Instead, he was miserable. Battista and Carlo had escaped with Francesca and the children as hostages. According to the police, after fleeing the palace in their speedboat they’d left the country in Battista’s private jet. Destination unknown. The dead and wounded from the masquerade ball had been taken to the hospital. The last of the guests had given their statements and staggered home, exhausted after the long night. The police remained downstairs, crawling over the crime scene in the ballroom. The chief inspector was an old friend of Mario’s. He had escorted him and his unlikely group of costumed American companions to Battista’s office upstairs, where they could avoid the crush of reporters and photographers parked at each of the exits. They were supposed to sit tight and await the arrival of the elite anti-terrorism division of the Italian National Police. Marshall and Lacey sat behind Battista’s desk. Marshall’s left arm was thickly bandaged from wrist to elbow, held in a sling.
