Chapter 18

'R-Day'. Irina smiled to herself. She had worked towards this day for 15 long years, since she had first glimpsed her grandfather's letter. Her motivations had shifted over time, but the intensity of the quest had not. Her preparations were complete, and she hoped Jack was ready too. She looked up as Sloane walked into the room, then frowned when she saw him accompanied by 4 of the mercenaries he had hired to protect him.

"Is there a problem, Arvin?" she asked evenly.

"Not that I am aware of, my dear. I'm ready to go. I thought you'd like some company while you remained here."

"Remain here?" Irina seethed. "We're partners, Arvin. We're going together."

"I don't think so, Irina. I find the security risks associated with you being together with Rambaldi and the artifacts...unacceptable. I'm sure you understand."

"Understand? I've sacrificed everything to get to this point, Arvin. You bastard," she finished, as the guards drew their firearms and approached her, handcuffs in hand.

"Sorry, Irina. Three's a crowd."

**

Sloane surveyed the villa, located in the middle of an olive grove on the outskirts of Rome. He had already seen it, of course, from satellite photos. Modest, but well situated. From a tactical perspective, easy to defend. Difficult for him to position support nearby. Not that it would be necessary. All of his natural adversaries were otherwise occupied, and Rambaldi would not be expecting his visit. He nodded to his two men and approached the entrance to the villa, carrying a leather case in his hand.

He had given, as he always did, careful thought to the tenor of the meeting. He anticipated Rambaldi to be a recluse, not comfortable with large groups, and had intentionally limited his party, or at least his visible party, to only two other individuals. He expected that they would be dismissed before he and Rambaldi discussed anything substantial. The case in his hand was an important negotiating chip, demonstrating Sloane's understanding of what Rambaldi had to offer. He thought that Rambaldi would be reluctant at first, but then - he could not possibly grasp the wealth and power that Sloane would be offering him. No man would be able to withstand that for long.

Sloane took a deep breath and knocked on the door, his face not betraying his anticipation. He waited - 3, 5, 10 seconds - and no response. Impatiently he knocked again, louder, and was rewarded by the sound of the slow shuffling of feet. The door slowly opened, revealing a wizened prune of a man, smiling to reveal a number of missing teeth. Sloane's heart sank. It had been foolish, of course, to have predetermined ideas about Rambaldi's appearance, but somehow Sloane had imagined someone more imposing than this. He gestured to one of his men, who asked in fluent Italian if he was Dante Fisorini, the name of the man in the database whose genetic code had matched the flower. It was with relief that Sloane saw the man cackle and shake his head, gesturing to the back of the house.

Sloane followed the old man to the back of the villa, and down a flight of stairs to a cellar that extended the width of the house. The cellar was dimly lit with candles, and manuscripts and small machines of all shape and description littered the room. In the corner sat a large, white-haired man, hunched over a drawing. The candles behind him threw his face into shadow.

The old man babbled rapidly in Italian to the white-haired man, who looked up slowly at his visitors, his eyes studying them carefully from beneath his long hair.

Sloane began his introduction, in poorly accented Italian that he had learned for this purpose, only to be cut-off. "We can speak English, if you prefer," indicated the old man, with a strong Italian accent. "How may I be of service?

"I presume I am speaking to Milo Rambaldi?" asked Sloane, watching his host's reaction carefully. He was not disappointed. Surprise, worry, and suspicion flashed across his host's face. "Do not be alarmed," assured Sloane. "I come as a friend, with a proposition that will benefit us both."

"I doubt there is anything you can offer me that would be of interest," said the white-haired man dismissively.

Sloane's eyes glittered. "I am willing to make a good-faith gesture, to indicate my interest in negotiations."

The white-haired man did not look very interested. "Perhaps you should go."

"If I were to offer you... 'La Scintilla'?"

"How do you have possession of that?" he snapped.

Sloane shrugged. "How I obtained it is of no particular interest. Be assured that I have it."

The white-haired man flicked his eyes at Sloane's companions. Picking up the cue, Sloane turned to them and said, "Wait for me outside." The old man shuffled out with them.

"Very well. Prove to me that you have 'La Scintilla' and we will talk."

Sloane reached down to the case he had brought in with him, and laid it on the table. Keying in the password, the lock snapped open. Sloane opened the case with a flourish. The white-haired man gazed intently at the case's contents for a moment, then returned his gaze to Sloane. "I'm afraid you've been misinformed, signor. This machine is one of mine, yes. But not the one you claim. It does not appear that you can be of use to me. Good-bye," he said, and turned back to his diagram.

"Wait," interjected Sloane. He pulled a walkie-talkie from his jacket pocket and spoke into it briefly. "My deepest apologies. I am sure you understand the need for caution. I have the device you seek, but needed to verify you were who you claimed. It is several miles away. It will be here shortly."

The white-haired man waved him out of the cellar. "Return when you have it. I have work to do." He returned to his diagram without watching to see if Sloane left.

Minutes later, Sloane returned, alone, with a different case. He cleared his throat, and white-haired man looked up once again. "Show me," he commanded. Reverently, Sloane opened the case for him to view. It was, indeed, 'La Scintilla', the white-haired man thought to himself.

"I am willing to exchange this for certain services," Sloane purred.

The white-haired man stretched himself to his full height, stepped out of the shadows, and spoke without a trace of accent, "I think you may have overestimated your negotiating position, Arvin."

Stunned, Sloane stared at Jack Bristow, holding a gun aimed at his heart.