“I trust you.”

“I’m an exception,” he said. “I’m a Roman but I have Sicilian blood.”

“I thought your family was from the north of Italy. That’s what you said in Paris.”

“They are from the north. Everyone from the north is from the south. FIAT plant at Torino. An entire generation migrated north to build cars that don’t work very well. Look, it’ll probably be okay tonight. I’ll cover you closely.”

“Thanks.”

“Whatever you do, when you get close to their police car, be careful. If there’s a door or trunk to open, insist that someone else do it. The only thing you want to touch is the clammy old artwork, and you want to touch that as little as possible. You have gloves?”

“No.”

“I do. Here. I brought them for you.” He fished into his pocket and came out with a pair of latex gloves, the kind used for kitchen work

“Do you think of everything?” she asked.

“Of course not. But I stopped by the restaurant of my hotel and stole these. Actually, they gave them to me but what does it matter? Can never be too careful,” he said, his brown eyes sliding sideways, working the room. “I bought you another present too,” he said. “Don’t say no, and relax, it’s not a peignoir.”

He made a surreptitious movement with his free hand, as if to pass something to her out of everyone’s sight. She took the cue and reached. It was the package in the paper napkin.

Their eyes met. She looked down. He had acquired an ice pick from the bar. She took it and the hint that went with it.

“If you have trouble on the street,” he said gently, “go for the eyes or the jugular. If you’re down low, an upstroke toward the groin would do the trick. I would have brought you a gun if I’d had time,” he said. “But short notice, you know?”

“I know. But thank you,” she said again. She lifted her glass and offered it toward his. “Cheers,” she said as she tucked the pick into her pocket. It was stubby and sharp. It had a wooden handle and four inch spike.

A slight smile. “Cheers,” he answered. “An ice pick’s a handy thing to carry. There’s not a bus or a truck you can’t bring to a halt with the proper use of one of those, not to mention the driver. And so much classier than a gun, right?”

“Right,” she said. She drank.

“Salud,” he said.

“Salud.”

Alex sipped. Rizzo quaffed. He was right. The wine was outstanding. Then something clicked in from earlier in the evening, on the phone, when Rizzo had said that he knew the place. Obviously, he knew it well and the barman probably knew him.

“So how are you enjoying retirement?” she asked finally.

“Never been busier,” he said.

“Your American ‘interests’?” she asked.

“You could say that,” he said. “Bless your government. They’ll keep me working till I’m a hundred years old because they can’t go a week without having some small political, diplomatic, or security crisis here in Europe. So may the incompetence and mismanagement of your government continue forever. If I live long enough I’ll be a rich old man.”

“Hey,” she said. “Look.”

She indicated the doorway where an armed man in a green uniform had strolled in. Not that unusual, except he was armed, which the Civil Guard people hadn’t done till recently and still didn’t do all the time.

“Your mark?” he asked.

She glanced at her watch. Midnight. The timing worked. “Maybe,” she said.

Alex and Rizzo watched as a noisy pair of men came to the bar near them. Two men with one woman. They seemed to be having some sort of good-natured argument, but Alex couldn’t understand. It was Greek to her as well as to everyone else.

“Let me get a better look,” she said to Rizzo. She stepped away.

The uniformed policeman stood and looked around, as if he were searching for someone. Then the other cop entered. Two Civil Guards in uniform, both armed. Burly, thick-waisted men with pistols on their hips.

Alex looked back to Rizzo, where he stood among the Greeks. She gave him a nod. This was them, she was convinced. He gave a nod in return and made a quick motion of touching his heart, which she took to mean, be careful.

The woman who was with the Greeks was tall, slim, and leggy, in a short blue dress. She looked like a dream or trouble or both. Rizzo tried to not let her distract him aside from the first appreciative glance.

The two policemen left.

“Corrupt cops?” Alex asked.

“Something smells wrong. Be very careful. I’m going to be ten seconds behind you.”

“Only ten?”

“Maybe five,” he said. “I’m coming through the doorway as soon as you’re outside,” he said. “Just get the artwork and get away from them,” he said. “Do everything quickly, don’t stand in any one place too long. Keep an eye on windows for snipers. I wish I’d brought my own backup.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. Not lust this time. Real concern.

“Go,” he said.

Alex gave him a hug and set her half-full glass down on the bar. She turned and moved toward the door.

Rizzo reached to her glass as he watched her. He raised her glass to his own lips and finished her drink.

One of the Greeks grinned, turned to him.

“Thirsty?” the Greek asked in Spanish with a sneering smile.

“None of your lousy business,” Rizzo snarled in English, “so get out of my face.”

The man turned, still smiling, but confrontational.

“You’re not very friendly, are you, old man?” the man answered in English. “What happened? Your woman just walked out on you?”

The woman who was with them peeled away. Rizzo worked on the man’s accent. It wasn’t quite Greek. Once again, something was wrong. His hand moved for his weapon.

“You going to get away from me or do I have to break you in half?” Rizzo asked.

“An old guy like you?” the man asked. He laughed and so did his pal.

“Go to hell,” Rizzo responded. He followed that with a sharp colorful obscenity and a little push. He took a step away from the bar. Alex was out of his sight by now, and he needed to move.

The man took exception to Rizzo’s language and stepped in front of him. Rizzo pushed him again, pushed him hard, and the man budged and shoved back. An instant later, Rizzo also realized that he had been skunked.

An arm grabbed him from behind and locked hard around his neck. A yoke job and a perfectly professional one. Rizzo knew the drill. With his heel, he smashed down onto the instep of the man behind him and uppercut with his elbow. But then he felt a jab in one of his buttocks. It was a sharp jab that was hot with pain, then suddenly very cold.

Meanwhile the man in front of him brought up a knee to Rizzo’s groin, a knee that felt like an express train when it made contact. And Rizzo continued to feel an iciness radiating far down in his backside, from the middle of the left buttock on outward, where he had been stabbed with a needle.

With a speed faster than light, Rizzo realized that the Greek wasn’t a Greek. The lousy Eurotrash accent was something more ominous than Greek, maybe.

Tunisian or Algerian or Moroccan.

An accent from a hot, oppressive country with a lot of hot sand, stinking camels, and obnoxious people stuck in the seventeenth century, in his humble opinion. Rizzo realized that a trap had just sprung shut and the pain in his buttock was turning to a cold numbness because someone had jabbed a hypodermic needle into him and he was a goner, for this evening at least, if not for good, depending on what they had loaded into the syringe…

His vision blurred and he eyed the door. Then his eyes widened. His assailants released him and he stood with a wobble.

What a small perverse world this was!

He then spotted another strange face. An Asian guy who was looking at him from the midpoint of the bar and seemed to understand what had happened. Rizzo swooned, wishing the Asian would help him or do something.