breakfasts and not interested in him. They had the gray pallor of night-shift workers, from the look of them: a nurse and a security guard. The dark-haired man took a huge bite of his fried chicken and chewed as he dialed his cell phone. The other line picked up, and he began in Russian. “Package intercepted. Not documents. Looks like some kind of medical samples, or possibly chemicals for medicine. Not what we are looking for.” The person on the other end of the line spoke for a long time. The dark-haired man held the phone cradled against his shoulder while he continued to eat, pulling apart his food into bite-sized pieces. He put small pieces of chicken in his mouth quietly, surreptitiously eating as he listened. “No.” He swallowed his food and answered more emphatically. “It was not a document. I told you, it looked like worthless stuff. Just some glass vials of medicine or some kind of samples. Your document must be somewhere else.” The other person stopped talking and the dark-haired man snapped the phone shut. Now he could concentrate on his meal. He might just get some chips after this, and another coffee with sugar.
Outside the Chesterton Kebab and Fried Chicken House, a vagrant rummaged through the bin. Morning was the best, because they would toss out the breakfast food that hadn’t sold by ten o’clock. He always found a few good egg sandwiches this time of day. He put his hand into the bin and pulled out a Styrofoam container. This sure wasn’t a sandwich wrapper. It was large and bulky. A bit heavy. He opened it. Inside were glass vials.
Monaco C ordelia stretched out on her bed at the Hôtel Hermitage for an afternoon nap and listened to the sounds of the marina from the open windows. Lunch with Sinclair had been divine, and, in fact, the whole day had been exciting, and strange. The chemistry between them still sizzled in her blood. Of course, he was a terrible flirt. She had expected that. But she had to admit she was very attracted to him. She lay there and thought about the strange incident with the Ferrari. Sinclair had been convinced they were being followed, and even more so when they discovered the Ferrari in the Hotel du Cap’s parking lot. His eyes had narrowed suspiciously. She had watched him take in and memorize the license plate number without saying a word to her. And she had liked the way he had protectively taken her arm on the walk back to the car. It was a small gesture but it had pleased her. She lay on the bed and looked at the pink-striped wallpaper. The sounds from the harbor were a pleasant backdrop—the slap of the stays against the masts, the faint murmur of an outboard motor, voices calling across the water. She was sluggish, but her mind would not give her rest. After a while, she sat up and started to read her great-great-grandfather’s journal. A UGUST 4, 1908 W HAT JOY! T ODAY I FINALLY RECEIVED MY P IERCE A RROW MOTORCAR . I KNOW IT IS A LUXURY MOST CAN’T AFFORD, BUT AVERAGE FAMILIES MAY SOON BE ABLE TO PURCHASE MOTORCARS FOR THEIR OWN USE . I TALKED WITH M R . F ORD ABOUT HIS PLAN TO BEGIN PRODUCTION OF THE M ODEL T AUTOMOBILE BY THE END OF THIS YEAR . A FTER HEARINGOF HIS INNOVATIVE MANUFACTURING—WHAT HE CALLS “ASSEMBLY LINE PRODUCTION ”—I WILL CERTAINLY INVEST IN THE COMPANY . A S COMMON AS THESE F ORD AUTOMOBILES MAY BECOME, THE P IERCE A RROW IS A REAL THOROUGHBRED . L IGHT GRAY IN COLOR, WITH AN OPEN BODY AND A SIX-CYLINDER ENGINE, THE SOUND OF THE CAR’S MOTOR AS IT TEARS THROUGH THE QUIET OF THE COUNTRYSIDE IS A DELIGHT OF WHICH I WILL NEVER TIRE. She flipped ahead several weeks. Here was her great-great-grandfather meeting her great-great-grandmother. S EPTEMBER 5, 1908 A T THE PALATIAL H UDSON R IVER MANSION OF M RS . O GDEN M ILLS THIS WEEKEND IN S TAATSBURG , I WAS THE WITNESS OF A DELIGHTFUL TABLEAU VIVANT . T HE CURTAIN WAS PULLED ASIDE TO REVEAL ASSORTED PEOPLE COSTUMED AND POSED TO RESEMBLE A P RE -R APHAELITE PAINTING,