Billy tugged his car keys out of his pocket. “I’ve hired a boat. It will be waiting for us at Pier Thirty-nine.” He stopped, suddenly realizing that the Italian was no longer standing beside him. He turned, the key to the bright red Thunderbird in his hand, and looked back to find the Italian staring admiringly at the convertible, which was a dramatic splash of color and style in the middle of all the other ordinary cars.

“Nineteen fifty-nine Thunderbird convertible-no, nineteen sixty,” Machiavelli amended. He ran a hand across the gleaming hood and over the lights. “Magnificent.”

Billy grinned. He’d been prepared to dislike Niccolò Machiavelli, but the Italian had just gone up a notch in his estimation. “It’s my pride and joy.”

The immortal walked around the car, stooping to examine the wheels and the exhaust. “And so it should be: everything looks original.”

“Everything is,” Billy said proudly. “I’ve replaced the exhaust twice, but I made sure the replacements were from an identical model.” He climbed into the car and waited while Machiavelli strapped himself in. “I’d have pegged you for a Lamborghini driver, or an Alfa Romeo, maybe.”

“Ferarri, maybe, but never an Alfa!”

“Do you own many cars?” Billy asked.

“None. I have a company car and a driver. I don’t drive,” the Italian admitted.

“Don’t or can’t?”

“I do not like to drive. I’m a really bad driver,” he admitted with a wry smile. “But then, I did learn to drive in a three-wheeled car.”

“When was that?” Billy asked.

“In 1885.”

“I died in 1881.” Billy shook his head. “I can’t imagine not being able to drive,” he murmured as they pulled out of the parking lot. “Like not being able to ride.” He hit the accelerator and the car surged forward and slotted into the heavy airport traffic. “Do you want to get something to eat?” he asked. “There’s some good French and Italian restaurants…”

Machiavelli shook his head. “I’m not hungry. Unless you want to eat.”

“I don’t eat much these days,” Billy admitted.

Machiavelli’s cell phone pinged. “Excuse me.” He pulled out the wafer-thin phone and stared at the screen. “Ah,” he said in delight.

“Good news?” Billy asked.

Machiavelli sat back in the seat and grinned. “I set a trap yesterday; it was sprung a couple of hours ago.”

Billy glanced sidelong but remained silent.

“The moment I discovered the Alchemyst’s wife was being detained in San Francisco, I knew that either he or some of his allies would attempt to make their way back here. They had two alternatives: the flight on which I’ve just come in, or the Notre Dame leygate.”

“I’m going to guess you did something to this leygate.” Billy grinned. “That sounds like the sort of thing I’d do.”