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professional approach to will a Caravaggio to it. It had happened before—but never, unfortunately, with a Caravaggio.
    The three o’clock meeting with a curator and the administrative head of the Galleria Borghese was over in fifteen minutes. There were only a few details to iron out, which Mason knew when he planned this trip. The meeting could easily have been accomplished by telephone. But using the phone would have meant not making this particular journey to Italy. Of all the trips Luther Mason had taken there over the years, this one had to be made.

5
THE FOLLOWING MORNING
    Carlo Giliberti was late for breakfast, something to do, he told Luther, with an unexpected and thoroughly delightful meeting with a female friend he hadn’t seen in years—“
Bellezza rara
, Luther, a raving beauty”—who was reluctant to have him leave her apartment that morning. Luther had already eaten and was waiting in the lobby, his suitcases at his side. The Italian cultural attaché’s penchant for being late was pathological. And so routine it no longer annoyed Mason.
    They placed the luggage in the rear seat of Giliberti’s red Fiat convertible. Mason folded his lanky frame into the passenger bucket seat, secured the seat belt, and clenched his teeth. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have insisted that Giliberti arrange for a government vehicle and driver. But this was not an ordinary circumstance.
    From the moment Giliberti slapped the gearshift into first and pulled away from the curb, Mason’s apprehension was understandable. Giliberti was a pure madman behind the wheel, perhaps no more maniacal than the million other drivers in Rome that morning, but sufficiently demented to cause Mason to wince and to tighten his stomach muscles as though preparing to pull G-forces. No matter how often Mason asked Giliberti to slow down, it only inspired the Italian to go faster.
    They roared south out of Rome on the A2, the honey and pomegranate hues of the city, the ancient red brick and gleaming white marble and steel of skyscrapers sliding by inan Impressionistic blur as they headed for the less congested
Lazio
, that large region surrounding the city. Another request for Carlo to drive slower was met with a laugh and a surge of the powerful engine.
    “We aren’t meeting him until dinner,” Mason said over the whoosh of wind. “Why are we rushing?”
    “We are not rushing, Luther. We are going for a ride. Sit back. Relax. Italians are born to speed.”
    And to lose wars, Mason thought grimly.
    They said little to each other as they passed the Alban Hills on their left; to their right was the beginning of the Tyrrhenian Coast, home to sun-seeking hedonists.
    They passed through the town of Frosinone and continued southward into the Campania region until reaching Naples, where they exited the A2. Giliberti followed narrow, winding local roads down along the Amalfi coast, passing Mount Vesuvius and going through the city of Pompeii, then heading directly south to the pastel seaside resort village of Positano. They checked into the Poseidon, on the coast road near the San Pietro.
    “What time are we meeting with him?” Mason asked as they checked in.
    “We made very good time, huh?” Giliberti said. “We will meet at eight. Would you like some feminine companionship this afternoon? Positano has the loveliest of
puttane
.”
    A prostitute was the furthest thing from Mason’s mind. “No,” he said. “I’m still fatigued. A nap is certainly in order, maybe a swim in the pool.”
    “As you wish. One thing concerning our dinner this evening.”
    “What is that?” Mason asked as a bellman approached to take their baggage.
    “The gentleman you will meet is deceiving in his appearance. He is an old man, Luther. Such men are often thought to not pose a threat to anyone. Too old. Too feeble. But he is very powerful in this part of Italy. His connections are strong. Those who work for him are extremely loyal.”
    As the bellman