“We kept all three men from the mosque under surveillance after releasing them. The imam and the second man, they returned home. Not Ibrahim Hussein. He made his way to an apartment in the Cornigliano neighborhood.”

“What’s so suspicious about that?”

“Hussein didn’t go there directly, Alana. He took three buses and a taxi.”

“As if trying to lose a tail?”

“And he almost did,” Sergio says. “This apartment, it’s less than a mile from where Yasin’s family lives.”

“Is he still there?”

“As of now, yes.”

“What else do you know about him, Sergio?”

“The windows are shuttered but we were able to lower a listening device from the rooftop. There are at least two others inside with Hussein.”

Her pulse pounds in her temples. “What have you heard so far?”

“Hussein told the other two that the authorities were onto them,” Sergio says ominously. “He keeps telling them that they need to act now or go into hiding.”

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Marcello Zanetti adjusts the tight knot on his navy tie as he steps onto the driveway to greet his nephew-in-law and the woman from NATO who was meddling at his site.

Zanetti hugs Nico, who is uncharacteristically stiff in his arms, and then kisses Alana on both cheeks. He steps back to appraise her again for a moment. She’s undeniably attractive, with long auburn hair, angular cheeks, and full lips. Her dark green eyes are striking, a color that reminds him of the ocean churning in a storm. But she’s too slender for him. And, besides, he doesn’t trust her; especially not now, when she seems as on edge as Nico is.

Zanetti buries his suspicions behind a welcoming smile. “Nico, what would my niece think?” He winks conspiratorially. “You alone with this vision? Out on a romantic seaside drive.”

Nico ignores the comment. “Is Anna home?”

Zanetti isn’t about to let them know that his wife has left him. Instead, he says, “She is never home. This board and that board.” He laughs. “Apparently Genoa would have no art, opera, or culture of any kind without my wife’s constant presence.”

Nico heads through the open doorway without invitation. Zanetti follows him in, as does Alana. They step down into the sunken den that, Zanetti proudly knows, reveals the villa’s hidden grandeur to first-time guests. The bright open floor plan is all-white and is furnished with sofas and chairs of the finest Italian leather. Marble countertops complement the kitchen’s sleek cabinetry and appliances. And a retractable glass wall leads to the wraparound mahogany deck that is perched over the sea. The wall is open now, and the warm breeze drifts through the room.

Zanetti motions to the leather couch facing the water. Alana sits beside Nico. Still standing, Zanetti motions to the décor. “So, Alana, you like?”

“It’s quite spectacular,” she says.

“We renovated last year. It was all Anna. Every single detail down to the lining of the drawers.” Zanetti smiles again as he wonders if his wife is even still in the city. Could she be ill? He hasn’t heard from her in days. “What would you like to drink? Grappa? Wine? I have a Barolo from just north of here that is quite tasty.”