Not very many minutes later, Robbie, James, and Salvo were belted into a police-owned turboprop plane, racing up to Grosseto near the Tuscan coast. They would have to take a helicopter from there: there was no landing strip on Isola del Giglio, the island where Jack had crashed. It was decided that these three were necessary; Salvo and James would act as interpreters between Lewis and the Carabinieri. Fazio, Fahrid, and Laura were following in a substantially slower police helicopter that picked them up soon after the jet took off. There had been some official resistance about taking the two civilians, but Salvo had had a rather heated telephone exchange with his superior, the Questore, and suddenly everything was workable. Lewis raised an eyebrow at Hathaway when their problems were magically resolved, but all Hathaway could do was shrug. "They do things their own way, Sir. I have no idea how it works."

In the helicopter, Fahrid and Laura held each other up; she was no fan of helicopter flight and he was as strong and brave as could be as long as she was with him. Fazio could only wonder what would happen to Fahrid when this was all over—would Salvo use him as a witness against Cornish and then leave him to his fate? And what else was there that could be done, anyway? He gave Laura a reassuring smile, but he was pretty sure she saw through it. He sighed. At the rate they were flying, it would be hours before they reached the island.

There was just as little conversation in the planeload of detectives heading north. Salvo was working through his own thoughts, and Lewis and Hathaway had little to say to each other. Lewis mentally reviewed all his hostage-situation training. He'd been in such situations quite a few times in the past; in several of them, he had been the hostage. How well he would succeed in negotiating with Jack would depend on how cooperative the Italians were as well as Jack's state of mind. He had worked out any number of alternative approaches by the time they neared their destination.

When they got to Grosseto, they hustled from the plane to the helicopter pad. Lewis turned to say something to Hathaway, and realized the man had gone completely green.

"Hathaway, man, are you alright?"

James suppressed a belch, covering his mouth with his hand. "I'm not so sure pasta with sea urchins is the best choice for a pre-flight dish." He swallowed. And swallowed again.

Lewis was unsympathetic. "Look, if you're going to spew, man, do it now so we don't have to smell it all the way over to the island!"

The younger man's brow furrowed in disbelief at the total lack of sympathy. But then a sudden urgency overtook him, and he whirled away from the other two men, bent at the waist, and coughed up one very disgusting mess onto the tarmac.

Salvo watched, amused. It relieved him to see the high level of comfort and trust between the English inspector and his sergeant. They reminded him of himself and Fazio, the way they anticipated each other's thoughts and words, and how they had a relationship built on mutual respect. This meant they both were skilled in their profession and humane but not fawning in their treatment of each other. He also understood that by identifying with them, he was making it harder on himself to disallow the extradition. He wanted to help them; he genuinely liked the Geordie copper, as well as his rather austere, tall bagman. But he had his own case to consider, not to mention the pressure put on him by his superiors. He knew he would have to make a hard choice at some point.

They took positions overlooking a rough stone farmhouse, halfway up a rugged hillside. Hathaway's eyes widened when, as they settled into their posts, Salvo pulled a sizeable Beretta out from where he'd had it tucked into his waistband. He wasn't used to seeing plainclothesmen carrying handguns. Positioned with the Sicilian as backup, Lewis had used a megaphone to call to Jack as soon as they had arrived. But there was no answer for what seemed like hours, though it was in fact closer to fifty or fifty-five minutes before at long last there was a response, and an unmistakably English voice shouted from the farmhouse.

"Robbie! How are you liking Italy? I'd have thought you'd prefer to vacation nearer to home; you were never the international traveler, were you?" The voice was mocking, as it had been ever since Jack had gone off course.

"I'm not here on vacation any more, Jack. C'mon, you don't want to deal with these Italians. Have some sense for once, man, come out and you can go back to England and deal with a reasonable justice system."

"Come back to England to die in prison, you mean."

"Not necessarily. We've got Faulkner for the murders and the drugs transport scheme. I expect you can hire a lawyer clever enough to cut a decent deal with CPS."

"I don't want to spend a day in prison."

"Then you should have considered that fact before you got into this mess."

Lewis heaved a sigh. It was exhausting, these negotiations. He really was getting too old. He wished Laura was there, then he'd have the energy to continue.

James and Salvo exchanged a significant look. They both could tell Lewis was losing enthusiasm for what seemed destined to end with gunfire. Salvo gently squeezed Hathaway's arm and whispered urgently. "Deve continuare."

James shrugged, Italian-style, to indicate his helplessness. "I know he must keep at it. But how can I make him?" And he got a helpless shrug in return.

Lewis saw the despair of his colleagues, and it urged him on. They're all counting on me to do something here. It went against his nature to disappoint people.

"C'mon Jack. You know under either legal system you're likely to get out after at most a handful of years, though I wouldn't envy you serving time in an Italian prison. But if you continue this standoff, I can't account for the excitability of the Italian police. I dunno what it takes to get them to start shooting. They're not like us." He paused, but there was no answer. "You have a lot of life left, Jack. Why throw it away? Why give them the satisfaction?"

Lewis had given Cornish something to think about, and the standoff continued. Meanwhile, Hathaway and Salvo, each with a hand on the other's shoulder, worked on angles to improve their bargaining position. Salvo, although technically not authorized to do so, ordered information from the Carabinieri—who was the woman being held hostage, and what was the layout of the farmhouse? Hathaway linked his phone with the corrections system back in England—what was the current status of Faulkner's incarceration?

Between them, they deduced that Peter Faulkner could be up for parole in a few years. Damning evidence from his co-defendant could keep him behind bars for a long time. And the woman being held was Carlotta Gabrielli, widowed at the young age of 32, her deceased husband an island fisherman, lost at sea six years ago . . . She had two sons, ages 8 and 10, who had been pulled from their school classes when it was understood their mum was in danger.

Salvo peered into Hathaway's eyes. "Will Luìs talk him out of it? Will he get him to surrender?"

James couldn't be certain, of course. But Salvo would have known this. It was Hathaway's gut he was asking. And Hathaway's gut had a clear answer. "He'll get him, Sir."

Salvo grabbed hold of Hathaway's head with both hands and kissed him soundly on the forehead. He pulled back, smirking guiltily at James, knowing his reaction had been unexpected by the innately more reserved Englishman, and a bit embarrassed at his own exuberance. "Bravo, James. Bravo, Luìs."

Although to James they had been on that rock for no more than a few minutes, enough time had passed that he saw Fazio, Fahrid, and Laura had arrived and were disembarking from their helicopter. Hathaway realized that Lewis must have been negotiating with Jack for maybe two hours or more. He frowned, concentrating on the condition his boss was in. And it was not good. Lewis was clearly exhausted, physically and mentally, his posture was that of a man defeated, slumping into himself, resigned. It didn't help that the weather was turning sour as well, a nasty wind picking up and a spit or two of rain in with the gusts. James waved frantically toward Laura, Come, come, come! She broke through the cordon the Carabinieri had set around the area and dashed across the rocks, skidding to a halt at James's side.

"How is he holding up?"

"He needs you, Laura. He needs a big emotional boost. He thinks he's losing Jack, thinks even if he succeeds, that he'll lose Jack to the Italians—it's not true; I'm certain Salvo wants to hand him over, you must tell him . . ." Hathaway tried not to sound so desperate, but he knew he had failed at that.

Laura set her jaw. Salvo watched her, recognizing that she was a woman who knew what she wanted and knew how to get it—whether that required action or inaction. In the back of his mind, he was glad that she was not his woman. He had enough trouble when his Livia decided she knew what she wanted.

"Robbie." Laura pushed her way to where Lewis stood with the megaphone. Cell phone service was tenuous here, intermittent and unreliable, and there had been no thought that they would connect with Jack in any other way than the traditional shouting with megaphone enhancement.

James saw the yoke of weight fly from Lewis's neck as he greeted Laura with a long kiss.

"James tells me you're not so sure you can bring Jack in without bloodshed." She made the statement, but her expression showed disbelief.

He couldn't disappoint her. "A'course I can bring him in without bloodshed, as long as those bloody Italians can control their trigger fingers!"

He put the megaphone to his mouth again. "Jack! Let's be done with this." This time, he was smiling confidently.

As he turned his energy to convincing Jack Cornish to surrender, Salvo turned his attention to warning the Italians that they should not move.

It had been some five hours of negotiation, but Jack Cornish walked out of the farmhouse, having thrown down his automatic rifle, having released the Gigliesa island woman, having committed himself to the hands of Robbie Lewis. And Robbie went down, alone, to meet Jack and to personally put the handcuffs on him. Jack was taken alive. And Carlotta, his hostage, was released alive. Hathaway intervened on her behalf, wrapping her in a blanket, shepherding her toward her sons, hovering while she nearly collapsed with relief. And then providing a strong arm, a strong spine, to help her up and back to her house; erasing the traces of Jack's forced entry, getting the tea, settling the sons at their homework, ensuring that Carlotta was at last sufficiently relaxed in her home.

"Will you be alright?" James asked in what he hoped was correct Italian.

"Of course, of course. As long as you're going to look out for me." She was halfway teasing, he could tell. But he could also tell she was using humor to deflect her fright. He reached forward, on edge, to take her into his arms, if she was amenable . . .

She flung herself at him, embracing strong and hard. "Oh, please, do not leave me! I am so frightened . . ."

Hathaway threw a look of helplessness toward the two inspectors who hovered in the doorway, but they were focused on other matters. Salvo gave him a crooked smile and turned away; Lewis raised his eyebrows helplessly, indicating that James was on his own with Carlotta.

Lewis had no way of knowing whether Salvo was still claiming Jack Cornish as his own prisoner. They walked together in silence to where the Carabinieri were securing Cornish in a car to take him to the dock. There, they would load him onto one of the police boats for transport to the mainland. The expression the commissario gave Lewis was grim—not gloating, not smug, definitely not at all happy. He hated bad weather.

Counting on the fact that they could communicate when they both wanted to, Lewis approached cautiously.

"So, now what? I brought him in, didn't I?" He included hand motions connecting himself to Jack, in case the words weren't enough.

Salvo put a hand on Lewis's shoulder. "Sì; bravo, Luìs." But then he looked away and made eye contact with Fahrid, pointed at Jack, and asked, "Cornish?"

Fahrid nodded. "Yes, that is the man who called himself Jack Cornish. He took my money. He took François's money. I hope he rots in prison!"

Lewis watched Salvo as though he could see the thoughts flickering across the bald man's skull, and resigned himself to the conclusion that the commissario was tending toward not approving the extradition. He wanted to reserve judgment on the man, but it was difficult not to conclude that Salvo was exactly as Lewis had originally expected him to be: self-interested and mafia-funded.

Hathaway was at his side all of the sudden, with a bit of a flush to his face.

"Sergeant? Did you get that island woman settled okay?"

More of a flush. "Erm, yeah, she's fine." A bit of throat-clearing, then, and he declined to explain further. "I was wondering how the negotiations are going between you and our Sicilian friend."

"Not my friend, if I read him correctly." He nodded toward where Salvo had a mobile to his ear, exchanging heated words with the party at the other end.

James cozied up to Fazio. "What's going on there?" nodding toward the commissario on his mobile.

"He's asked about Cornish being handed over to you, but he's meeting a lot of resistance from his superiors. You know, politics at the higher levels . . ."

James did know. Sometimes there was nothing you could do. "So . . . it's the higher-ups that are the problem?"

Fazio's expression indicated he really didn't know.

But as the two junior officers and Lewis all watched in amazement, Salvo muttered brokenly into his phone, tapped it a few times, then said that he couldn't understand, couldn't hear, he was losing the connection . . . and he suddenly snapped the phone off completely and tossed it to Fazio. Then he looked up, surprised to find he had an audience, and shrugged with a guilty smile. Not my fault I lost the connection!

They all went down to the Giglio Porto docks—Jack in handcuffs with a police escort in the car; Lewis, Hathaway, Salvo, Fazio, Laura, Fahrid, various Carabinieri officers, as well as local fire department officers, as far as Hathaway could tell, were all included in the parade of foot traffic down to the quiet little harbor.

They assembled on the outermost dock, waiting for their transport boat to arrive. Hathaway lit up another cigarette, and made friends with at least five Italian officers by offering his pack all around.

The Carabinieri were clearly operating under the assumption that they were going to transport Jack to the mainland and hand him over to the Penitentiary Police. But Salvo put a hand on Lewis's sleeve, averting his eyes submissively. "Mi dispiace, dottore. Lei . . ." he wasn't sure how to continue, and he looked to Hathaway to help him out.

Lewis touched James's arm, his face stoney. "I expect here's where you tell me he intends to keep Jack."

Hathaway tried to look more optimistic as he consulted with the commissario. But when he reported back, his news was not encouraging. "He's not refusing yet. But he's not authorized to release Jack to us, either. Of course, in part, it's up to him to convince his superiors of what is best. Whether he doesn't want to do that, or simply isn't enthusiastic enough to argue our case, I can't be certain."

Lewis sighed heavily. But his mood was lightened when Laura slipped her arm through his. "Robbie?" He looked her in the eyes then, and kissed her spontaneously. It was nice to have her company now. He remembered how Val could calm him, help him think clearly, just by being there and putting an arm around him. He smiled more broadly and without sadness as he realized Laura had the same effect on him.

But her focus was elsewhere. "Robbie, what is that?" She nodded past the harbor to a point of rock where an enormous vessel sat, unnaturally deep in the water, with numerous smaller vessels buzzing about it or anchored close by. Lewis wasn't certain, and one glance at his "walking Wikipedia" was enough to get Hathaway started.

"It's the wreck of the Costa Concordia, the huge cruise ship that ran aground in January 2012. Remember?"

She did remember, but she had never been clear on where that had happened. "Oh, they turned it upright not that long ago, didn't they?" She gazed at the dirty white hull. "It's sad, isn't it?"

James studied her, curious. "Well, I suppose, yes. But the entire salvage operation is an engineering marvel. What they're doing here to right her, raise her, and carry her away has never been done on this scale before. It's quite interesting." He noted her expression. "No, really. It's unprecedented."

Lewis suppressed a grin. Hathaway has the oddest definition of 'interesting', he thought.

Laura sighed. "I still think it's sad."

Robbie squeezed her hand, silently telling her how he loved when something brought out her tenderness. But his musing was disturbed by a humming in the background, getting louder, and now more resembling an engine revving. His internal alarm began to sound as he strained to identify the noise.

"GIU'!"

Men threw themselves down on the dock as a long-prowed speedboat raced by the harbor, strafing it with machine-gun fire. Salvo flung himself at Laura, and she fell beneath him, his hands protectively curved around her head. Then the rain of bullets stopped and the boat sped away.

Salvo lifted his head and looked around for Fazio. His 'right arm' was just a few feet away, and their eyes connected. Mafia, Fazio mouthed, but the commissario shook his head, frowning, not understanding why the mafia would take such an interest in their proceedings. Then he heard a loud groan of pain.

Of all the men standing on the dock at the moment one unknown Carabiniere shouted "DOWN!" in Italian, three did not understand the word and so reacted too late when the machine-gun fire began. Jack Cornish. Fahrid Moussa. Robbie Lewis.

Salvo stood and helped Laura to her feet. When she saw almost everyone else getting to their feet except Robbie, saw the blood on his clothes, saw that he wasn't moving at all, she bolted toward him. Salvo caught her shoulder and pulled her back.

"No, Laura, no!" He had no idea how well she was accustomed to blood and guts. She struggled against his grasp but she could tell he was too strong for her, and he wouldn't let go. She turned and stared him directly in the eyes, but he was shaking his head and trying to calm her. He shushed her anguished Nooo!, but she would not be denied. She jerked her knee up—swift, sharp, and hard—between his legs.

Wordlessly, and almost in slow motion, his mouth gaped, his eyes watered, and he bent over, dropping his hands too late to protect himself, and he nearly fell, gasping, retching, stumbling.

Laura lost no time watching his pain but turned and ran to Robbie's side as he lay motionless on the concrete. "Robbie? Robbie?" She desperately sought some sign of life, of consciousness, of anything but the worst possible outcome.

Almost immediately, James was at her side, and together they checked Lewis for a pulse—There!—and for some kind of consciousness. But in the latter, they were not rewarded. The doctor-sense in Laura kicked in then, and she realized there were two other people lying motionless on the dock. Jack Cornish lay next to Robbie, and he was also alive and, like Robbie, unconscious. Then she checked Fahrid, and found him barely awake but with consciousness ebbing, and groaning in considerable pain. He smiled faintly when Laura bent over him and cradled his head in her hands.

"You have been so kind to me. Thank you."

Laura felt tears rise, but she resisted the urge to cry: the men needed help right away. She locked eyes on one of the Carabinieri, one she had marked as being a higher-ranking officer: "We need helicopters! These people need a hospital!" Between Fazio and Hathaway, the message got through quickly, and within minutes they heard the pulse of approaching helicopters.

Only after all that, did she check to see how Salvo was doing. He sat on a concrete traffic barricade, his face screwed up in pain, and he leaned away as she approached, as though trying to put distance between himself and this dangerous woman. She put on her most apologetic face. "I'm really sorry, Salvo. I didn't mean to hurt you." He flinched when she touched his shoulder. She took his chin in her hands to bring his eyes to hers, and she gave him the softest look she could manage. "Really. Erm, mi dispiace. Molto. Molto-molto."

She earned only a grimace from him. He waved her off without making a clear acceptance of her apology. Fazio approached to see what he could do for his boss. As Laura straightened, she turned to him. "I really am . . . mi dispiace molto." Salvo's bagman looked very protective of him, and he said something to Hathaway, who translated for Laura: "Apparently Salvo thought you were too delicate to handle blood and torn flesh."

Fazio wondered at their shared mirth in response to his explanation. Hathaway pointed to Laura. "E' patologista!" A pathologist. Fazio snorted at the irony and with a wry grin, gestured toward the stricken Salvo. "He need . . . la sua amore viene qua presto . . ." With his accompanying gestures, she got it well enough. Salvo was expecting a visit from his girlfriend. And he would need his injured parts to function.

She smothered a giggle and mustered up a sympathetic expression. "I'm so sorry, Salvo. But you came between me and Robbie . . ." Her gestures provided the rest of the explanation. "I can't help you with that." She waved toward his injury.

He couldn't suppress a low groan.