The Book of Names Read Free Page B

life: partially graded papers, binders and books, a box of Sharpie fine-point pens, a framed photo of himself and Stacy on their last ski trip to Vail, and the milky gray-blue gemstone he kept perched in the hand of the red ceramic monkey that Judd Wanamaker, his father’s best friend, had brought him from Thailand when he was eight.
    Yanking open the center drawer of his rolltop desk, he fumbled under bank statements and bills until his fingers closed around the thick red notebook. Heart pounding, he scanned the pages where all the names were written.
    One hundred forty-five pages, filled with names. Thousands and thousands of names.
    And then he saw it. Right there in the middle of page forty-two.
    Beverly Panagoupolos.
    He’d written it on October seventh, 1994. He always marked down the dates when the names found him. Beverly’s had found him when he was twenty-two.
    All those years ago, he’d written her name. And today he’d written it again. On the day she died.
    He looked at the names. A United Nations of names. Encompassing, he was certain, every nationality on earth.
    Throughout his teens, he’d thumbed through phone books in every city his family vacationed, trying to find the names he was writing.
    He never had, and after a while he’d given up.
    But today he knew for certain one of the names belonged to a murdered woman. A chill came over him as he wondered if there were more.
    VILLA CASA DELLA FALCONARA, SICILY
    Irina was in darkness. Cold. Afraid. Naked.
    Holy Virgin, how long will they keep me here, waiting? For what?
    The silk blindfold was soft against her eyelids, but she had no idea how long it had been on. Even when they brought her food and unbound her hands so she could eat and use the toilet, she was never permitted to remove the blindfold.
    She wanted to go home, to sit by the front window and embroider her wedding pillowcases. She had five more to finish before she married Mario.
    Would she marry Mario? Was he looking for her? Weeping for her? Would she ever see his face again?
    Warm tears soaked the silk that bound her eyes. Sheshivered and sent up a silent prayer. The same one she said every day, over and over.
    Where are you, God?
    Â 
    On moonlit nights in August, the Italian prime minister liked to sit in the garden of his hilltop villa and smoke the Cuban cigars his father had first let him smoke there on his eighth birthday. Casa della Falconara, which overlooked the age-old amphitheater at Segesta, had belonged to his family for over four generations. His parents had chosen its grand terrace with its spectacular views for their sunset wedding reception seventy years ago, but the garden was his own favorite sanctuary, where no one dared disturb him.
    There, on hot August nights, he could close his eyes and savor the fragrance of the lemon groves wafting up from the valley while he listened to the ancient Greek and Latin plays reenacted in the amphitheater below.
    Tonight the amphitheater was quiet and the garden deserted, but within the weathered walls of his villa, Eduardo DiStefano presided over a select group of guests, twenty men conversing in muted and dignified tones.
    The prime minister’s butler moved silently around the long table where they sat, refilling their goblets with thirty-five-year-old port. No one spoke of anything beyond the broiling weather, or the six-course meal they’d just enjoyed, until Silvio had slipped from the room and they heard the intricately carved mahogany door click closed behind him. Then Eduardo DiStefano stood, locked the door, and began to speak with the charm and elegance for which he was known.
    â€œTonight, my faithful friends, we have reached a turning point. Thirty-three obstacles have been eliminated.”DiStefano paused, appreciation shimmering in his penetrating eyes as vigorous applause broke out. He was a man of striking good looks, with an intelligent high forehead, a strong jaw, and a smile that could