‘Hm. But let’s not forget the unique properties of iridium,’ said Jack. ‘After all, that’s why we are here, gentlemen.’
‘You are right,’ said a woman at the bottom of the stairs who had overheard Jack’s remark. ‘I am Professor Flaubert, the metallurgist.’
‘This is Jack Rogan. All of this was his idea,’ said Lapointe, making the introductions and trying to distance himself from what he personally believed to be a harebrained idea. As a methodical man who strictly followed the trail of logic and evidence, the notion of finding anything of value in this singed rubble, as postulated by Jack, was an alien concept based entirely on speculation. But then again, he had to admit that Jack had come up with some surprising ideas and results in the past that simply defied logic and rational method. For that reason, he had reluctantly gone along with the proposal to search the premises again.
‘What do you think, Professor; is it possible that a piece of meteorite containing iridium could have survived the blaze and in essence remained intact?’ asked Jack.
‘Sure, it’s possible. But we are looking for a needle in a burnt-out haystack open to the elements, perhaps buried somewhere under this mountain of rubble here. We have no idea how big it is, or what shape it is. We don’t even know if it’s here at all. We could be standing right next to it and mistake if for a piece of masonry just like this one, because any gold would have melted for sure and was perhaps retrieved by the insurers, or just lost. The temperatures in this inferno must have been extremely high down here.’
‘But not hot enough to melt iridium,’ Jack cut in.
‘Very unlikely.’ The professor picked up a piece of blackened masonry and held it up. The piece we are looking for, could look just like this.’
Jack nodded, trying hard not to appear too dejected, as the enormity of the task became obvious. What had seemed plausible and a good idea in theory, looked very different under the microscope of reality.
‘That’s why I brought this along,’ said the professor and held up a gadget that looked like a Dyson vacuum cleaner.
‘What’s that?’ asked Dupree.
‘A very sensitive metal detector,’ said the professor, smiling. ‘Once the rubble has been spread out on the concrete floor here a little, making it more even, we can go to work. This metal detector can potentially detect celestial rocks. It will certainly find any of the platinum-group metals, like osmium, palladium, rhodium and, of course, iridium – even just traces of it inside a piece of meteorite.’
‘Excellent,’ said Jack, feeling no longer quite so crestfallen. Forever the optimist, he would try running a ten-tonne truck on the smell of an oily rag if it meant getting a shot at what he was after.
Lapointe walked back up the stairs, lit his pipe and watched the Forensics team spread out the rubble below, as directed by the professor. It was obvious to Jack that he considered the whole exercise a waste of time. About an hour later, Professor Flaubert went to work with her metal detector. Countless twisted metal pieces of all sizes, or objects with traces of metal, were found and carefully placed into boxes as she methodically covered the floor from side to side. To her trained eye, none of the fragments came even close to what she was looking for. Aware that Jack was watching her intently, she was too polite to make a comment, and instead continued to work until she had covered the entire floor area.
Professor Flaubert turned off the metal detector, looked up at Lapointe, and shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was kept in another part of the house?’
‘Unlikely,’ said Dupree. ‘All of Malenkova’s prized possessions were apparently kept down here. And besides, upstairs is a complete mess. I wouldn’t even know where to start.’
‘I would,’ Tristan called out from above. He had spent the past hour exploring the ruins above the crypt.
‘What are you getting at, mate?’ asked Jack, recognising the familiar signs.
‘Difficult to explain, but I felt something.’
‘Where?’
‘I’ll show you.’
‘Professor, would you mind?’
‘No. Why not?’
Jack, Dupree and Professor Flaubert walked back upstairs and followed Tristan to the back of the house. Reluctantly, Lapointe followed a few steps behind, carefully dodging singed roof beams and twisted metal, all part of the collapsed roof structure. ‘This used to be a church,’ he said, ‘before it was converted into a house.’
Jack turned to the professor. ‘Tristan has a sixth sense,’ he explained. ‘I’ve seen it at work many times. He’s a remarkable young man.’
The professor didn’t reply.
‘In here,’ said Tristan.
‘I think this was Malenkova’s study, if I’m not mistaken,’ said Dupree and turned to Lapointe. ‘What do you think?’
‘You’re right. And her desk was just over there, as I recall it. In front of the fireplace.’ Lapointe pointed to a partially collapsed wall.
Tristan held up his hand and closed his eyes. ‘Can you hear it?’
‘What?’ asked Jack.
‘Chanting.’
Lapointe turned to the professor. ‘They say he can hear the whisper of angels.’
‘Ah. In that case, let’s see what they are whispering about,’ said the professor and turned on the metal detector.
It took the professor only a few minutes before getting a loud signal from somewhere under a mound of ash near the fireplace. Jack knelt down and began to clear away the powdery ash with his bare hands. Tristan knelt down beside him and helped.
‘The voices are getting stronger,’ he whispered.
Jack’s fingertips touched it first: something cold and smooth. Then Tristan’s fingers touched it too, and together they carefully lifted from the ash a heavy object the size of Jack’s hand, and held it up. It looked like a shiny piece of rock or metal.
Mesmerised, Lapointe watched as the professor held the metal detector against it, the beeping noise becoming louder and more urgent. Smiling, Jack handed the piece to the professor. ‘What do you think?’ he said.
‘Could be, but to be sure, I would have to take it back to my lab and test—’
Jack held out his hand. ‘No need. I can tell you right now if this is what we’ve been looking for,’ he said.
‘How?’ said the professor, surprised, and handed the piece to Jack.
Slowly, Jack began to rub the smooth surface with the back of his sleeve, wiping away the soot and grime, his heart beating like a drum.
‘Because of this,’ he said quietly. Then he held the piece up like a trophy and pointed to some clearly visible markings scratched into the smooth, shiny surface.
47
Port de Fontvieille, Monaco: 5 November
No-one standing next to the distinguished-looking elderly gentleman waiting in line to buy an ice cream in his crisp linen jacket and straw hat, would have guessed that they were almost rubbing shoulders with one of the most dangerous, and wanted, hitmen in Europe. The man smiled at the young woman behind the ice-cream cart with its colourful sun umbrella, and ordered two scoops – one vanilla and one chocolate – and then continued to stroll past the ostentatious millionaires’ pleasure craft moored along the famous waterfront of Port de Fontvieille, like badges of wealth to be admired by the less fortunate.
The largest and most imposing vessel by far was Nike, the Giordano family’s motor yacht – a magnificent, thirty-metre customised Majesty 105 superyacht built by Gulf Craft in the United Arab Emirates – which was permanently moored in the harbour. Since his father’s arrest, Alessandro had made Nike his home, and was running what was left of the family business from there. Since the recent collapse of the Giordanos’ lucrative drug business caused by the Stolzfus fiasco that had brought down Spiridon 4, Alessandro felt safer on board the Nike, surrounded by his bodyguards and crew, than at the family home in Florence. Florence had become a dangerous cauldron of rivalry between Mafia families jostling for position in the ever-shrinking drugs market, which was slowly being str
angled by Chief Prosecutor Grimaldi and the Squadra Mobile. Desperately short of money, Alessandro was always on the lookout for an opportunity to improve the family’s declining fortunes.
Enjoying his ice cream, the man in the linen jacket stopped in front of the Nike and smiled at the man, one of Alessandro’s muscle-bound bodyguards, standing at the gangway. Why do they all look the same? thought the man, shaking his head. He finished his ice cream and was about to step onto the gangway when the bodyguard held up his hand. ‘That’s far enough, grandpa,’ he said. ‘Move along.’
‘I don’t think so. Why don’t you be a good boy and run inside, and tell Alessandro that Grandpa Dragan is here to see him, eh? That way you’ll keep your job, and I won’t have to blow your head off to get past you. What do you think?’
Nonplussed, the bodyguard stared at the grey-haired man in front of him, unsure what to do. But something about the man triggered alarm bells: he radiated confidence and danger. ‘Did you say Dragan?’ asked the bodyguard. ‘You are Dragan?’
‘I am. Now, what will it be?’
‘Wait here,’ said the bodyguard and hurried up the gangplank.
Moments later, Alessandro appeared on deck. ‘I didn’t expect you until this evening,’ he said, waving from above. ‘Come on board.’
Alessandro had never met Dragan M, as he was known in certain Mafia circles, but he had heard a lot about him. His father had engaged him on several occasions over the years, but only in connection with the most sensitive and important assignments. All Alessandro knew about him was that he was Bulgarian, very expensive, and the best in the business. For that reason, his father had used Dragan for the very public assassination of Salvatore Gambio, the person thought to be responsible for the killing of Alessandro’s brother, Mario, in Florence two years earlier.
In fact, it had been Dragan who had recommended Spiridon 4 for jobs that required more than one operative, as he preferred to work alone. With Spiridon 4 no more, Alessandro’s father had suggested that Dragan be approached with the sensitive assignment that had come up unexpectedly.
‘Thank you for coming so promptly,’ said Alessandro and pointed to a white leather lounge in the corner of the opulent, wood-panelled salon. ‘Drink?’
‘Yes, please. Gin and tonic.’
‘Coming up. I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t, you know, and with Father in jail—’
Dragan held up his hand. ‘No need to explain. Your father and I go back a long way. We’ve done business together for many years.’
‘I know. And it is for that reason Father suggested I should turn to you now. But there’s also another reason.’
‘What other reason?’ asked Dragan, watching Alessandro carefully.
‘Because this assignment is related to others you were involved in quite a long time ago.’
‘Oh? Can you be more specific?’
‘Louis Mendoza in Seville, Blumenthal in Berlin, Junipero de Avila in Santiago de Compostela, and Miguel Barrera in La Laguna.’
‘The Death Mask matter? Are you serious? My God, that was years ago.’
‘I know. But this is part of it.’
‘Are you sure? How come?’
‘Same – how shall I put this? – client.’
‘The elusive man with the deep pockets we never met? Is he still around?’
‘Yes, he is. And still doing business. The same business, it would appear.’
‘Extraordinary,’ said Dragan. ‘After Barrera, things became more complicated, and then Spiridon 4 stepped in.’
‘Yes, with the three Paris assignments. The client became more demanding and peculiar with his requests. The last one was the gay prostitute in Montmartre.’
‘The Landru case, if I remember correctly,’ said Dragan.
‘Correct. But, of course, Spiridon 4 are now gone.’
‘Sadly so,’ said Dragan, who had not only recommended the group, but had actually trained them. He had first come across them at the end of the Kosovo war in 2000. Twin girls and two gypsy brothers drifting aimlessly through the Bulgarian countryside, begging for food after their families had been brutally murdered.
Dragan had taken them in and began to train them on his farm near the ancient town of Bononia. He could still remember training manoeuvres with the group in the ruins of the Babini Vidini Kuli fortress, the home of the last Bulgarian Tsar Ivan Sratsimir, who lost his country and his crown to the Ottomans. Dragan had shown them how to dispose of dead bodies without leaving a trace; one of his specialities that had kept him alive all these years, and out of reach of the law. A few years later, the group was ready and became Spiridon 4, one of the most successful and deadly hit squads in Europe.
‘Another drink?’ asked Alessandro.
‘Yes, please. But before we go much further, I have to tell you that I am retired now. After Teodora and her sister died, I knew it was time for me to step back. I wanted to tell you this in person. That’s why I’m here. Call me old fashioned, or over cautious, but like your father, I don’t like discussing important matters over the phone, however secure.’
Alessandro nodded and handed Dragan another drink. ‘I understand, but I cannot think of another person who could carry out this assignment successfully. Father said it has you written all over it and would be a fitting conclusion to something that began almost thirty years ago. And Petrinko is also involved. You recommended him, remember?’
‘So, Bohdan accepted?’
‘He did. He needed a change, and some money,’ said Alessandro, watching Dragan carefully. In the end, everything usually came down to money. ‘He left Kiev, and Azov, and is now in Paris, working for the “client” and making a fortune.’
‘What kind of fortune?’
‘Let me come straight to the point,’ said Alessandro, pleased by the direction the conversation was taking. He paused and looked at Dragan. ‘Petrinko cannot do this by himself. He needs someone like you by his side to make this work. I have already discussed this with the client, who understands your position. However, to make coming out of retirement worthwhile, I have been authorised to make you an offer.’
‘What kind of offer?’ said Dragan, trying in vain to look disinterested.
Alessandro took his time before replying. He could see that he had Dragan’s attention. ‘One million US, plus a success fee,’ he said quietly.
Dragan whistled softly and reached for his drink. ‘That’s quite an offer,’ he said, thinking of his rapidly shrinking bank account. Retirement had turned out to be far more expensive than he had thought. ‘What’s involved?’
‘It’s about an artefact that was recently recovered by the Paris police from the ruins of a house fire near Paris. The client wants to get his hands on this artefact at any cost. This assignment is about just that.’
‘Where’s that artefact now?’
‘With the Paris police. Their Forensics department.’
Dragan began to laugh. ‘As you know, I’ve taken on difficult assignments many times before, but never impossible ones.’
‘This isn’t impossible, only complex, requiring the imagination and daring that have been the hallmarks of all of your jobs,’ said Alessandro.
‘Can you be more specific?’
‘May I take it that you are perhaps interested?’
‘I’m talking to you, am I not?’
‘Excellent. In that case, let me tell you.’
Over the next hour, Alessandro outlined a plan so bold that most rational operatives available on the market would have dismissed it outright as risky nonsense, and walked away. Dragan, however, listened attentively without interrupting, his mind racing as he tried to work out the logistical considerations involved in making such a project work.
What Alessandro didn’t tell him was the real reason the plan had so many specific, seemingly unrelated, extravagant components insisted upon by the client. This had nothing to do with eccentricity, and everything to do with an ingenious plan. Not only did O’Hara want to get h
old of the artefact; he wanted to do so as part of a huge, final computer game and gambling extravaganza on the dark net that would be a fitting conclusion to the Death Mask Murders, and answer all outstanding questions in one spectacular finale that would make him, and Alessandro, a fortune.
48
Kuragin chateau: 7 November
The police officer sitting in the car parked in front of the Gatekeeper’s Cottage watched as the motorcycle rider crossed the bridge and approached the cottage. ‘Let’s see what he wants,’ he said to his colleague, a young constable, and got out of the car.
Wearing a leather vest with the logo of a well-known Paris courier company on the back, Petrinko pulled up next to the police officer holding up his hand, and stopped his bike. ‘Delivery for Monsieur Landru,’ he said and pushed up the visor of his helmet.
‘You can give it to me. I’ll take it to him.’
‘All right,’ said Petrinko and opened his saddle bag. Smiling, he reached into the bag, pulled out a Glock 19 with a silencer attached, and shot the officer in the forehead without taking his eyes off the constable sitting in the police car, watching him. Even before the dead police officer hit the ground, Petrinko had fired two more rounds as he got off the bike. The first shot shattered the windscreen of the police car, the second hit the constable, a young woman, in the shoulder. Petrinko opened the driver’s door and looked at the constable staring at him, her eyes wide with disbelief and fear. ‘Nothing personal, love,’ he said and shot her between the eyes, and then adjusted the GoPro strapped to his chest that had recorded it all.
As Petrinko turned around, he could see a black van cross the bridge. Realising that timing was critical, he hurried over to the van as it pulled up behind the police car. ‘All clear,’ he said.
‘I can see,’ said Dragan. He got out of the van and handed Petrinko a clown’s mask. The instructions from the client had been quite specific. Then he quickly took a couple of photos of the two dead police officers with his iPhone, before putting on his own mask.
The Death Mask Murders Page 29
