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already talking about bankrolling both of them. Which, by the way, he can afford. You don’t need that kind of trouble.”
    “Screw Nettles.”
    Last time he’d arranged the fund-raisers, handled advertising, and courted the people needed to secure endorsements, attract the press, and secure votes. He wondered who would run her campaign this time. Organization was not Rachel’s strong suit. So far she hadn’t asked for help, and he really didn’t expect her to. “You can lose, you know.”
    “I don’t need a political lecture.”
    “What do you need, Rachel?”
    “None of your damn business. We’re divorced. Remember?”
    He recalled what her father said. “Do you? We’ve been apart three years now. Have you dated anyone during that time?”
    “That’s also none of your business.”
    “Maybe not. But I seem to be the only one who cares.”
    She stepped close. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “The Ice Queen. That’s what they call you around the court-house.”
    “I get the job done. Rated highest of any judge in the county last time theDaily Report checked stats.”
    “That all you care about? How fast you clear a docket?”
    “Judges can’t afford friends. You either get accused of bias or are hated for a lack of it. I’d rather be the Ice Queen.”
    It was late, and he didn’t feel like an argument. He brushed past her toward the front door. “One day you may need a friend. I wouldn’t burn all my bridges if I were you.” He opened the door.
    “You’re not me,” she said.
    “Thank God.”
    And he left.

The Amber Room

 SEVEN
    Northeast Italy
    Wednesday, May 7, 1:34 a.m.
    His umber jumpsuit, black leather gloves, and charcoal sneakers blended with the night. Even his close-cropped, bottle-dyed chestnut hair, matching eyebrows, and swarthy complexion helped, the past two weeks spent scouring North Africa having left a tan on his Nordic face.
    Gaunt peaks rose all around him, a jagged amphitheater barely distinguishable from the pitch sky. A full moon hung in the east. A spring chill lingered in the air that was fresh, alive, and different. The mountains echoed a low peal of distant thunder.
    Leaves and straw cushioned his every step, the underbrush thin under gangly trees. Moonlight dappled through the canopy, spotting the trail with iridescence. He chose his steps carefully, resisting the urge to use his penlight, his sharp eyes ready and alert.
    The village of Pont-Saint-Martin lay a full ten kilometers to the south. The only way north was a snaking two-lane road that led eventually, after forty more kilometers, to the Austrian border and Innsbruck. The BMW he’d rented yesterday at the Venice airport waited a kilometer back in a stand of trees. After finishing his business he planned to drive north to Innsbruck, where tomorrow an 8:35A .M. Austrian Airlines shuttle would whisk him to St. Petersburg, where more business awaited.
    Silence surrounded him. No church bells clanging or cars screaming past on the autostrada. Just ancient groves of oak, fir, and larch patchworking the mountainous slopes. Ferns, mosses, and wildflowers carpeted the dark hollows. Easy to see why da Vinci included the Dolemites in the background of theMona Lisa .
    The forest ended. A grassy meadow of blossoming orange lilies spread before him. The château rose at the far end, a pebbled drive horseshoeing in front. The building was two stories tall, its redbrick walls decorated with gray lozenges. He remembered the stones from his last visit two months ago, surely crafted by masons who’d learned from their fathers and grandfathers.
    None of the forty or so dormer windows flickered with light. The oaken front door likewise loomed dark. No fences, dogs, or guards. No alarms. Just a rambling country estate in the Italian Alps owned by a reclusive manufacturer who’d been semiretired for almost a decade.
    He knew that Pietro Caproni, the château’s owner, slept on the second floor in a series of rooms that