“I usually just follow my nose,” Machiavelli replied in the same language, and then slipped into accentless English. He breathed deeply. “The hint of cayenne pepper, I believe.”

“Just so,” Billy agreed. He tried breathing in to catch the Italian’s scent, but all he could smell were the myriad odors of the airport, plus-bizarrely-the faint odor that every cowboy associated with rattlesnakes.

“And of course I looked you up online,” Machiavelli added with a wry smile. “You still resemble the famous photograph. Curious, though; you knew me the moment I stepped through the door. I could feel your eyes on me.”

“I knew who I was looking for.”

Machiavelli’s eyebrows raised in a silent question. He pushed his sunglasses up onto his high forehead, gray eyes flashing as he looked down. He was at least a head taller than the American. “I take great care to ensure that no photographs of me appear online or in print.”

“Our employers sent this to me.” Billy fished the photo out of his back pocket and handed it over. Machiavelli looked at it, then the tiniest of smiles creased his mouth. They both knew what it meant. The Dark Elders were spying on Machiavelli… which probably meant that they were also watching Billy. Machiavelli went to return the photo, but Billy shook his head. Looking into the Italian’s eyes, he said, “It served its purpose. You might find another use for it.”

Machiavelli’s head moved in a slight bow that dropped his sunglasses back onto his long nose. “I am sure I will.” They both knew that when the Italian returned to Paris, he would do everything in his power to find out who had taken the photograph.

The American looked at the single bag in Machiavelli’s hand. “Is that all your luggage?”

“Yes. I had packed a larger case, but then I realized I would not be here long enough to use even a tenth of the clothing I intended to bring. So I left it all behind and just brought a change of socks and underwear. And my laptop, of course.”

The two men made an odd couple as they headed for the exit, Machiavelli in his tailor-made black suit, Billy in a faded denim shirt, battered jeans and down-at-heel boots. Although the airport was packed, no one came close enough to brush against them, and the crowd unconsciously parted before them.

“So this is just a quick in-and-out trip?” Billy asked.

“I hope to be on the first available flight home.” Machiavelli smiled.

“I admire your confidence,” the American said, keeping his voice neutral, “I’m just of the opinion that Mrs. Flamel may not be so easily defeated.” He pulled an ancient pair of Ray Bans from his shirt pocket as they stepped out into the brilliant early-afternoon sunshine.

“Is everything in readiness?” Machiavelli asked as they walked into the dimness of the parking garage.