create new recipes using coffee — far beyond the usual,” he says, and his eyes grow big, as if he were describing a distant galaxy.

“Like what?”

“For example, rabbit loins stuffed with liver and coated in coffee. You will taste them tonight!” It takes a moment to come up with a suitably Italian response: “Beautiful!” He grasps my hand and leads me through the party, making introductions, replenishing my glass. Holding hands with an elderly gentleman feels very European.

“How is it to be the guest of honor inside the home of one of the greatest hostesses in Tuscany? I cannot imagine what it would be like if I, for example, discovered that I had a brother I had never met — and then found out he lives like this!” I laugh. “It has been quite a ride.” “Not to insult you,” he adds quickly. “Maybe you, too, live in an historic monument.” I am about to joke that I live in the Federal Building, but, remembering my promise to Cecilia, I put the brakes on just in time.

“I’m between addresses now,” I say.

“What work do you do?”

“I’m in security,” I reply, with what I hope looks like a sincere smile.

“I’m sorry — do you mean banking?” “Protecting banks. Alarm systems.” His eyebrows rise. “Interessante. I would have thought fashion.” Involuntarily I look down at the brown dress. “Really?” “Of course, bella! You know, you look just like your sister? Both of you are intelligent and lovely women. I adore her. And now I have the pleasure of knowing you!” Sofri releases the pressure on my hand with a sigh of satisfaction, and I feel that I have met my prince — never mind that he is fifty years older than I am, and that I’m in love with Sterling. His courtliness makes me feel special. The other half of the equation, of course, is my appreciation of his masculine ability to charm. I am thrilled by the novelty of what promises to be an old-fashioned, chivalrous relationship; without the need to conquer, we are free to become great friends.

At one point, behind our wineglasses, we find ourselves watching Cecilia, who is standing alone in the smashing black dress and listening in dismay to a message on her cell phone.

“She looks worried,” I say. “She hasn’t heard from Giovanni.” “I know. I told her it is to be expected.” “Isn’t it kind of a slap in the face to his parents not to show up?” “Normally yes, but not during Palio.” “Because Giovanni’s out partying?” “Fighting.”

“Fighting! For what? Defending the antipasti?” Waiters have appeared with fried artichokes, marinated mushrooms, dried beef drizzled with olive oil, cured mussels, mozzarella and tomato and basil, plates stacked all the way up their arms.

“Each contrada has a blood rival. Our enemy is Torre, the Tower. If a young man enters the zone between Torre and Oca, it means a fight. Love for one’s contrada is equal only to hatred for one’s enemy,” he says passionately. “You will find guests from different contrade here tonight, but never from Torre. Never.” Sofri removes the silk square from his breast pocket and pats the moisture at his temples. You have to love this guy. He takes everything seriously.

“Calm down, Sofri. It’s only dinner.” We move toward our table, where six or eight well-dressed people gaily introduce themselves in an incomprehensible chatter of Italian. The mood is buoyant as the food is served. After the primi course of homemade ravioli stuffed with the porcini mushrooms we bought that morning, Sofri jumps up to pour more wine. “A big red,” he explains grandly, “to accompany my latest recipe — ròtolo di coniglio al caffè, rabbit rolled with coffee!” Waiters are fanning out with plates of browned meat on skewers when I notice a figure crossing from the blackness beyond the ruin walls into the lights of the party. She is purposeful but respectful; a police detective wearing a skintight blue-skirted uniform, a white gun belt, and low heels. She taps the hostess on the shoulder. Obviously, they know each other. Cecilia looks up with recognition and joy, but the detective has her cop face on.

Sofri reacts immediately.

“Stay,” he says. “This is not a problem,” absurdly denying the presence of red lights pulsing on a cruiser parked nearby, and the grim policewoman. The guests are either in on the game or too absorbed to pay attention. My guess is they know the code: Pretend to ignore this.

Sofri excuses himself and joins Nicosa and Cecilia at a serving station. The detective is holding Cecilia’s hand. Cecilia breaks away for a brief hug from Sofri. After some conversation Nicosa, Cecilia, and the detective leave together, and Sofri returns to the table.

“What is going on?”

“There has been an accident.”

“Giovanni?”

Sofri picks up his napkin. “He will be fine,” he says.

EIGHT

Along the Via Salicotto the flags of Torre were still, their colors of brilliant burgundy and blue at rest in the night like folded wings of mythological beasts.

Giovanni was found in an anonymous tunnel that turns off the main street and opens into one of a thousand tiny courtyards in the medieval part of the city, where buildings meet at random angles. The arched passageway of chalky brick is primitive, just high enough for a man seated on a wagon to pass underneath. By day it is as dark as an Etruscan tomb. By night it is lit by one fluorescent fixture. A street cleaner discovered the boy half dead in the fluttering light, in the heart of enemy territory.

If Torre was out for blood, they got it. His stab wounds made a trail of blood down the sloping pavers. We might have been able to recover footprint evidence from the attackers if the street cleaner hadn’t sprayed the ground with water before — or possibly after — discovering the victim. The street cleaner’s contrada affiliation was unknown; by then I knew enough about the cultural weirdness of Siena that it was the first question I asked.

The course the investigation should take sped through my mind — seal the crime scene, canvass the neighborhood, interview witnesses. I was impatient to talk to the first responders. They had taken my nephew to Ospedale Santa Caterina, twenty kilometers north of the city, because it is one of Cecilia’s private clinics with a higher standard of care — a questionable decision that cost time. He was almost gone from loss of blood. A knife to the chest had collapsed a lung. Breathing must have been agony.

The priest of the Oratorio di Santa Caterina, the church of the Oca district, had been a guest at the party. In his forties, with thick black hair and gold-rimmed glasses, he wore the green and white scarf with the Goose over his cassock. He spoke at a gentle pace, a person of true contemplation — none of the greedy egotism I expected in a religious leader. As a hostess, Cecilia treated him with utmost respect, showing all her sides — competent, obedient, and seductive — deeply desiring to impress herself upon the quiet authority of this man.

So when Sofri and I saw that the priest had also gotten up from his table and was hurrying behind Cecilia and Nicosa to the red Ferrari, we left the party immediately, and drove thirty-five minutes on hair-raising jet-black roads to the hospital, which was located in an industrial park. Like my sister, it wasn’t large, but inspired confidence. It had the air of bold, forward-thinking modernity, with a waiting area like an upbeat take on a sixties motel — turquoise sofas and funky lamps like daisies that looked surreal in contrast to the torchlit grandeur of the abbey, and the life-and-death struggle of a kid who was into something way over his head.

When we arrive, the waiting area is empty. Sofri disappears down a hallway to locate the family while I attempt to engage the one police officer in sight — overweight, middle-aged, with a big, bald, indented head. His front teeth are yellow and pushed together as if he’d been attacked by a mad dentist with a vise. When I ask for information about Giovanni Nicosa, he shrugs as if he has never heard the name. I try again, explaining that I am the boy’s aunt from California, and I am very worried.

“California?” He understands “California” and slowly grins with recognition.

“TV?” says the officer.

“You watch TV?”

He nods.

“American TV?”

“Sì.”

“Really? What is your favorite TV show?” He draws in the air. Tracing letters.

“CSI! You like CSI?” He nods, pleased to have conveyed this important fact.

Once again, Sofri arrives to save the day. At his side is the woman police detective who appeared at the abbey, Inspector Francesca Martini, talking rapidly on a cell phone while clutching three unopened packs of cigarettes. Still talking, Inspector Martini manages to shake my hand.

“You are Giovanni’s aunt,” she says in English, then holds up a finger to signify the importance of her phone conversation, which is taking place with the head of the provincial police, her boss, “Il Commissario.” I give a nod. Her bangs go straight across, and the rest of her long, shiny black hair is efficiently pulled into a clip. The short-sleeved uniform reveals a set of muscular, beautifully sculpted arms. You could work out for a hundred hours and never have those arms — they are genetically authentic to the Roman goddess of war.

I ask Sofri how Giovanni is doing.

“Come outside,” he says.

The red Ferrari is one of the few cars in the parking lot. The door is open and the interior lights are on so that Cecilia, bent over an appointment book, can read a number while punching it into her cell phone. She seems to be going down a list — the people you would trust in a crisis. Nicosa is also on the phone, pacing back and forth in the headlights. Sofri shrugs deeper inside his blazer. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since the morning. The air is damp and there are halos around the streetlights.

“Giovanni will need emergency surgery,” Sofri says. “They are waiting for the doctor to arrive from Montepulciano. I can’t believe this.” The door slams shut and the car goes dark. Cecilia walks over to where we are standing. The black dress seems the one thing physically holding her together. Her hair is falling loose and her hands are clenched. Her face is white. I draw her aside.

“I can help you with this,” I say gently.

“How?”

“Let me call the FBI in Rome. We can pressure them to kick-start the investigation.” “Right now I cannot think about that.” “I know. This is what I do. Let me take that burden off.” “I don’t want you to call the FBI.” “Because of Nicoli? Whatever’s going on with him, he’ll want his son’s attacker to be found—” “Please, you don’t understand. Just leave it to the provincial police.” Her eyes are glistening. She’s on the edge of frantic. She needs to know she’s still in charge of something.

“I’m here if you need me.” “Thank you, Ana,” she murmurs, and my heart squeezes for her pain. “Sofri said you were inside, talking to the police officer. What did you find out?” “His favorite TV show is CSI.” “Don’t make a joke!” “Forgive me; I’m not making a joke. The officer told me nothing.” Sofri is there. His fingers close soothingly around Cecilia’s arm as Nicosa joins us.

“Che succede?” Nicosa asks.

Cecilia, tense, shakes Sofri off.

“I am telling Ana about Giovanni. He was stabbed several times.” Her fear gives way to fury. “In the leg, chest, and abdomen. He has right now bleeding into the abdomen, with laceration of the iliac and femoral arteries, which means he could lose his left leg.” “Lose a leg?”

“The artery was severed; he lost the blood supply to the leg. There is the possibility of amputation.” Her medical authority has returned to steady her. “Also his lung is collapsed from the knife wound to the chest, and he has a broken arm, probably from defending himself.” “What’s the plan?” “To get the best vascular surgeon I know to repair the artery and save the leg. He is on the way.” “What do they say about the assault?” “Nothing,” Nicosa interrupts bitterly. “It happened in Torre.” “Nothing? Because of a rivalry from the thirteenth century? No. I’m sorry, no. Modern police forces do not operate that way.” “Your brother-in-law is suggesting that the police are maybe a little bit slow tonight because the Commissario — the chief of the provincial police in Siena — is from Torre,” Sofri explains.

I am astonished. “They’re not going to investigate?” “They’ll investigate.” Cecilia pulls out the clips and shakes her hair. “But we will never really know who did this. They’ll say, Cosa si può fare? It is Palio,” adding savagely, “when we all know it has nothing to do with Palio.” “This is ridiculous.” Sofri looks at his watch. “Where is the surgeon?” I don’t like the way Cecilia is refixing her hair with eyes lowered in resentful silence.

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing to do with Palio?’ ” “I can tell from the wounds it was not a random stabbing, okay? Someone knew exactly what they were doing,” she says. “If they wanted to kill him they would have cut his neck or shot him in the head. But no — they only come this close. Instead, they hurt him and leave him a cripple.” Sofri winces. “Please!” “Why? It is the truth. They do it to send a message. This kind of attack is something we see in the emergency room in Napoli, not in Siena, when two contrade get into a fistfight.” “But it could happen,” Nicosa says. “Between contrade.” “Why do you say that?” Cecilia snaps, venomous, as if the gold snakes on her dress have come to life. “If he went with friends, where are the friends? If they fought with Torre, why didn’t anybody see?” I cut in. “Is Via Salicotto a busy street?” “Yes.”

“Stores and cafés open?” “Yes, of course. Summer is the busy season.” “If there were any witnesses, and if they were from Torre, what is the likelihood they would come forward to help someone from Oca?” There is a pause as the three exchange glances, as if to decide just how crazy the Sienese might be.

“You have to believe not even the people of Torre, sangue d’ebrei e Torraioli,” Sofri says, adding an ugly curse meaning that the enemy is as low as the Jews, “would be silent about something this serious.” “Anybody could have seen!” Cecilia cries, exasperated. “Thousands of tourists in the city — someone walking on Via Salicotto had to notice if a boy was being stabbed almost to death.” Nicosa cocks his fist. “He will not die!” “Basta,” Sofri says. “We have to be together now.” “He acts like he has nothing to do with it,” Cecilia murmurs.

“What is that tone in your voice?” her husband demands. “Are you saying this is my fault?” “You have turned your head.” “Let’s go inside.” Sofri takes her hand. “The doctor is here.” As headlights swerve into the parking lot, Sofri steers Cecilia toward the hospital.

“I have turned my head?” Nicosa shouts. “You spoil him! You treat him like a baby! You don’t allow him to grow up!” Cecilia twists from Sofri’s grasp. “He doesn’t want to grow up. He doesn’t want to be like his father—” But then she stops herself and her look becomes pleading. “Mi dispiace, Nicoli. Sono spaventata così.”

Nicosa relents and comes toward her. They embrace, long and hard and desperate; you can see in the fit of their bodies how the years have carved them together. They hold on until Sofri gently takes Cecilia’s arm. The surgeon from Montepulciano has gotten out of his car. Nicosa watches as the three meet and the automatic doors swing open and swallow them inside.

“Giovanni is going to make it,” I say.

Nicosa mutters, “Why don’t you go home?” and walks toward the emergency entrance.

The chill from standing out there in the middle of the night has seeped into my skin. My head is throbbing from having consumed nothing but a couple of mushroom ravioli and some “big red” wine, and I would do anything to get out of the brown wrap dress and put on a pair of jeans. How can I fix this? I have none of my usual props. No weapon, no creds, no Nextel, no connection to a busy investigative team in a warm office with global reach to every foreign agency — I don’t even have a sweater.

Out of the shadows a voice calls, “Signorina Grey?” “Yes?”

“Over here.”

The orange tip of a lighted cigarette moves in the darkness. Inspector Martini is leaning against the hospital wall, with a cop’s instinct to stay out of the light.

NINE

Inspector Martini says, “Ciao,” and offers a cigarette.

“No, grazie.”

“You speak Italian?” “Only enough to get on a train. Usually the wrong train.” “Tell me,” she says, “how long have you worked for the FBI?” “How do you know about that?” “We know who you are. We were informed by your captain in Rome, Dennis Rizzio.” “When did you talk to Dennis?” “Two days ago, forse? He told our department to expect you here.” “Why?”

She expels a funnel of smoke. “It is professional. We have a good relationship with the Americans.” “Nice if he would let me know.” She nods sympathetically. “I have the same problems with my boss.” “Does Signore Rizzio always call you when an FBI agent is in town?” I ask lightly.

“Usually only for tickets to Palio.” She smiles and tosses her head and then fixes me with a steely stare. “What do you do in the FBI?” “I’m a field agent. My visit here is almost like being undercover,” I say. “My sister has asked me not to tell her husband I am with the FBI. It’s strange, because that’s how she found me, through the Bureau. I wonder what else she’s keeping from him.” Inspector Martini frowns. “I am of the same contrada as your family — Oca, the Goose. I know Cecilia well, but I don’t understand what is in her head, keeping this secret from her husband.” “Could it have to do with Nicoli’s relationship with Lucia Vincenzo?” “We don’t have the whole story there, except that she is most probably dead.” “Is there a connection between Vincenzo, the southern mafias, and Nicoli Nicosa?” “I can’t speak about that.” “I understand.”

When you need to know.

“I could never go undercover like you,” she reflects. “I have my baby.” “How are you able to make that work?” “Around the time that she was born, a statue of Christ by a Renaissance master named Vecchietta was stolen from a church in Siena. A task force was formed to recover it. I have a degree in art history, and it was part-time, so I applied for a position. I went back full-time when she was one year old.” “Did you recover the statue?” She shakes her head. “It is somewhere in the hands of a private collector. Now I’m back on the street, and I like it much better.” “Hard to go back to a desk job,” I agree.

She hesitates. “You have experience with homicide?” “I make trips to the crime lab and testify in court, just like you.” We give it a moment. Her arms are crossed. She grinds the concrete with a heel.

Finally she says, “I did not tell you this—” “I never heard a thing.” I am becoming attuned to these disclaimers—“This is not a problem,” Sofri said when the police car arrived at the party flashing emergency lights.

“It is about the police report. On your nephew, Giovanni.” “What about it?”

Materializing as if from nowhere, the paparazzi appear out of the shadows of the parking lot — half a dozen athletic young men on the hunt, weaving and pointing the eyes of their cameras at everything in their path, like an assault unit of spiders.

“Cazzo!” grunts Inspector Martini, glancing at them, and then at her cell. “The boss must be here.” They had gotten here before the Commissario, grabbing whatever shots they could to feed the universal craving to see rich people suffer — no matter how pathetic the crumbs, like shots of Nicosa’s Ferrari and the exterior of the hospital. They ferret out the two of us near the entrance, but Inspector Martini speaks sharply in Italian, and they back off with apologetic waves, signifying to me the ultimate control of the government over the press. Instinctively, she and I separate without a word as TV news vans swarm the parking lot.

A white car pulls up, doors open, and two plainclothes detectives spring out, positioning themselves for the exit of the chief. The Commissario is taller than everyone else, and extremely thin. Wisps of white hair flying in the backlight of the TV cameras show that he’s balding. He walks like a marionette, lower legs extending stiffly on their own, as if badly in need of a double knee replacement. But the odd gait only adds to a kind of worldly elegance; at this late hour, wearing a well-tailored dark suit, he looks as if he has been called away from a state department dinner party behind locked gates.

Nobody stops anyone from entering the hospital, and I’m thinking the whole entourage is going to march right into the operating room, but in a country where politics is theater, Nicoli Nicosa recognizes the opportunity for an entrance and is waiting, with the priest in the background, for Il Commissario in the reception area, where they confer privately before facing the cameras. In the crowded space and overly bright lights, the Commissario speaks closely into the lens, and the speech looks smoky and intimate. On the flat-screens at home it will seem huge and crisp.

I imagine he is saying how shocked he is that an innocent boy was brutally attacked on the eve of Palio, promising the Nicosa family that the provincial police will bring these thugs to justice.

A grief-stricken embrace between the two men, and then they disappear down the hall together and the TV lights go out.

“Il bastone ricco insieme,” mutters a reporter.

The rich stick together.

For the next two hours I pace the visitors’ lounge, picking up magazines I can’t read, trying to get e-mail where there is no service. Finally Nicosa appears, exhausted from a long interview with the police while his son was in the operating room. He is still wearing evening clothes, but the tie is gone, and gray stubble shows on his hollow cheeks. He reports in a flat voice that Giovanni made it through the surgery and there is nothing for us to do but go home. Cecilia will stay at the hospital. The police will arrange for us to leave quietly through a back exit. As he is telling me this, Inspector Martini passes and catches my eye. I ask Nicosa to give me a minute, so I can surreptitiously join her in the ladies’ room.

In the mirror over the sinks our reflections show a tall, olive-skinned police officer in a sexy blue uniform, and a shorter American in a brown party dress — two cops from opposite sides of the world who speak the same language. After making sure we are alone, Inspector Martini picks up where we left off when the paparazzi arrived.

“The police report,” she says quietly, “will state that your nephew was attacked in the territory of Torre — you understand about the contrade, okay? He is of Oca, and he was found in Torre, and naturally there must have been a fight.” “But you don’t think that’s the way it happened?” “His body was — changed places?” “Moved?”

“Sorry for my English — yes,” she continues urgently. “His car was found by the police outside the walls of the city.” “How far away from the district of Torre?” “Two kilometers. There were bloodstains around his car. Not so many. I believe the worst took place in the tunnel at Via Salicotto.” “He was taken to the tunnel to make it look like he was attacked by Torre?” She nods. “A nurse tells me she smelled ether on his clothes. It is commonly used in Italy for kidnappings, to subdue the victim. Probably they jumped him, he defended himself”—she raises a forearm to demonstrate—“they put a cloth over his face.” This is when I awaken from my romantic dream of Italy. My sister’s analysis of the stab wounds was accurate. Giovanni was targeted by professionals who tracked him outside the walls, and dumped him in Torre — for a reason.

“But it wasn’t a kidnapping, or a murder, although they could have killed him at any time. It was a warning. To whom?” I ask the inspector.

“Often it is to make an example for others. Witnesses. Informants. Anyone who resists.” “We are talking about the mafias?” “I am afraid that is a foregone conclusion,” she says soberly.

“Not necessarily,” I say, and tell her about the confrontation that I witnessed by the pool with members of Oca.

“Why would they be angry with Nicosa?” Inspector Martini shrugs. “I don’t know. He is well respected. Director of the contrada. His son is alfiere, the flag bearer—” “Yes, that’s the word they were shouting. They seemed to be upset for some reason about Giovanni carrying the flag. Could they have been angry enough to teach him a lesson?” “No. Never. No way. The contrada protects its own children. Everyone looks out for everyone else; that’s why in general we don’t have crime in Siena.” Still, how humiliating it must have been for Nicosa — the coffee king, whose son was alfiere — to be called into account on his own property by his own contrada.

I check the door. We are still alone.

“Is it possible Giovanni brought this on himself? Is he the type who gets into fights in school?” “He is liked by everyone.” “Does he do drugs?” “I would be surprised if he’s never tried them. Marijuana and cocaine are everywhere. But he is not an addict, no.” She brushes aside her bangs, damp from the night. “I am of Oca. I want to know who did this to Giovanni, and then I will hang that person by his balls from a tree. But I have to be careful. It is possible that the bloodstains near the car will never be on the report. My boss, Il Commissario, may not allow it.” “Because he is of your enemy, Torre?” I ask incredulously.

“He doesn’t want a crime investigation. It is Palio. The city is filled with tourists — you can see how the press is stalking him — and so at this time, simple answers are best. A fight occurred between the young men of two traditional rivals. Perfetto.” The door swings open and I almost have a heart attack. It is Nicosa! What the hell is he doing in the ladies’ room?

“Ana, we have to go,” he says, matter-of-fact.

In the Bureau, the sanctum sanctorum for female agents, the only place where two women can talk in privacy, is the ladies’ room. If two females close the office door they are accused of having a “knitting party.” Men, of course, have “meetings.” Italians don’t make that distinction, at least when it comes to personal hygiene. Their public bathrooms are gender-neutral, where men and women share the sinks.

Nicoli Nicosa has every right to be staring at us impatiently with the door wide open.

“I am afraid I have no more information,” Inspector Martini says, covering briskly. “Best wishes to your family.” She offers a comradely handshake. In her palm is a scrap of paper, upon which is written an address.

On the ride back to the abbey Nicosa says little, but I can see his fingers tight on the wheel, and I imagine he must be scared to death — not only about Giovanni’s survival, but also about the motive for the attack. He must understand that since two people close to him have been targeted so far, nobody in his family is safe.

“What do you think they want?” I ask.

“Who?”

“The people who attacked Giovanni.” “I couldn’t possibly answer that question.” “Do you think they are the same criminals who took your friend Lucia Vincenzo?” He gives me an accusatory stare.

“Why do you bring that up?” “I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s all over the Internet.” “They are not the same. One is a fight between boys. The other — we may never know.” We drive in silence, then finally he asks, “Do you pray?” “No. Do you?”

“Of course. I will open up the chapel later.” If he meant that as an invitation, it is declined. That night, unable to sleep, I walk out to the corridor, breathing in the scents of pine and cold. The chapel is dark, but by the light of the electric torches in the courtyard below I see Nicosa, alone, playing with the flag, a square of silk about a meter wide attached to a pole: white and green with bands of red, emblazoned with the symbol of Oca, a crowned white goose with the Cross of Savoy flying from a blue ribbon around its neck.

His starched shirt is open, his chest shining with sweat. His moves are worthy of an acrobat. Like a flag attached to a fencing foil, the banner of Oca follows a split-second pattern, first clockwise at Nicosa’s waist, then tightly furled and thrown straight up, high enough to float by me on the second-story balcony, and then caught on one knee, behind his back. Unbound, it makes a figure eight, a butterfly of silk opening to glory — and then, unbelievably, it becomes a flashing green-and-white knot in the air, passes close to earth, and Nicosa leaps right over it, tossing it straight up again like a thunderbolt.

What is this? A private meditation? The rite of a man preparing for combat? Is he doing this practice for himself? For his youth? For his grievously wounded son? Does he see the visitor above the torchlight, watching breathlessly?

TEN

The following day, thunderstorms are expected. The hammocks and laundry have to be taken in. There are predictions of powerful lightning strikes. In the morning the wind bucks and swirls, the unstable atmosphere trying to rid itself of electric charge. Then it rains, hard, like winter rain in Los Angeles. Alone in the abbey, the kitchen feels cavernous and damp.

Someone made coffee and left the espresso pot on the stove. Someone cut bread and left the crumbs on the board. Pieces of a meal have been left for me to put together: plums in a bowl, muesli in a cupboard, a wedge of local pecorino cheese wrapped in white paper in the refrigerator. Irish tea in a canister. I put on a kettle of water.

I zip my sweatshirt over my pj’s and put up the hood — not so much from cold as unease. Cecilia came home at four o’clock that morning and said Giovanni’s condition had become critical. They fixed the artery and gave him transfusions, but the blood pressure in the leg had not come up, and they couldn’t figure out why. Today they will decide if it is necessary to amputate.

We spoke in the frank way of professionals, skipping the soft touch you’d use with a civilian, minimizing nothing.

“Is the medical information accurate?” “You mean, do I want another opinion? It is straightforward, my colleagues agree. If the circulation in the leg is insufficient, the tissue dies, gangrene sets in, and you risk an overwhelming bacterial infection. I would rather have him alive in a wheelchair than dead of sepsis.” We were in her bedroom. She had torn off her dress and thrown it on the bed, done an efficient thirty-second sweep with a washcloth that covered all the bases.

“This is how we did it in medical school. Never enough time.” She disappeared into the cavernous closet. A moment later she was wearing a navy blue chemise.

I zipped it up for her. “They have good prosthetics now, don’t they?” “Yes, they do,” she answered shortly.

She adjusted the straps on her black sling-backs, remembered earrings, grabbed the stethoscope, black doctor’s bag, and purse off the bed, and then I followed down the stairs. Rain was already resounding loudly when she pulled the double-thick wooden door open. Outside it was cold and still dark. I held her stuff as she struggled into a raincoat. At the very last minute she spun around and gave me a quick hug.

“I am glad you’re here,” she said, and her heels dug into the gravel Soon I could hear the engine catch.

But the professional talk is a ruse, just like my reason for being here in the first place. The moment Cecilia leaves I feel that I am losing traction, on the case as well as on my feelings. I can’t let the attack on his son color the search for Nicosa’s alleged connection with the mafias.

Sitting still at the long kitchen table, I let the cup of tea warm my hands. It reminds me of being stuck waiting for Sterling in Dublin for eight straight days of rain, in what I thought was a hotel, but which turned out to be a boardinghouse. Going crazy alone in the room one night, I went down to the parlor, a barren space with a linoleum floor and a heatless electric fireplace. Straight-backed chairs had been pushed against the walls and were occupied by dark-suited, middle-aged men drinking whiskey. Someone who lived in the boardinghouse had died, and they had gathered there. Nobody spoke to anyone else. The rain hammered. Then, as now, I was a foreign traveler wrapped up in someone else’s crisis, with no place else to go.

In the kitchen I feel imprisoned by insurmountable great stone walls. I miss Sterling with a feeling of futility. How will we ever get from here to there? His absence has become an almost palpable thing, like the cold humidity in the kitchen. We haven’t spoken since we said good-bye on the street in London, and the separation is becoming cruel. I could use his wisdom on the impossible position of being an agent of the law with no way to enforce it.

When I called Dennis Rizzio in Rome to tell him about the attack on Giovanni, as well as to chide him for alerting the provincial police of my presence without telling me, that’s exactly what he said: “It’s Italian on Italian. We have no jurisdiction; it’s up to the local authorities,” even if the local authority — Il Commissario — has conflicting loyalties, thanks to the gangland culture of Siena. And thanks to the convoluted double-talk of the Italian system, I’m beginning to wonder if I can trust the legat, either.

As if actually arguing with Dennis, alone in the kitchen I pose the question out loud: “What was Giovanni up to?” Why was he outside the walls? What made him a target? Was it his famous family, or was he up to shenanigans of his own?

On a table near the front entrance of the abbey there is a pile of guidebooks for the use of the guests. I search for a schedule of bus service to Siena, but then can’t make heads or tails of it. Inside a binder of restaurant recommendations is a card for a taxi company. An hour later, when the driver arrives — receding hair, blue sunglasses despite the rain — we can’t seem to understand each other, but that is not a problem. I show him the paper Inspector Martini passed me in the ladies’ room, and we drive to that address, outside the walls of the city, where, she was covertly telling me, Giovanni’s vehicle was found by the police.

The little blue mailbox car is still in the same spot. It is a bad parking job, as if he stopped in a hurry and didn’t plan to stay long. The two-story stucco apartment buildings in this low-rent suburb are painted in reckless colors of turquoise and tangerine. Sliding glass doors open to narrow balconies that seem about to slide off the walls, like tiers of a badly made cake. Huddling beneath a golf umbrella from the abbey, I take out a notebook and sketch a map of the crime scene. An old habit, it helps me to think.

The glossy wet street is deserted, bloodstains washed away by the rain. Whom did Giovanni come to see? I’m guessing it was a teenage friend. In America you can tell student apartments by the beer cans and Tibetan flags, but here there is nothing to indicate any kind of tenants other than working families. People are waiting for a bus; behind them is a sliver of stores, including an Internet spot that also sells Indian jewelry, a Laundromat with bright red washing machines, a grocery, and a store with a window full of nothing but espresso pots.

The Muslim guy in the Internet spot speaks English but has nothing to tell me, there’s nobody in the Laundromat (who does laundry in the rain?), the coffeepot store is closed, and the grocery lady appears to have some form of dementia, but she’s interested in having company, so I take what I can get.

She’s wearing a dark flowered dress and a raggedy sweater, stamping around the wooden floors with fiercely scattered energy. Her hair is white and her eyes are mad, unnatural blue — bright lights in the musty dark. The electricity is off except in the deli case containing cheeses and prosciutto, cartons of eggs, and antipasti materials such as roasted peppers and calamari salad. Behind the counter are shelves of yellowing school supplies. When I point to Giovanni’s car across the street and display a photo of him that I lifted from Cecilia’s bedroom, she bursts into smiles and grabs my hands, wringing the life out of them, urging over and over, in a bizarre segue, that I must have torta di Pasqua, a desiccated Easter cake lying in a chewed-up box, that by my calculations must be three months old.

Finally I buy the thing for a euro. Delighted to be rid of what the rats won’t eat, she pulls a set of keys from the pocket of her apron and waves me through the back door. I have to laugh at myself: There’s always a deal. Now she is happy to lead the way beneath a grape arbor that provides a pleasant shelter from the rain, to a staircase that goes up to an apartment over the grocery store. “Fa presto!” she keeps saying, and unlocks the door to what I believe must be her home, where her husband is no doubt sitting mummified in an armchair holding a piece of Easter cake, but no, we are in an artist’s studio. An artist who, by the canvases stacked up against the walls, paints only clouds.

But they are wonderful, expressive clouds I recognize from the skies of Tuscany, captured in the midst of many ephemeral moods. This is a working painter whose mind is organized around neat rows of pigments in wire baskets, sketches pinned to walls, brushes in size order in clean tin cans, revolving sculptures of stones and twigs, shelves of art books and animal skulls. There is just a narrow cot for sleeping. This place is about disciplined work. A half-painted square of canvas, still showing ruled lines of perspective, is clipped to a large easel. The way it is positioned in the center of the room, underneath the skylight rattling with rain, makes you think of a big personality, always in the light.

Using hand gestures and my limited Italian, I manage to ask if the person who lives here is a friend of Giovanni.

“Sì, sì,” says the landlady. “Visita sempre.”

“He always comes here?”

“Sì!” Frowning, she mimes knocking on the door and walking in. Giovanni visits this place all the time, she seems to say. She knows because she sees him. He was here last night.

The old woman marches through the apartment, calling, “Mural?” and I expect to be presented with a wall-sized piece of art and bullied into buying it, but instead we enter the kitchen. Judging from the cot in the studio and the mess in here, Giovanni’s friend does not care very much about sleeping or eating. The counter is nothing but a plank of wood lying across a pile of cinder blocks. The paint-splattered sink is jammed with dishes and teacups, a rusted water heater suspended above. The landlady doesn’t react; she must snoop around up here all the time. Back in the room with the easel, I notice a pile of mail addressed to Muriel Barrett. Not “Mural,” but “Muriel.” The letters are postmarked London. The books around the house are in English.

“Where is Muriel?” I ask. “Dov’è?”

“La sbarra Australiana,” the landlady says.

I ask where Muriel is and she says Australia? I give her my notebook. Would she please write down the words? Australiana. Is she saying the painter is from Australia? With shaky fingers, the landlady draws a diagram with a crucifix in the middle, pointing emphatically—“Il Duomo” —and I understand she means the central cathedral in the old part of Siena, and there, where she makes a square and blackens it, is the location of the Australian bar that Giovanni told me about when we drove in from the bus station. “They speak English and have English beer!”

A special kind of excitement rises, as when pieces of an investigation start to fit. Hot damn. Six thousand miles away and I am back on home ground.

With a little push in the right direction from a bearded fellow at the English-language bookshop, I trot downhill on Via di Pantaneto until stopped by the words Happy Hour! chalked on a blackboard before a narrow doorway set into the stone-gray blocks of a nondescript building. A sign above says, WALKABOUT — AN AUSTRALIAN PUB. If you still had doubts such a thing could exist in the middle of Siena, Italy, the vestibule is stacked with placards for “Dundee Cocktail Hour.” The absolute darkness inside is like walking into a movie theater. A few groping steps, and then a gilded bar comes out of the gloom like a vision, a sparkling trove of golden beer taps and glistening glasses. There are strings of Foster’s beer flags, and toward the back, a tattered map of Australia. All the lights in the Walkabout are crimson, the way a bar should be; the stools are hard; the booths are hung with drawings of kangaroos.

The bartender is on a cell phone.

“It’s been sorted,” he says in a monotone. “I’ve given them the good news.” The bartender is English, stern, in his late forties, with buzz-cut hair, hefty, wearing a white T-shirt and burnt-orange jeans. He closes the phone and in the same clipped accent asks what he can get me.

I ask if Muriel Barrett is around.

“That’s her,” he says, indicating an empty stool and two full shot glasses.

“What is she drinking?”

“Rum e pera. Rum and pear juice.” “Oh my Lord.”

“Special of the house.”

“Go for it,” I say.

“You’re American.”

“I’m from L.A., and please don’t tell me your favorite TV show.” “I don’t watch TV,” the bartender growls, putting two glasses before me. “First shoot the rum, then the pear.” I do it, and a few moments later, from approximately the third chakra, the Tuscan sun bursts forth.

The bartender goes back to washing glasses. In the rear, some guys are throwing darts. The stool beside me remains empty. I stare at an endless motorcar race on the flat-screen. Who is this doll, Muriel, alone at a bar doing shots in the afternoon? I’m imagining she’s a solitary painter with a history of failed relationships, so she moves to Siena, a place so beautiful just walking out the door can give you an eye orgasm. She’s rail-thin, worn-looking, a couple of years older — way too fast for a sixteen-year-old, but what does Giovanni know? The race cars go around another dozen laps, along with the rum in my brain.

A high-pitched female voice shrills at us: “Saved my spot?” A short aging Englishwoman with kinky gray hair hauls herself up onto the stool. She is in her sixties, round like a barrel and eager as a toddler.

“Good man!” she cries, downing the rum and pear, one two.

The bartender says, “We thought you were a goner.” “I was in the loo,” declares Muriel Barrett theatrically. “Having a nice bowel movement.” The bartender cracks a smile and offers another round. I am thinking it might be a good time to switch to Foster’s.

“This lady has been waiting for you,” he explains to Muriel.

Muriel, apparently playing the Queen of Rum, inquires imperiously, “Who is she?”

I introduce myself as Giovanni Nicosa’s aunt and ask if she knows him.

“Yes, of course I know Giovanni. You’re his aunt?” And that kicks off the whole saga of how I came to be in Siena. I leave out the part about being an FBI agent.

Muriel Barrett has the face of a beagle, complete with errant whiskers, but she is not stupid. Her large brown eyes take in everything and hold it for future use. I ask how she knows Giovanni.

“Everybody knows everybody in Siena. Especially the English-speakers.” “Knows them, how?”

“Oh, the occasional game of darts.” “In a pub? He’s sixteen years old. What’s the drinking age in Italy?” “I don’t think there is one, is there, Chris?” the cloud-painter asks the bartender.

“The drinking age in Italy is when you’re old enough to see over the counter,” Chris replies.

“I’m his aunt.” Muriel watches with watery eyes. “You’ve explained the family history with stunning clarity. I do understand that you are his aunt.” “I’m concerned about Giovanni.” “Why? What’s going on?”

Muriel’s voice has dropped a key. Gone is the imperious bullshit. The eyes have adjusted to the line of questioning: cautious and indignant.

“He came to see you last night.” “Really? When was this?” “Around ten-thirty. Were you home?” “No, as a matter of fact, I was here. Wasn’t I, Chris?” Chris raises an eyebrow.

“His car is still outside your apartment.” Genuine surprise: “It is? I didn’t notice.” Then, “How do you know where I live?” “Giovanni was attacked last night.” “Attacked!”

“He’s in the hospital.”

Muriel stares.

“What happened to him?”

“Tower on Goose,” Chris pronounces flatly.

“Not necessarily.”

“Really?” he mimics, sarcastic now. “Like the Sienese aren’t all fucking nuts?” “But — why did you come to my studio?” “I wasn’t looking for you, Muriel. I was looking for Giovanni’s car. I asked around and met your landlady. She said he was there last night. He knocked on your door.” “I had no idea.”

“His parents are at the hospital. I’m trying to help them understand what happened.” “Will he be all right?”

“We don’t know. He was hurt pretty badly.” Chris is paying attention now. “This doesn’t happen in Siena.” I look at my watch. “I should call the hospital.” “No worries; I’ll take care of it,” he says. “You don’t want to deal with Italian phones.” Muriel uses a cocktail napkin to blot her tears. We wait in silence as Chris engages with someone at the hospital. He thrusts the phone at me. “Tell them you’re a relative.” My mind stalls. I can’t think of one word in Italian.

“How do you say it?”

“Sono la zia di Giovanni.”

I repeat the phrase like a dummy. Chris takes the phone and listens deeply. Now he’s thanking them. His tone has become polite. Muriel and I wait uneasily. He clicks off and speaks in that calm, eerie monotone.

“The boy is being taken to the operating room.” “For the leg?”

“Nothing regarding a leg. His heart is failing.” “Did he have a cardiac arrest?” “Might have. She said it’s critical.” “I’ll drive. I’m perfectly able,” Muriel announces crisply, and slips her purse beneath her arm.

ELEVEN

Even before I get to Giovanni’s room, there is a jam-up of nurses and technicians in the hall. As I peer at the huddle of green scrubs, listening to instructions ordered back and forth in Italian, the truth of being a foreigner has never been clearer. The huddle starts to move as one, and then the gurney shoots out the door, trailing IV stands and monitors. They veer left, and Giovanni passes right beneath my eyes. It is almost indecent to look at him, helpless and exposed, unconscious, pure white skin, his beautiful head in a blue paper cap lolling as they turn a corner. My jaw aches. I have been clenching my teeth.

Muriel, who has been arguing with someone at the nursing station, wobbles toward me looking flushed and unsteady.

“He has to have an operation on his heart. It’s all I could get out of her, the cheeky little snit. And why does she insist on wearing that God-awful smock?” Muriel sways on her feet. I grab her fleshy biceps and ease her into a chair, wondering if the rum e peras have finally hit.

“Are you okay?”

“I’ve been through several bouts of cancer with my partner, Sheila. As a result, I tend to have a hard time in hospitals.” In the car I learned that Sheila works for a bank in Piccadilly, and only comes to Italy for three weeks in spring. Nevertheless, their ten-year relationship has endured across the channel. Winters in Siena, Muriel is happy to roost like a hen among her cloud paintings. “It works out,” Muriel assured me, while speeding to the hospital along a commercial shortcut through the sunflower fields, past storage silos and water treatment plants.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Like what the bloody cat dragged in. Look, I’m sorry, but it’s just too many bad memories. I’ve got to get out of here.” She gets to her feet and totters toward the nearest exit, adding incongruously, “Give my best to Giovanni.” Crowded with immigrants from defunct communist nations, the hallway resembles a Balkan bazaar. Tough, shaven-headed Albanian janitors are pushing mops. A Yugoslav family argues over the slumped head of a matriarch in a wheelchair. Somehow I convince the cheeky little snit in the God-awful smock (dinosaurs) to page Dr. Cecilia Nicosa, and moments later she appears in a crisp white lab coat with a stethoscope in the pocket. Her eyes are shrunken and exhausted. We kiss each other’s cheeks and sit side by side on a couch that matches the royal blue of the walls.

“Giovanni developed an irregular heartbeat,” she reports. “He was going into hypotensive shock. Nobody could understand it. I told you Dr. Ciardi fixed the artery in the leg, but the blood pressure kept going down and the danger is that if the new blood supply continues to drop, he could lose the leg. We did two tests — an angiogram and echocardiogram — and they both showed that blood was extravasating from the heart.” “What does that mean?” “There is a hole in the heart, and it is leaking blood.” “Was the hole there all along?” “No,” she snaps. “He was stabbed.” “I know that, but—”

“When we first examined the stab wounds, we did not realize that the tip of the knife had lacerated the pericardium. The sack around the heart. So now he will need a second surgery to sew up the tear.” “You were right. This is not about some boys fighting over a flag.” “All I care about now is that we have the best thoracic surgeon working on my son.” Despite fatigue, her eyes are defiant. Her composure is a skill that results from learning how to judge the degree of danger — not unlike our shoot/don’t shoot scenario in the Bureau, where you have a split second to decide whether to fire at a figure on a video screen. In these moments you can only trust your training. Cecilia has no choice but to rely on the technology now in play beneath the surgical lights.

I ask if she knows the English painter, Muriel Barrett. She replies that you can hardly miss her.

“Muriel gave me a ride to the hospital, but then she felt squeamish and had to leave.” “Muriel? Squeamish?” Cecilia says skeptically. “She’s a war hammer.” “Battle-ax?”

“Sì.”

“Why is she so upset about Giovanni? What is their relationship?” “Relationship? She could be his grandmother, and besides, she’s gay!” “Then why does he hang out with her?” “He doesn’t. Why would he?” “Last night Giovanni went to see Muriel Barrett. He was attacked in front of her apartment.” “How do you know?”

“The landlady saw him go up to Muriel’s apartment. And the police found his car, along with bloodstains on the sidewalk.” “But he was found in the tunnel on Via Salicotto.” “The idea was to make it look like a war between the contrade. You were right — Giovanni was attacked as a warning. The police think it was a mob hit, Cecilia. They wanted to send a special message. The question is, to whom?” Cecilia crosses her arms and her stare grows dark with suspicion.

“Ana, have you been talking to the provincial police?” “Some.”

“Stay out of it. You can’t understand Italy.” “I understand that you’re afraid—” “I’m afraid of you. That you will step all over things with your FBI boots.” “I’ll try not to do that.” Cecilia stands, eyes wet with rage. “My son is on the operating table, but I still have patients.” All I can do is watch her go.

After the second surgery, to sew up his heart, Giovanni slipped into a coma. They put him on a ventilator with a tube down his throat, taped to a bandage around his head. His face was pale from loss of blood. When I touched his hand, his skin felt clammy and cold.

Despite assurances from the doctors, after forty-eight hours Giovanni still had not woken up. Waiting became a vigil. The priest came every day, along with Sofri, who arrived precisely at ten a.m. and left at noon, as well as the extended Nicosa family, a flock of solemn-faced members of the contrada, and employees of the coffee company, all ritually paying their respects.

Day one of Palio was two days away, on Friday, June 29, and visitors to the hospital talked compulsively about the uptick in retail sales, the full hotels, which horses looked fast, who had been chosen to bodyguard the jockeys, the health of the judges, and the direction of the wind. They spoke robustly, as if news of the outside world would distract the anguished parents. Not only would Giovanni not be alfiere, but also he might never walk again. They had not ruled out brain damage, and the doctors were saying he could still lose several toes from lack of blood to the leg. The prince was deathly ill and fighting for his life.

Around seven on the Thursday night before Palio, Nicosa, Cecilia, and I simultaneously get the urge for soda and chips, available from machines in the basement lounge. We are in the elevator when she says casually, without shifting her eyes from the lighted floor numbers, “When Giovanni is well enough, I will take him to El Salvador.” “I suppose it is a good enough place to recover,” Nicosa says.

“No, he will stay.”

“Stay?” asks her husband. “For how long?” “Until he is married,” she answers grimly.

The elevator doors open. You could smell linty hot exhaust from the giant clothes dryers turning towels. We follow Cecilia’s squared shoulders down a dim corridor. She is still wearing the white lab coat and heels. She opens the lock on a door with a security card.

“He will stay with my family, and he will be safe.” She turns on the lights. There are a few round tables and a microwave above an empty counter. Nicosa checks his cell, but there is no service in the basement.

“That will never happen,” he says, addressing the cigarette machine.

“Are you going to stop me?” “I don’t have to. He will never choose to leave Siena.” “He will have no choice. I’m taking him. That’s all.” “If you are trying to punish me by taking Giovanni away,” Nicosa says slowly, “there is no need. I blame myself for what happened. I should have kept a closer eye. Not let him stay out all hours with people we don’t know, like that boy he met on the Campo, the African punk who gave him his first joint — it was all downhill from there.” I recall Inspector Martini speculating that Giovanni most likely had tried drugs, and wondered how far down was “downhill.” “Does he still get high?” I ask.

“No,” Cecilia answers. “Not anymore.” “It’s in the past,” Nicosa says irritably. “Right now he is very sick. He needs our prayers.” “I’m wondering if Giovanni’s involvement with drugs has anything to do with the attack,” I said.

“Giovanni is not involved with drugs!” Nicosa says. “Did you not hear me? I said I take the blame. Sometimes I am not as good a father as I should be or want to be, but right now I am going upstairs to be with my son. Don’t even think about taking him to El Salvador,” he tells his wife. “Now or ever.” “Infuriating man,” Cecilia says when he’s left.

The basement lounge is like a bunker, soundproofed from activity in the hospital above. With no cell service, we have no way of knowing that at that moment, Giovanni’s condition has drastically changed. Instead, we slump in plastic chairs, mindlessly eating potato chips with packets of garlic mayonnaise Cecilia found in a drawer.

“I hid my pregnancy for seven months,” she is saying. “At the beginning, Nicoli didn’t know. We met in the aftermath of an earthquake on top of a civil war — everything was in confusion. You are young, you want to affirm life, you go to bed with a handsome stranger. We were madly in love, but we did not expect to be together again; it was too far-fetched. He went back to Italy. I studied for my medical degree. I felt the pregnancy was my responsibility. I was afraid to ask this man I hardly knew for help, so I went against everything and decided to have Giovanni on my own.” “Did your family support you?” Cecilia snorts. “My mother said she wanted to die. I ruined all her hopes that I would be a doctor, and she had sacrificed so much for my education. After the birth I was very unhappy and in a deep depression, but all I could do was struggle and manage to work and do good in school. My aunts had to talk to my mother and say, ‘You need to be stronger, and hold her, and don’t let her sink, because if you let her go, what’s going to happen to all these years of working so hard? Why give up now? For what people will say?’ How can I put this to you? In the Latin culture it is not even your choice to have an abortion, because the idea is that to have this baby will be your punishment. You did it, and that will be the consequences. Of course, the moment he was born, Giovanni became my mother’s joy.

“She urged me to contact Nicoli. I was terrified he would refuse to answer, but it was just the opposite. He cared more than I knew, and he was so proud to have a son. He was just starting out in the coffee business, but he did manage to send money. He insisted that we wait to get married in Italy, in the contrada, in the proper way. It took three years for him to make his way back to El Salvador. In the meantime I was a single mother.

“Giovanni was born before Christmas. In the New Year, when the next term started, I had to take this little tiny bundle to school. I fed him at midnight. I would come home so tired. I worked sometimes three days straight in the hospital. When he was older, I would come home half dead, and Giovanni would say, ‘Let’s go paint!’ and I would fall asleep on the table and Giovanni would say, ‘Mama, wake up, you’re not playing with me!’ and sometimes I would cry because I felt I was not giving my baby enough. It was a rough and hard time in my life. It was like everything was crumbling. The only thing I held on to was the belief that Nicoli was coming back.

“He didn’t see Giovanni until Giovanni was three. We left for Italy, and Nicoli and I were married immediately. Of course, I had to be baptized into Oca first, so Giovanni would be of Oca. I embraced everything my husband put before me. I learned to cook Italian food. I took care of Nicoli’s mother, even though my heart was breaking because I had left my own mother behind. It was known that Nicoli had other women, and I was supposed to accept that as a way of life. He once had a mistress who disappeared in a supermarket parking lot; probably she’s dead. It was a scandal. They said she was part of the mafias.” “Was she?” I ask.

“I did not hire a detective to find out,” Cecilia says sarcastically. “Nicoli apologized a thousand times, offered to do anything to make it right. There were so many nights we both just cried. Once you go through something like that, no matter how much you try, the marriage is never the same. At one point I was going to leave him, take my son back to El Salvador, but that would have been too hard on Giovanni. We break apart, we heal, we continue. Nicoli pays for my clinics and pulls the political strings necessary to get the permits and paperwork and all the rest of it. Without his influence, we could not be of service to our poorest patients.” “Is that what Nicoli meant about not being a good father? Was he talking about his influence with the mafias?” Cecilia shuts it down.

“Things are as they are.” When we get up to the surgical floor, an old man is standing in the hallway outside Giovanni’s room. He wears discreetly checked trousers and a raincoat thrown over his shoulders. A young muscular fellow wearing a T-shirt and a jade disk on a leather thong around his neck helps the old man into his raincoat. He needs help because he has no hands. In place of his hands there are two black prostheses — medieval contraptions of polished stakes and wooden levers. Dressed, the old man nods politely at us and says “Arrivederci,” as they pass.

Cecilia’s eyes widen. She bursts into Giovanni’s room. Giovanni looks no different; a sixteen-year-old full of life who isn’t moving. Eyes closed, the machine breathing for him. She swiftly checks the monitors that show his vital signs.

“Cecilia — what’s wrong?” “Do you think that man was inside this room?” “Who? The old guy in the hall?” I scan the place. The only sign of another’s presence is the big chair where visitors sit. The shawls and pillows Cecilia brought for napping are in disarray on the floor, as if someone has thrown them off quickly.

“It looks like someone was here. Maybe Nicoli. Let’s call his cell—” “It doesn’t matter,” my sister interrupts quickly. “Giovanni’s okay. He’s okay,” she says again, to reassure herself.

“You seem afraid.”

“I’m fine.”

“He scared you. Why? Who is he?” She wets her lips. “Just a confused old man.” The door opens, startling Cecilia, but it is only the nurse, a squat, large-breasted woman speaking nonstop Italian. Cecilia listens, and stares her son, who is apparently in a deep, drugged sleep.

“She says Giovanni is responsive. He squeezed her finger, just a few minutes ago!” Cecilia says. “She called my cell, but we were in the basement with no service. This is wonderful news! We can take him off the ventilator!” The nurse smiles widely, showing gold teeth. Then she rams Cecilia with her bosom and crushes her in a euphoric hug.

TWELVE

“His name is Cosimo Umberto, but they call him Il Fantòccio, the Puppet,” Dennis Rizzio says on the phone from Rome later that night. “Worked his way up to capomandamento, head of a district of mafia families.”

“How did he lose his hands?”

“When he was a young picciotto, out to prove himself, he had the bright idea of blowing up Parliament. Unfortunately, all he’s got is some half-assed ordnance from World War Two, so needless to say, the thing goes off while the schmuck is holding it. But they like his courage, so they make him a bag man for ’Ndrangheta.”

“A bag man with no hands?”

“He scares the devil out of people. You own a falafel joint, and the Puppet shows up, wanting a protection bribe. You gonna argue? The guy is a success story; we should all be so blessed. What was he doing at the hospital? My guess? Putting the squeeze on Nicosa. They’re telling him, ‘We know where your son is at’—the implication being that anytime they want, they can pull the plug on his kid. Here’s the thing. Cosimo Umberto is out of his territory. He should be working extortion for ’Ndrangheta, on his usual beat down south in Calabria. But suddenly we find one of their top coglioni pressuring Nicoli Nicosa, a major industrialist in Siena. Whatever was said in that room could change the picture of mob penetration of the north. You’re in a unique position to know.”

“Meaning what?”

“Talk to your sister. She knows exactly what’s going down, or she wouldn’t have freaked when she saw that guy.”

“Now isn’t the time. Her kid is still critical. Palio starts tomorrow and she’s hyped about that—”

“Stop making excuses. You’re in, and we want you to stay in.”

I am talking to Rizzio from the far side of the pool, out of sight of the family. The underwater lights are on, heat still rises off the pine duff like a woodland sauna, while I pace the deck and consider betrayal. It’s one hell of a postcard.

“You know what, Dennis? I shouldn’t do this.”

“You’re the only one who can. You’re in with the family; that’s a tremendous plus.”

“Let’s do it right and bring the heat. Infiltrate with an undercover from the Bureau, someone fresh. I’ll help them establish a cover, and then I’m gone. It doesn’t feel right, and you know when that happens, it’s time to go home.”

There is a space of silence.

“ ‘Home’ is a relative concept,” Dennis finally replies. “From what I understand, the door is not exactly open.”

“Where? Los Angeles?”

“Like I told you, Bob Galloway and I are buddies from the old days. He filled me in on your situation, fingering Peter Abbott, deputy director of the FBI, for obstruction of justice.”

“You have a problem with that?”

“Me? Not at all. Peter Abbott is a private-school prick like we used to beat up on the subway. But there’s no way he’s going to plead guilty and go away.”

“You never know.”

“You think Peter Abbott’s just gonna roll over?” Rizzio asks skeptically. “That’s what family money and connections are for—obstruction of justice!”

He laughs.

“The Bureau is in for a tough battle in the courts. God forbid the trial goes south, and after a huge investment of time and money, it turns out the evidence you provided isn’t all that solid. All I’m saying, Ana, is that it’s easy enough to stay in their good graces.”

I shake my head.

“I know how this investigation of Nicosa will proceed,” I insist. “You’ll want intel. Hard evidence. Pretty soon there are surveillance cameras planted inside the abbey, and I’m wearing a wire. Now we’re involving family members. It’s just too complicated for me.”

“Are they really your family?”

“Kind of.”

He hears my real hesitation. “Because I would never ask you to do something like that.”

“I know.”

“It seemed like since you never met these people, maybe it would fly,” he goes on. “But say the word, and I’ll send a new u.c. in tomorrow. If you have an emotional conflict, that’s a nonstarter.”

Dennis knows that admitting to an “emotional conflict” is a ticket to the community outreach squad, and that I’ve already gotten my teeth into this case. But part of his question is sincere. I can’t call Cecilia my sister in the real sense. It hasn’t been instant chemistry. Our lives are completely different. We’ve known each other for just a few tumultuous days. I entered her home with a role to play. She reached out precisely because I am an agent. I want to help, but we are more bound by circumstance than blood.

“There’s no conflict,” I say at last. “But I need you to take extra precautions.”

“Fine. How long is your nephew in the hospital?”

“He’s out of the coma, so hopefully not too much longer.”

“I hear what you’re saying. The safety of the family won’t be compromised. I will personally make sure Giovanni has protection 24/7. I’ll have Inspector Martini post a cop outside his room. No more creeps in the hall.”

There’s still something that feels out of joint. I slip off my shoes and swipe the water in the pool with a bare foot, kicking up a splash of frustration.

“Any news on the attack in London?”

“We had some progress,” Dennis says. “The number for the guy who bought the Ford used in the assault turned out to be a disposable phone, so the Brits kicked the investigation up to the Counter Terrorism Command. They have the resources to trace calls received by that number. Four calls were placed from Calabria — the last one a few minutes before they assaulted the restaurant. It was a mafia-ordered hit, which explains why the car was dumped in Aberdeen.”

“Funny, I thought Aberdeen was in Scotland.”

“Don’t be fresh,” Dennis advises. “Aberdeen has become a landing point for the penetration of the mafias into the U.K. Go down to Sicily any day, and you’ll see kids waiting at the docks, hoping to get on a boat with direct service to Scotland. For the up-and-comers, it’s a promotion. The shooters dumped the car in Aberdeen because that’s where they have protection. What I’m telling you is, these folks you came up against in London are well organized and connected to the Italian mafia syndicates. So be alert.”

“I get it, but none of this has anything to do with me. The fact that I was there at that restaurant is totally random.”

“Maybe,” Dennis says. “Enjoy the Palio.”

The surface of the pool has stilled. I’m looking at my reflection, not recognizable, just a play of darkness and light.