“Forgive me . . . may I see some identification, please?”

Sam and Remi handed over their passports, then took them back when Cipriani was done. He asked, “And how is Yvette? Well, I hope.”

“She is,” Sam replied. “She sends her regards.”

“And her cat, Moira, it is well?”

“It’s a dog, actually, and its name is Henri.”

Cirpriani spread his hands and smiled sheepishly. “I’m a cautious man, perhaps overly so. Yvette has entrusted me with this matter. I want to be sure I’m worthy of it.”

“We understand,” Remi said. “How long have you known her?”

“Oh, twenty years or more. She has a villa here, outside the cas tello. There were some legal issues in connection to the land. I was able to help her.”

“You’re an attorney?”

“Oh, no. I simply know people who know people.”

“I see. You’ll be able to help us?”

“Of course. You simply want to examine the crypt? You don’t plan to move it?”

“No.”

“Then it should be very simple. However, just to be safe, we should wait until it is dark. We Elbans are a nosy lot. Have you a place to stay?”

“Not yet.”

“Then you’ll stay with us, my wife and me.”

Sam said, “We don’t want to—”

“No imposition. You’ll be my guest. We’ll have some supper, then I’ll take you to the graveyard.”

“Thank you.”

“May we use your office for a few minutes?”

“Of course. Take as much time as you need.”

Cipriani left, shutting the door behind him. Sam pulled out their satellite phone and punched in Selma’s number, then waited through twenty seconds of clicks and buzzes. Selma’s voice came on the line: “Mr. Fargo. Everything okay?”

“So far. Any trouble there?”

“All’s quiet.”

“I need you to check a license plate for me. Could be tricky; we’re on Elba. If you have trouble, call Rube Haywood.” He gave her the number to Cipriani’s office.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. Be back to you shortly.”

She called back twenty minutes later. “Took some doing, but as it turns out the Italian DMV database isn’t exactly what I’d call hacker-proof.”

“Good to know,” Sam said.

“The plate belongs to a tan Peugeot, correct?”

“That’s it.”

“Then I have bad news. It’s registered to a Polizia Provinciale officer. The Provincial Police. I’m sending you the specifics right now.”

Sam waited three minutes until the e-mail finally arrived, scanned the contents, then thanked Selma and hung up. He filled Remi in. “Either I’ve been speeding and haven’t realized it, or someone’s interested in us,” he said.

“If it were official they would have stopped us at the ferry in Rio Marina,” she replied.

“Agreed.”

“Well, at least we got some warning.”

“And we know what our other pursuer’s face looks like.”

At Cipriani’s suggestion they spent an hour exploring Rio nell’Elba, but they did so warily, taking care to stay within the village limits and close to crowds. They saw no sign of either the Peugeot or its occupants.

Strolling arm in arm, Sam said, “Been thinking about what Yvette said—that she suspected Kholkov had already been here looking for Laurent’s crypt. Bondaruk knew we’d come here eventually. It was a logical step.”

“So he sits back and lets us do the heavy lifting,” Remi replied.

“It’s the smart move,” Sam said.

At five thirty they returned to the museum to find Cipriani locking the front door and agreed to follow him home.

His cottage was less than a mile away, sitting behind an olive orchard. Signora Cipriani, portly like her husband and with flashing brown eyes, greeted them with smiles and double cheek kisses as they walked up. She exchanged some rapid-fire Italian with Umberto, who ushered them onto the porch and toward a cluster of chairs. A curtain of white clematis hung from the eaves, creating a cozy alcove.

“You’ll excuse us for a moment,” Umberto said. “My wife needs me in the kitchen for a moment.”

Sam and Remi sat down and a few minutes later Umberto and his wife, whom he introduced as Teresa, reappeared with a tray and glasses. “You enjoy limoncello, I hope.”

“We do,” Sam said.

Limoncello was essentially lightly sugared lemonade cut by a healthy dose of vodka. “Cento anni di salute e felicità,” Umberto said, raising his glass. After they’d all sipped, he asked, “You know the toast—Cento anni di salute e felicità?”

Remi thought for a moment and said, “A hundred years of health and happiness?”

“Bravo! Drink up. We will eat shortly.”

After supper they returned to the porch and sat in the dusk watching fireflies winking in the trees and sipping espresso. Inside they could hear dishes clinking as Teresa cleaned up. She’d adamantly refused Sam and Remi’s offer to help, ushering them outside with flaps of her apron.

“Umberto, how long have you lived here?” Sam asked.

“All my life, and my family, going back . . . three hundred years? Yes, that’s right. When Mussolini came to power my father and my uncles joined the partisans and lived in these hills for years. When the British finally landed here in 1944—”

“Operation Brassard,” Sam said.

“Yes, that’s right. Very good. When the British came my father fought alongside the Royal Navy Commandos. He even received a decoration for it. I was still in my mother’s belly when the war ended.”

“He survived the war?” Remi asked.

“Yes, but none of my uncles did. They were captured and executed by a Nazi death squad Hitler sent to quash the partisans.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cipriani spread his hands and shrugged: What can you do.

Sam pulled his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at Remi, who nodded. They’d already discussed this. “Umberto, does this name look familiar to you?”

Umberto took the phone, studied the screen a moment, then handed it back. “Oh, yes, of course. Carmine Bianco. First, let me ask: Where did you get this name?”

“There was a car following us today. It’s registered to him.”

“Bad business. Bianco is a police officer, but corrupt. He is in the pocket of the Unione Corse—the Corsican Mafia. Why would they be interested in you, I wonder?”

“We don’t think it’s them,” Remi said. “We suspect they’re doing a favor for someone else.”

“Ah. Not that it makes a difference. Bianco is an animal. Was it just him in the car?”

Sam shook his head. “Another one: dark complected, handlebar mustache.”

“He doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Why don’t the police do something about this Bianco?” Remi asked. “You said he’s corrupt. Can’t they arrest him?”

“On the mainland, perhaps, but out here, and on Sardinia and Corsica things are not quite that simple. I think I know the answer to this, but have to ask: I don’t suppose I could convince you to leave? Tonight, before Bianco does something?”

Sam and Remi looked at one another and instinctively knew each other’s thoughts. Sam spoke for them: “Thanks, but we’ve got to see this through.”

Umberto nodded somberly. “I thought as much.”

Remi said, “We don’t want to put you and Teresa in danger. If you’ll give us directions to—”

Umberto was already rising. “Nonsense. Wait here.” He went inside then returned a minute later carrying a shoebox. “You’ll need this,” he said, handing it over.

Inside Sam found a genuine World War II-era nine-millimeter Luger pistol along with two full magazines.

“My father liberated that from the Gestapo officer who executed my uncles. As my father told the story, the man no longer had any use for it.”

Umberto smiled grimly at them and winked.