“All right. I was looking for Blackburn. His shop, anyway. Thought I might recognize something.”
“Like a codex displayed in the front window?”
“Smartass. Let’s go back to the hotel. I need another shower and a bandage.”
The two women walked silently back to Hotel Michelangelo and entered their separate rooms.
Andrea called back over her shoulder, “Let me know when you’re out of the shower. I’ve got a small first aid kit.”
They chose a table in the hotel breakfast room by a bank of tall windows with lace curtains that overlooked the piazza and fountain. A young woman brought a tray of coffee and hot milk, motioning to a side table with pecorino and cold cuts, hard rolls, butter, and jams. Justine handed Andrea the cocktail napkin she’d found at lunch the day before and told her what she knew about the ancient DC-2. “And, of course, Francois flew . . .”
Andrea stared down, stirring her coffee, listening carefully, occasionally looking out at the Fountain of Four Rivers.
Justine stared at her friend across the table—an adventuress, daring and self-possessed. Capable of getting herself in over her head. “He’ll recognize you,” she said flatly. “I’ll go.”
Andrea grinned, as though she had hoped Justine would be enticed to confront Blackburn.
“One shop particularly interested me. It had many Egyptian artifacts, a bust of Horus, Isis with her sparrow hawk wings, amphora, a gold-plated chair, its back painted with hieroglyphics and poppies. Most of the other shops had Italian period furniture and lamps and an assortment of small Roman and Greek replica statues. However,” added Justine, “it seems too obvious.”
“May I speak with the owner of your shop, signore?” Justine asked a crumpled older man behind the cases of Egyptian jewelry, scarabs, and knives. The gentleman beheld a young woman in a dark gray suit, spike heels, and pearl earrings. Her hair was pulled into a chignon. The overall effect reminded him of Kim Novak in Vertigo. He loved American movies. “I’m Dr. Justine Hassouna with the Medea Foundation.”
The small man bowed slightly and walked to the back room. Calm voices could be heard through the curtain. Shortly, an erect man with long, lanky arms and legs and a wide girth emerged from the back of the cluttered shop. He was probably in his seventies, although his face was surprisingly free of wrinkles. Even though Justine was more than five foot eight, this man towered over her. He looked down, taking her hand. His blue eyes sparkled but revealed the pain that must have accompanied the scars on his left cheekbone and neck. “I am Enrico Lamberti,” he said gently. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Lamberti,” she said, shaking his hand. “Dr. Justine Hassouna. I’ve been commissioned by the Medea Foundation to find a certain codex, recently discovered in Cairo. When I saw your Egyptian displays, I thought you might be helpful.”
“Interesting. A codex, you say? What more can you tell me?”
“According to the acquisitions director of our foundation, the codex may have some connection to the Christian Holy Family. I believe it was found in St. Sergius Church.”
“Cairo, then. Remarkable,” said Lamberti, narrowing his eyes so that his full gray brows nearly touched. “Now that would be quite a find. But I’m afraid I can’t be of help. I do have in my keeping a small codex found near Jerusalem from around 200 CE, but it lacks provenance. A serious problem these days.”
“Indeed it is,” laughed Justine with delicacy. “The authorities no longer turn their heads when a significant discovery is traded. I sympathize with antiquities dealers such as yourself. It makes life difficult.”
“I’m impressed that such an obviously accomplished woman would care. I deeply appreciate your gesture of sympathy.” He bowed and took her hand once again, raising it slowly to his lips. “Is there any way that I can reach you if I come across information of interest?”
“I’m embarrassed to admit that my purse was taken last night, Mr. Lamberti, by Romas in Piazza Popolo. As a consequence, I have none of my cards with me. But I’ve written my cell number on this slip of paper.”
Blackburn grinned, accepting the paper without turning his eyes from hers.
“It was Blackburn all right,” she said, vividly remembering Andrea’s description. “I wasn’t fooled by him, and of course he wasn’t fooled by me. You were right, he certainly is a charmer.” Justine took off her jacket and placed it over the wrought iron chair in the coffee shop near Chiesa Nova. She vigorously rubbed her arms.
“How’s the elbow?”
“Better.” The Neosporin had been cooling.
“How did you come up with the Medea Foundation?” asked Andrea. “I haven’t heard of it.”
“I made it up,” grinned Justine. “This adventure reminds me of a multi-headed monster.” They both laughed. “What will we do with the information about Blackburn? Contact the Carabinieri? Egyptian embassy?” asked Justine, stirring her coffee with unusual vigor.
“What information?” Andrea asked.
Spaghetti alla Puttanesca
2 small (14–16 oz) or 1 large (28 oz) can crushed tomatoes
4 cloves of garlic, halved
4 or 5 anchovy filets, chopped
3 T olive oil
10–12 black olives, stoned and coarsely chopped
2 T capers, soaked and drained
2 T Italian parsley, chopped
1/2 to 1 small red chili, chopped
Salt
1 lb spaghetti or spaghettini
“WHAT ARE YOU MAKING, Mom?” asked Justine as she pulled out a stool snuggled under Lucrezia’s marble island, which was large enough to service ten chefs. Without waiting for her mother to answer, she sat down to survey the remodeled kitchen. The marble counter featured a six-burner stovetop beneath a stainless steel hood. Copper pans hung beside Tuscan baskets. A yeasty aroma floated in the air because two domes of focaccia dough sat rising under warm red cloths. Mammoth timbers crossed the high ceiling like protective arms, supporting two stories of living area above.
“Puttanesca, Justine. What do you think of my new kitchen?”
“Terrific! But since when did you become a chef?” Justine wore jeans, a blue cotton shirt, and her sandals. She had corralled her long hair with barrettes that she’d found in her old dresser. To her mother, she looked sixteen again.
Lucrezia dug her fingers into a large jar and removed a dripping palm full of capers, then dropped them into the giant crockery bowl in front of her. “I think of cooking as art,” she said. “But if it becomes routine, I find it drudgery. Besides, Maria is in Bologna with her family and since I took Lorenza’s cooking course at Badia a Coltibuono, I’ve been trying my hand in the kitchen occasionally. I remodeled this kitchen to look