It prompted a threat painted in red on the garage door: a giant heart, a dagger driven through.

Cazzo assassino di Isabella nel cuore!

We left, pursued by photographers on motorcycles. We lost them in a mountain pass at the border, when Gasparo maneuvered the limousine in a way that sent the paparazzi spinning toward the tunnel wall.

24.

Zanche remained a mystery to me. I can’t say I trusted her, but that was her fate, not to be trusted—at least, not in Italy, not with her dark skin and Muslim cast. She carried herself with an air of privilege. Her family had immigrated to Italy when she was young, escaping Tehran.  They’d been upper-class merchants who’d fallen from grace and lost everything when the winds shifted back home. She spoke several languages, all with a British accent. Maybe this last explained her reserve, and her tidy looks.

She aspired to go into the diplomatic service, so I wondered why she stayed with us. I thought it might have to do with Gasparo. There were more looks between them, fervent glances.

Zanche’s employment had been screened by Italian intelligence. Meanwhile, Gasparo had started his career within the intelligence ministry and knew the head deputy. The Agency for the Security of the Republic held no party affiliation, at least officially, and screened employees for all sides of the political spectrum. Still, I sometimes wondered whether Zanche’s loyalty, and Gasparo’s, too, might ultimately be more to the head deputy than to us.

“I’d suggest—if you want to stay out of the limelight—Canada, as opposed to the United States,” said Zanche.

“Along those same lines, I suppose you’d suggest Finland over France?”

“Yes, I would.”

“The cold weather makes people less inclined to murder me?”

“There would be less media to seek you out, at least. And fewer people to care.”

She had a point, but it was not her decision. Though my departure would be sudden, Paolo had arranged for certain contingencies. These plans didn’t include the Canadians.

25.

We went to Malibu. It might not seem, given the colony’s reputation, the best place to escape the public glare—but the colony maintained its own security, versed at keeping gawkers at bay, and the house we rented was unapproachable from the street. It stood on pillars above the sand, security cameras on all sides.

“No one will bother us here.”

“But if the press finds us—”

“The press doesn’t bother the colony.”

“The beach—it’s public access.”

“Only the part down there, along the surf.”