“Come back to Italy with me. And make sure he comes, too.”

“You overestimate my influence.”

“You can reassure him.”

“If he suspects—”

“He doesn’t need to know. He shouldn’t know. Not until we are back in Rome. There, if he pleads, it will go easier for him.”

“It’s safe to return?”

“There’s no choice.”

“None?”

“I could defy the Chamber. I could refuse to cooperate. But the U. S. and Italy have an extradition treaty, so that means we’d have to go elsewhere. It would be difficult. I’ve moved some assets already, it’s true. But still . . . I would do anything for you.”

“And I for you,” I said. I looked back at the swimmer’s house. “They want Johnny and me both?”

“No . . . only him.”

.

26.

The Chinese herbalist in Rome went by the name of the Yellow Emperor. He had an elite clientele whom he relieved in the ancient ways—with acupuncture needles and suction cups and tinctures of various elaborate mixture. Dandelion and monkshood. Astragalus and ginseng and concentrated aconite. He practiced by the homeopathic method, treating the malady with compounds that invoked symptoms similar to those of the illness, thus agitating the disease out of the body. He worked in the old Jewish ghetto, not far from the crumbling Portico of Octavia, and carried in his stock herbs and exotic compounds—elephant’s tusk and shark’s fin and tongue of the Bengal tiger—any one of which might have brought charges of illegal trade if it hadn’t been for the elevated nature of his clientele, whose influence kept him protected. It was rumored he tinctured his compounds with other substances, as well—including the extracts of certain Afghan poppies, and the coca leaf—as some of his most devoted clients possessed a glossiness of expression that implied other reasons, aside from mere loyalty, that necessitated their frequent return.

––––––––

The next morning Paolo suffered an episode, alone, while walking on the beach. I learned later he’d had a number of these episodes since I’d left Rome: severe attacks, dizziness, cramping in the gut—but they could be relieved with assistance from the amber bottle. This time he didn’t have the bottle with him and had to struggle up the sand while the white gulls circled overhead. I was lying on my beach towel, eyes closed. I heard the gulls squawking but didn’t think anything of it. They always squawked. Then Paolo loomed over me, drenched in sweat.

“What’s happened?”

“My tea . . .”

I got him inside. I mixed it for him, and he seemed better. The little amber bottle was all but empty.

“It needs filling,” I said.

He’d been trying to decide whether to take the herbalist’s full regimen here or wait until we were back in Italy.

The regimen was quite strenuous.

Meanwhile, there remained the unfinished business with my brother.

Either way, he needed the amber bottle.

“Here,” he said.