That part of the job was accomplished with ease. The other part, not so successful. He had searched the room, every drawer, the narrow closet, under the bed, stopped to read articles the American had on top of the dresser, but what he had been searching for was not in the room. It must be in the library. He would have to go and see for himself. But how to break in? And how to remove it without getting caught and, if successful, without rousing suspicion? That is imperative, his mission.

The red dot begins to move again, and he follows, a block behind, but no need to rush; with the spyware installed, he will not lose the American or be surprised by any sudden movements. He enlarges the map on his cell with thumb and forefinger, sees the dot move along the street and enter the Laurentian Library. No surprise. He takes his time catching up, stops at an espresso bar, the same place the American had stopped, nice that they like the same establishment, even makes small talk with the owner, then continues on to his usual spot, where he sits on the stone steps and lights a cigarette. The square is quiet this morning, few tourists, the kiosks selling leather belts and shoes across from the church still closed. He peers into the dark alleyway to the cloister at the end, sees the same monk he has seen before loitering at the edge and gazing out. He does not look away. Why should he? He is just a man sitting in the square enjoying his morning coffee and a smoke. Nothing wrong with that.

25

The marquis told me to meet him at a small café.

The place was dimly lit but not so dark that I could miss the roaches on the floor or crawling up the walls. I did not think it was the sort of place a marquis would frequent. But he was there. He greeted me with a wolfish smile. Said we needed to celebrate.

I asked him why.

His answer was to remove a silk cloth from his pocket. Inside was a perforated silver spoon. He ordered a bottle of Pernod. Sugar cubes. A pitcher of water. Goblets.

He poured the Pernod. Placed a sugar cube onto the perforated spoon and carefully balanced it on the rim of each goblet. Then he slowly trickled water through the sugar until the emerald-green absinthe below turned a cloudy white.

He handed me a glass and told me to drink up. He talked and talked. Kept referring to me as DEAR BOY which I did not like. But I drank. The anise flavor was intense and sweet on my tongue. It burned my throat. But I didn’t mind.

We had one drink. Then another. Valfiero kept refilling my glass. He talked of paintings he bought and sold for huge sums of money. How he had traveled the world. The important people he had met and knew.