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things such as this.”
    “I’m sure after your liberation this evening it would have quickly found its way back to Russia?”
    He smiled. “The Russians are no better than thieves themselves. They want their treasures back only to sell them. Cash poor, I hear. The price of Communism, apparently.”
    “I am curious. What brought you here?”
    “A photograph of this room in which the match case was visible. So I came to pose as a professor of art history.”
    “You determined authenticity from that brief visit two months ago?”
    “I am an expert on such things. Particularly Fabergé.” He laid the match case down. “You should have accepted my offer of purchase.”
    “Far too low, even for ‘beautiful loot.’ Besides, the piece has sentimental value. My father was the soldier who pocketed the souvenir, as you so aptly describe.”
    “And you so casually display it?”
    “After fifty years, I assumed nobody cared.”
    “You should be careful of visitors and photos.”
    Caproni shrugged. “Few come here.”
    “Just the signorinas? Like the one upstairs now?”
    “And none of them are interested in such things.”
    “Only euros?”
    “And pleasure.”
    He smiled and casually fingered the match case again. “You are a man of means, Signor Caproni. This villa is like a museum. That Aubusson tapestry there on the wall is priceless. Those two Roman capriccios are certainly valued collectibles. Hof, I believe, nineteenth century?”
    “Good, Signor Knoll. I’m impressed.”
    “Surely you can part with this match case.”
    “I do not like thieves, Signor Knoll. And, as I said during your last visit, the item is not for sale.” Caproni gestured with the gun. “Now you must leave.”
    He stayed rooted. “What a quandary. You certainly cannot involve the police. After all, you possess a treasured relic the Russian government would very much like returned—pilfered by your father. What else in this villa fits into that category? There would be questions, inquiries, publicity. Your friends in Rome will be of little help, since you will then be regarded as a thief.”
    “Lucky for you, Signor Knoll, I cannot involve the authorities.”
    He casually straightened, then twitched his right arm. It was an unnoticed gesture partially obscured by his thigh. He watched as Caproni’s gaze stayed on the match case in his left hand. The stiletto released from its sheath and slowly inched down the loose sleeve until settling into his right palm. “No reconsideration, Signor Caproni?”
    “None.” Caproni backed toward the foyer and gestured again with the gun. “This way, Signor Knoll.”
    He wrapped his fingers tight on the handle and rolled his wrist forward. One flick, and the blade zoomed across the room, piercing Caproni’s bare chest in the hairy V formed by the robe. The older man heaved, stared down at the handle, then fell forward, his gun clattering across the terrazzo.
    He quickly deposited the match case into the felt bag, then stepped across to the body. He withdrew the stiletto and checked for a pulse. None. Surprising. The man died fast.
    But his aim had been true.
    He cleaned the blood off on the robe, slid the blade into his back pocket, then mounted the stairs to the second floor. More faux marble panels lined the upper foyer, periodically interrupted by paneled doors, all closed. He stepped lightly across the floor and headed toward the rear of the house. A closed door waited at the far end of the hall.
    He turned the knob and entered.
    A pair of marble columns defined an alcove where a king-size poster bed rested. A low-wattage lamp burned on the nightstand, the light absorbed by a symphony of walnut paneling and leather. The room was definitely a rich man’s bedroom.
    The woman sitting on the edge of the bed was naked. Long, dramatic red hair framed a pair of pyramid-like breasts and exquisite almond-shaped eyes. She was puffing on a thin black-and-gold cigarette and gave him only a disconcerting