“And Gabriel?”
“Yes.”
“Now I am ready,” he says before slapping my backside and moving past me out of the door.
I am not sure what kind of car I expected Mrs Bellacci to drive, but a slick black Mercedes four-wheel-drive sports car with a fabric roof sits on the main road outside the lodge entrance. Then again, I did not expect to see the aristocratic-looking blonde woman sitting behind the wheel. Lorenzo tosses our bags in the back seat and jumps in with them, letting me sit up front. Seconds later, Mrs Bellacci puts the car into gear, and I sink into the leather upholstery.
The first twenty minutes go by in silence. Only as we hit a dual-lane A-road does Mrs Bellacci speak with barely suppressed anger. Everything she says is in Italian and clearly aimed at Lorenzo. I do not interrupt but watch the wing mirror to ensure we are not being tailed.
“You were reckless,” she says eventually, in English for my benefit. “Swimming in plain sight. We need to call Dr Romano and tell him what happened. He will not be happy.”
I see her prod a finger on the large display in the centre console to bring up telephone contacts.
“Wait. Is that how you think they found us?” I say, noticing Lorenzo catch my eye in the rearview mirror. “That’s not what happened. They fixed a tracking device to Lorenzo’s bike. Back in Italy.”
“How?” asked Mrs Bellacci, her head snapping around.
“The day I became Aksel, Lorenzo and I went for a bike ride. One of their agents identified Lorenzo when we stopped for a coffee and planted the tracker on his bike.”
“How do you know this?” asks Bellacci, unconvinced.
“One of our captors told me.”
“And you believe them?”
Her tone is castigating, and, unusually for me, I find myself rattled by the rebuke.
“Maybe a more important question to ask is whyyou’rehere?”
“The doctor asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“Pull the car over,” I demand, pointing ahead. We are on a long stretch of road in open country, but a picnic area on our left is a few hundred years away. Mrs Bellacci glares at me briefly before slowing the car and stopping beneath the cover of an oak tree in an empty lay-by.
“I don’t want to have this conversation while we’re driving,” I say, turning my full attention to Mrs Bellacci. “But do you honestly believe these people found us because we happened tobe swimming in Lake Grasmere? Come on, Mrs Bellacci. They were not already here on the off chance we might show up. We were either tracked or someone told them where we were. And there are only four people who knew our location—Lorenzo, you, Dr Romano and me. So, unless you believe one of us is a traitor and gave our position away, there must be another, more plausible explanation.”
Mrs Bellacci refuses to look at me but nods as I speak.
“Look, I agree they must have studied our routine of swimming in the morning and taken advantage of that to capture us. I would have done the same, and I take full responsibility. Thankfully, Lorenzo checked in with you regularly, and I had a sense you might be close.”
“The lodge is covered by trees and not easy to protect.”
“But you managed.”
She nods once. “You say you were helped by one of them?” she asks. “An undercover agent for who, the Americans?”
“He is not undercover. He is a Russian agent.”
“And you are telling me this information was given freely by a Russian operative?”
“He had a good reason to help me. We trained together as children. At the Hartfield Institute.”
“And you believe this?” Her tone is more inquisitive and less challenging this time.
“Wholeheartedly.”
The news is met with silence. When I turn to Mrs Bellacci, she mutters something in Italian but does not look at me. I wait for her to translate, but she does not.
“What did she say?”