Fitzpatrick stared at me for a moment or two. Then he shrugged and said, “I don’t see why not.” He turned to the men who’d flown with us and asked, “Who has this gentleman’s phone?”
One of the thugs stepped forward and handed him my phone and Salvatore’s. I started to reach for mine, but Fitzpatrick said, “You can dictate, and I’ll type a text message for you. But first, let’s see if your phone will actually work here. What’s your password?”
After I recited the digits, he scrolled through a few menus and changed some settings. “International roaming is probably going to cost you a fortune, but you’re all set. To whom would you like to send a message?” I gave him Javier’s name, and he found it in my contacts and said, “Alright. Go ahead.”
I’d been thinking about what to say that wouldn’t panic my friend and employee, so I told him Salvatore had had a family emergency, and I’d traveled out of the country to be with him. I asked him to please run things for me, and to feel free to shorten the diner’s hours and hire an assistant if he needed one. I also told him I’d be gone about a month, and that I was somewhere with poor cellphone coverage, but I’d check in when I could.
Before he hit send, Fitzpatrick edited Javier’s phone number to include a plus sign and a one ahead of the area code. Then he asked me, “Anything else?”
“That’s it for now.” I wondered what time it was in San Diego, and if I was waking my friend in the middle of the night.
A few seconds later, the phone buzzed with an incoming text, and the man unlocked it by typing in some numbers. Apparently he’d changed my password to one only he knew. “Your employee sent a reply. It says, and I quote, ‘Sure thing, Manny, take all the time you need. Cami and I will hold down the fort while you’re gone.’ It sounds like your place of business is in good hands.”
“Please reply with ‘thanks, Javi,’ and thank you for letting me message him.”
“You’re welcome.” Fitzpatrick sent the message before holding up the other phone and asking Salvatore, “Is there anyone who’d notice your absence?”
He muttered, “Only one person, but he’s standing right there and not speaking to me.”
Fitzpatrick pocketed both phones and tried again, gesturing toward the waiting vehicles as he said, “Now, if we can proceed?—”
Salvatore was the one to interrupt this time. “There is something I need from you though, as a show of good faith.”
A frown line appeared between Fitzpatrick’s brows, but he kept his tone cordial as he asked, “And what would that be, Mr. di Pietro?”
“I want to speak to my uncle, Flavio Bianchi. If he’s alive, I’ll know I can trust you people to let us go once I finish the painting,” Salvatore said. “But if you killed him, then you’ll need to convince me that we’re not going to suffer the same fate.”
“Just to be clear, I won’t allow you to continue making demands in exchange for your cooperation. But this is easy enough, and if it puts you at ease, I’m willing to oblige.” Fitzpatrick pulled his phone from his pocket and sent a text before saying, “The wheels are in motion. It may take a few hours since he tends to be slippery, but we’ve been monitoring Bianchi, and I’ve asked a colleague to go and collect him.”
Salvatore said, “Thank you,” and started walking toward the waiting SUVs. I hurried after him, trying to stay close. It wasn’t that I was feeling warm and fuzzy toward him, but the rest of the men around me were terrifying. I suddenly understood that old proverb—better the devil you know.
The two of us and Fitzpatrick climbed into the back seat of one of the Land Rovers, and two thugs took the front seats. As we left the airport, Salvatore asked Fitzpatrick, “Where are we?”
“Does it matter?”
“We’re obviously somewhere in the UK.” I wondered how he knew that. “I’m just curious as to which part.”
“I’ve been instructed not to divulge that information.”
“Why?”
Fitzpatrick shrugged. “I can only assume my employer doesn’t want you returning here after your release and starting trouble.”
I stared out the window as we bounced down a rutted country road. There wasn’t much to see, aside from a lot of trees, occasional fields, and one small flock of sheep. At one point, we crossed a wider street with smooth pavement, and then we were back on the bumpy road.
After fifteen minutes or so, our driver turned off onto a private driveway. He stopped at an intercom in front of a tall, wrought iron gate and gave his name when someone answered. A minute later, a man wearing a shoulder holster appeared and opened the gate, and we drove through.
Up ahead was a beautiful mansion. It looked old and very elegant, and its façade was made out of some kind of pale, yellowish stone.
I assumed we’d be locked in the basement or something. But when we got inside, Fitzpatrick led us down a long hallway and said, “You’ll have full access to the east wing and the grounds. The west wing is off-limits, because that’s where Mr. Ashcroft stays when he’s here. Meals will be provided for you and served in the dining room. Please let the staff know if you have any special dietary requirements.”
The interior was as elegant as the outside. It was decorated with oil paintings, ornate furniture, fussy tchotchkes, and theoccasional taxidermied animal, which creeped me out. When we reached the end of the hall, Fitzpatrick opened the door to a large, sunny room and said, “This is your studio, Mr. di Pietro. Please look over your supplies and let me know if anything is amiss.”
A cream-colored tarp had been spread out over the wood floor. In the center of it stood a large blank canvas on an easel, along with a table full of paints and brushes. There was also a life-size print of the Cezanne, as well as several poster-size photos, blown up to show every detail of the original. These were mounted to a series of whiteboards on metal stands, which seemed out of place in this old fashioned setting.
Salvatore put our bags on a brown leather sofa and crossed the room to examine the paints. Meanwhile, I went over to one of the windows. The garden was beautiful, with gravel paths, small trees and shrubs pruned into tidy shapes, and planter boxes brimming with flowers. Two groundskeepers were out there, working hard to keep everything pristine.
Fitzpatrick joined me and said, “It’s magnificent, isn’t it? Part of the property dates from the mid-sixteen-hundreds, and the main part of the house was built in the eighteen-forties. The gardens have always been a particular point of pride.”
