Marked Masters (16 page)

"Your point is valid.
We'll go with Audis or BMWs next time," Nico responded. "You see
anything on the snuffbox?"

I passed the small
treasure between the seats so he could have a look for himself.
"Check out the marks and then stash it in your backpack so you can
check it out better when we get to London. Now though, take a
moment to look closely at the marks. There's something wrong with
them, but I'm not sure what."

He took my flashlight and
within seconds said, "It's a fake. Created by a counterfeiter in
Florence. Either Simon switched this one with the original, or
Max's initial source on this piece is bogus."

Florence. Italy again. My
original rendezvous to pick up the snuffbox was in Italy, and now
this Florence connection after I'd found the missing article with
Tony B. What did it mean? Well, I knew one thing for sure—we
weren't going home to London until we made an exploratory detour to
check out this new connection.

"Are you thinking what I'm
thinking?" Jack asked.

"We are, if you're
thinking that we'll find some answers with a side trip to
Italy."

"That's exactly what I'm
thinking."

As Nico zipped the
snuffbox into his pack, I asked, "Can you get the three of us on
the first flight to Florence?"

"Already on it," he said,
activating his phone.
"Destination the
Aeroporto di Firenze-Peretola."

Airport restrooms were never my favorite
places to change clothes, but at least they provided privacy and
access to mirrors and water. The Fendi went onto the hook of the
lavatory door as I regretfully removed the linen suit. The lovely
outfit lasted less than a day in my care. Not that it was my fault,
but the designer threads really weren't made to double as
protective clothing in a great escape. The Fendi already looked a
little road weary as well. Maybe I needed to find a designer who
worked in Kevlar for all my clothes and accessories. The one
amazing survivor was Cassie's Hermes scarf. My grandfather may have
worn Rolex, but he always owned Timex stock and quoted the catch
line of its ads, "Takes a licking and keeps on ticking." Forget
that old watch commercial—good silk is the stuff that can really
take a licking.

At least I had my gray dress from the day
before, tightly rolled up in the bottom of my bag. Thank goodness
for sturdy knits, even if the dress and I could both use a good
shower. Nothing but those dratted air dryers hung on the wall, so
once I could come out of the stall, I used the insides of the linen
jacket to scrub my hands, legs, and feet. My poor feet had taken
the brunt of the landing since I was barefoot when I skidded to the
ground. The pockets on the linen jacket had been useless for
holding anything but served as perfect padding to go between my
scraped heels and the Manolo Blahniks. Finally, I shoved the
remaining material into a trash receptacle, gave the Hermes scarf a
good hand washing, and tied it on the strap of the Fendi to dry. A
quick cosmetic redo left me once again feeling more human. Nothing
like a confident shade of red lipstick to straighten a girl's
backbone.

The guys saved me a seat at the gate, but
Jack was pacing when I got there.

"What took you so bloody long?"

Ah, he cared. Or it bugged the alpha male
when he wasn't in complete control. Naturally, I assumed the second
option.

"Well, I hope the time I spent was worth
it." I smiled. "I'm trying to look less like a bag lady."

He reached for my hand, and I shied back
when he touched my scraped palm. After examining the skin, he said,
"Let me see if the boarding clerk has a first aid kit."

"No need." Nico dragged his black backpack
from the seat beside him and rummaged around until he found
adhesive bandages and a small tube of antibacterial ointment.

"Thanks." I took the items and sat in the
chair that originally held the backpack. "I probably need to
slather this ointment all over my feet, more than on my hands."

Nico shrugged. "Feel free. It is yours."

I started with my hands and got Jack to set
the bandages across the worst of the scrapes. Then I found a couple
of cotton balls in the Fendi and applied the rest of the ointment
to my feet. I think Jack was afraid I was going to ask him for a
foot massage, because he suddenly found a reason to leave.

"How about if I go and find us some coffee?"
He didn't even wait for a response and took off trekking down the
concourse.

I tried to get comfortable in the plastic
seats in the regular waiting area of the Miami International, but I
was not a happy camper. We'd made a group decision on the way to
the airport to stay away from the airline club lounges. That was
likely the first place Tony B would send spies to look for me. I
reminded myself survival was preferable to deep upholstery, and the
tingling of my feet and hands at the moment helped reinforce my
resolve.

Nico bumped my shoulder with his to get my
attention.

"What?" I asked.

He never took his eyes from his phone as he
spoke. "I will be trailing off when we hit London Gatwick for the
transfer to Florence. I have a few things to check out. Call if you
need me, but I am not much for fieldwork, you know."

I did know. As good as Nico was in helping
with my recent rescue, and instrumental since the cell phone and
chute he gave me truly saved my skin, actual involvement in the
nuts and bolts of a recovery was not something in which he usually
participated. "Still, I'm glad you didn't just give me the event
pass in Miami and leave."

"I try never to leave things half
finished."

"Just know I appreciate you."

"I do." He raised his curly black head, and
his dark-brown eyes shifted from the screen. "But given what did
happen during the event, I am not crazy about putting you on a
commercial jet to Florence right now, with Tony B probably checking
all flights out of Miami."

"We've already boycotted the lounges. What
else do you suggest?" I'd watched Nico long enough to know when he
was working a new angle.

He pressed his screen a couple of times,
then typed a text message before he answered. "Here is what I have
planned." He pressed another button, then his head jerked in the
direction Jack had disappeared minutes before. I looked at the
screen and realized he had a tracker on Jack. Sneaky.

Nico fired off a string of quiet curse
words, then spoke rapidly. "He is on his way. Listen carefully.
Your ticket and mine are booked together under a Beacham account.
Jack's ticket is on a separate revenue stream to keep Tony B from
putting all of us together. When we hit Gatwick, I leave, and you
will be met by a scruffy rock-and-roll roadie who is going to take
you to a private jet. If Tony B checks, it will look like you
stayed in London. The heavy metal group Whyte Noyse is performing
in Rome, but they have a private party plane chartered that will
drop you at the Florence Peretola Airport en route."

"Sounds loud." I loved rocking out to the
ear-bleeding cuts on
Nyght Noyses
, but I'd heard many things
about the group, and none sounded any quieter than their music.
There went my chance to grab any sleep as we skipped through time
zones. "But it does sound much safer. How did you manage it?"

"Their English publicist, Patricia, loves my
body." His grin was almost evil.

"She's not the only one."

"Who's not the only one?" Jack settled back
into the chair beside me, offering us a choice from a trio of
cappuccinos.

"One of Nico's conquests. He's leaving us in
London to stay on her good side." I winked at Nico. He frowned and
turned back to his cell phone screen, so I twisted in my chair
toward Jack. "Any plans once we get there?"

"I'm working some sources," Jack said.
"While we're cramped on a plane for fifteen hours, it will give
Cecil and Max ample opportunity to work their lines of
communication. They should at least have something for us to see
once we reach our long layover at Gatwick."

Cecil is Jack's boss, the counterpart to my
pain-in-the-ass Max. I'd never met Cecil, but from the negative
murmurs that repeatedly escaped Jack's lips, the two superiors
seemed of the same penny-pinching type. However, no one could hope
to reach and sustain their level of responsibility without making
connections along the way. I counted on those connections to make a
difference in our present situation.

Jack leaned around me to address Nico.
"Wasn't there anything more direct?"

Nico shrugged, never taking his gaze or his
thumbs off his phone screen when he answered. "Best I could do in a
rush. Can only get to Florence Peretola from Gatwick. Flight out of
Heathrow would have been faster, but you would need to go to the
Galileo Airport and have the longer commute in from Pisa. Thought
this was better. Plus, gives you both time to get some clothes at
home."

"Bloody hell, there is that." It appeared
Jack was getting both tired and cranky.

I glanced down at my own outfit, wrinkled
from being worn all of yesterday, stuffed in the Fendi when I left
the yacht, and pulled out for another go after ruining the lovely
linen suit when I played Rat in the AC Maze and then Rocky the
Flying Squirrel. The burner phone was in my hand to call and ask
Cassie to put me an assortment of clothes together, until I changed
my mind and let the cell drop back into the Fendi's dark depths. I
didn't want Jack hearing our discussion, and I had no idea where
she should meet me at Gatwick.

"Nico, can you text Cassie for me and ask
her to bring a rolling bag with a good selection of clothing? I
don't know what I'll need in the next few days, but since I'm back
to recycling yesterday-wear, I can use a little of everything. Be
sure and give her a good idea on where she can either leave the bag
for me, or meet me. Right?"

He lifted his chin when he realized what my
words implied. "Got it. I will add a phone number in case she needs
it."

"She has your number," Jack said.

"Not the burner number, remember?" I knew,
however, that Nico meant the number of either the publicist or the
roadie. Something Jack didn't need to know. But his question
reminded me. "Ask her to bring me a new corporate cell phone too,
to replace my smartphone. Have her key in the list of 'gotta have
numbers' I always keep in my directory. She has the list already
from when I borrowed her phone last time."

Nico nodded as his fingers flew over the
touch pad.

Minutes later, they called our flight. I
didn't think it was an accident Nico had us scattered throughout
the plane. He may have picked our plane for exactly this reason. I
enjoyed a first-class seat, but he and Jack had to stick it out in
coach. Jack tried to sweet talk the attendant into an upgrade, but
the flight was overbooked as it was, and we were just squeaking in.
I turned off all gadgets, stowed my gear, and settled in for a nice
quiet ride across the Atlantic, hoping for a little shut-eye along
the way.

My seatmate was even more antisocial than I
felt. He threw his bag into the overhead compartment, then removed
his suit jacket to place it carefully on top, grunting something I
perceived as a hello. I offered a tight smile, regardless of the
meaning. He sat down, crossed his arms, closed his eyes, and seemed
to feel the world had disappeared from his dimension. I couldn't
have been more pleased. Outside, the storm was gathering quickly
and the winds growing stronger. I hoped our pilot got us to
cruising altitude quickly to avoid the sudden drops that happened
on flights like this. I needed a distraction.

"Do you happen to have a copy of today's
Guardian
?" I asked as the attendant passed to close the
drapes between our section and coach.

"I'll check in just a sec."

Everyone thinks they have to bring their own
reading material, or make do with what is in the seat pocket ahead
of them. Laurel Beacham Travel Tip Number One—never touch anything
left in the seat pockets.
Ick.
All those horror stories that
sound like someone's imagination, they're not only true, they're
worse. However, when people on flights leave magazines and
newspapers behind as they depart, many hand them to attendants on
their way out for other passengers to use. I really wanted to see
tomorrow's
Miami Herald
, but since that wasn't possible
without a time machine, I figured I may as well catch up on news
from back home. Well, my new home anyway. I still felt a bit
unbalanced thinking of London as home instead of New York, since
the promotion was so recent. Yet given the fact I was on the go
two-hundred days or more each year, it really shouldn't have felt
like a stretch.

The takeoff was rocky, and the initial climb
as I expected, but the attendant did find an almost complete
Guardian.
I forced myself to concentrate on the pages. News
from London was typical: another royal brouhaha with some news
outlet illegally hacking phones and Twitter feeds, and Parliament
was in the middle of some familiar shenanigans—same old same old. I
only scanned the details to be able to make polite cocktail talk at
parties. Also to make sure I didn't offer the wrong quip if I ever
ran into one of the guilty parties. That's the real purpose of
staying current with the news.

Ah, but here was something interesting. An
international real estate ad offering a luxury palazzo apartment.
Sixteenth-century Florentine architecture, and in the shadow of the
Pitti Palace. I knew Nico was working on accommodations for us, and
while this was likely out of my price range, I wondered if Max
could pull some strings to make me an elegant squatter while the
apartment was still in the "showing" state. If not, it might be
worth schmoozing my contact at Sotheby's to see if he could run
interference for me with its international real estate division.
Lots more goodies than just rare art were handled by prestigious
auction houses these days. I folded that page of the paper, then
shoved it into the Fendi. When the flight attendant came around
with our lovely filet mignon dinner on real china—I think coach had
chicken in heat-and-eat trays, poor Jack and Nico—I passed along
the remainder of the newspaper for the next traveler.