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An irate male voice spoke. “Who is this?”

“Vipera.”

There was a long silence. “This phone is not secure.” He didn’t ask how Slash had got the number. Nucci had probably tipped him off that he’d be calling.

“I need to talk to you.” He had no expectations that his former boss would speak to him, but he risked nothing in trying.

The silence stretched on for an uncomfortable amount of time. Still Slash waited.

“The usual place?” Pacini finally spoke. “One hour?”

The usual place was Piazza della Madonna dei Monti at a place near the sixteenth-century fountain. They’d met there several times for private discussions outside the Vatican.

“I’ll be there,” Slash said.

Pacini hung up without another word.

Slash reorganized his plans for the afternoon in his head, then listened to the message from Lexi. He told his phone to call her immediately, but it rang several times before her voice mail kicked in. Although he hated the wasted effort of phone tag, he left her a message.

“It’s me,cara. Sorry I missed your call. You’re probably in a meeting. I’ll call you back this evening.Ti amo.”

It took him thirty minutes to arrive at the piazza, but he drove past and parked about a half-mile away. Though he had little reason to suspect a problem, since he had the time, he used the thirty minutes to reconnoiter the area around the fountain.

He walked slowly, blending in with the local population, and bought a coffee to go. Just another local on his way to work. While the area wasn’t overrun with tourists, it wasn’t devoid of them, either, which provided cover for those who might otherwise look out of place surveilling them.

The area surrounding the piazza was filled with kiosks, shops and stores. Feral cats ran wild here, as they did in many parts of Rome. He strolled, seemingly unconcerned, along the uneven sidewalks and narrow alleys, the façades lined with stone and Roman stucco—old ruins mixed in with new, more modern structures. He passed a couple of stalls with striped awnings selling colorful vegetables. The butcher shop that sold the best pork he’d ever eaten still stood in its same spot, the meat hooks showing the slabs visible in the shop window.

He meandered into the piazza, doing a visual sweep of the crowd, looking for an averted gaze or someone who met his eyes and looked away too quickly. An old woman fed pigeons from a paper bag while sitting on the edge of the fountain. Japanese tourists took pictures of each other. People passed by, some chatting with friends, others talking on their cell phones. An older man sat in front of one of the buildings, sketching on a pad. Nothing triggered his instincts.

Just in case, he made two more sweeps before slipping into a seat at an empty table at a café. He positioned himself behind other diners, but with a decent view of the fountain. His field instincts remained calm, so he ordered two glasses of the local white wine, and paid when the server brought them.

Ten minutes later Pacini slipped into the chair across from him with a grin. He had aged considerably in the seven years since Slash had seen him. His jet-black hair had been dusted with gray, but now it had turned completely white, and the lines on his face were carved deeper, especially around the eyes and on the forehead. But his physique remained fit and defined, and his handshake was firm when he reached across the table to shake Slash’s hand.

“It’s good to see you,” Pacini spoke in Italian. His expression looked reluctantly impressed. “You haven’t aged a day.”

“Flattery doesn’t suit you,” Slash responded.

“No, it doesn’t, which is why I don’t engage in it.” Pacini picked up the wine and took a sip. “Novello Superiore. Excellent choice.”

“I remembered it was your favorite.” Slash lifted his own glass in a salute. “Hopefully that hasn’t changed.”

“It hasn’t.” He tapped his glass to Slash’s and took a sip, sighing in pleasure. “I need to take a bottle or ten of these home with me.”

“I appreciate you coming.”

“Just saved us some time. Figured you would have found me by tomorrow anyway. Better we meet on neutral ground.” Pacini’s fingers played with the wine stem. He was clearly uncomfortable with the summons, as he should be. He took another sip, then regarded Slash. “What do you want?”

That was Pacini for you. Blunt, direct and honest. He liked that. No wasted conversation, no wasted time.

“Information on the Congo.”

Pacini’s hand with the wineglass stilled inches from his mouth. He carefully set it down, narrowing his eyes. “What kind of information?”

“Someone sent ankondistatue to my fiancée. That was preceded by an anonymous note that said, ‘I know who you are,’ the refusal of the church to marry my younger brother, and a firecracker display with a Bible verse referring to my wickedness and a so-called betrayal of my oath.”

Pacini lowered his hand. “What the hell?”

“Someone wanted me here. So, here I am. Happen to know what’s going on?”