Whistle Blower

by Terry Morgan

  THE LITTLE BLUE Fiat 500 driven by Jan and with Tom alongside as navigator was on the outskirts of Como at a fuel station.

  "I'm almost out of cash," Jan admitted. He had earlier reminded Tom that Guido's technology might extend to tracking credit card use so he wasn't keen on using his card. He was also quite keen to check his current bank balance.

  "No worries, Jan. I'll pay. We'll make a fortune selling a story if we catch Guido." He smiled and looked at Jan's face. The Dutchman seemed to have grown visibly more nervous the closer they got to Como. But, car refuelled, they set off again. As they passed the Ospedale Valduce, Tom's phone rang. It was Jim.

  "I'm at the American Embassy, Tom. Did you ever get a clear shot of Guido's car registration number?"

  "No, Jim. I wasn't feeling brave enough to get that close."

  "But you photographed the Mercedes?"

  "From a distance and in the dark."

  Jim quickly explained his reasons and what he wanted.

  They were now on Via Torno and had picked up the SS583 and, as Tom played around with his mobile phone pictures library, Jan stopped the car to look down to the Viale Geno and Lake Como. "Nice view, Tom."

  "Yes," muttered Tom, engrossed in the phone, "Guido's fat little backside and Eischmann's dark shadow. But there's the Mercedes and Eischmann's BMW. Jesus it's much too dark. I should have been braver, gotten out and taken a close-up. Anyway, let's send it."

  They sat and waited. Fifteen minutes later, Jim phoned again.

  "OK, Tom, we've got them. Let's see what the FBI's technical experts can make of that. I'll phone you as soon as we have anything."

  The Fiat 500 moved away into growing darkness but the mood of the two men was also getting darker.

  "It's all too vague, Tom, and it'll be dark soon. Remember what we're looking for—a big villa with trees on the lake road to Blevio and Torno. We could have passed it already. Shall we leave everything until morning? Find a hotel?"

  "It's not a long road, Jan. Six miles? Let's drive slowly from here to Torno, then turn back. If nothing, we'll try again in the morning. Then, if still nothing, we give up. Leave it to Jim, Jonathan and the FBI or whoever."

  "It's too dark already."

  "Nah. Lights everywhere. It's like daylight."

  "With fucking dark shadows. What is it you English say about clutching at straws?"

  "I'm not bloody English, Jan, I'm Irish. The Irish are more optimistic. Anyway, turn off here," Tom said, checking the map on his phone. "Via Roma. The road twists down towards the lake and heads into Torno."

  Jan turned off. Tom continued to mutter. "What was it the forklift driver said? Beside the lake, he said. There's the lake. Boats. See the lights?"

  "I'm fucking driving."

  Tom was craning his neck. "And there's a Mercedes."

  "We've passed a hundred today."

  "But that's the first I've seen behind a gate. A big house with trees. Lights were on in the driveway. At least one other car."

  Jan drove on. "Are you telling me it must be Guido's car?"

  "No, but there was also what looked like a big BMW."

  "So Dirk Eischmann's paying a visit?" Jan was still driving, peering into the darkness.

  "What car did that woman drive? The one called Antonia Goretti who we think might be Toni?"

  "The lack of food is affecting you." Jan kept driving.

  "I'm testing you to see if you're awake because I've got the registration number of Toni's BMW."

  "You're right," Jan admitted. "I saw her in the car park in Brussels. It was a black BMW like Eischmann's."

  "Turn around."

  "Coincidence, Tom. Man and wife. His and hers—matching, big, black cars."

  "Turn around, Jan."

  "You sure?"

  "Didn't you hear me? I've got the registration number. It'll be easy to check.”

  "Straws, Tom."

  "Fuck you. Turn around."

  "OK, OK."

  Jan stopped, reversed into a gap, started to retrace the route.

  "Keep going, it's on my side now." As he said it, the phone on Tom's lap rang. "Yes?"

  It was Jim. "Your photos, Tom. They're good enough. We've got a number and the Italian police are being asked to help. Where are you?"

  "Near Torno. We’re checking a car right now, but it's dark. We're relying on streetlights and lights from houses—big houses—along this, ah…slow down, Jan. There it is. That one. Pull in. You were saying Jim?"

  "We've got a number for Guido's Mercedes. It's registered in the name of someone called Antonia Goretti, at an address in Monza, near Milan." Jim gave the number. Tom wrote it down.

  "That's the woman we know as Toni, Jim."

  Tom heard Jim relating that to someone else.

  "Who you talking to Jim?"

  "The FBI."

  Tom nodded at Jan who stopped the car. "OK, then can you now ask the FBI to check another number?" He then gave Jim the number on the Belgian registered black BMW he had followed from Delft. "If I'm right," Tom said, "then that number should also be registered in the name of Antonia Goretti."

  Chapter Ninety-One

  GUIDO, TOO, WAS on a mobile phone. Hot and bothered and arms waving, he was pacing up and down a thickly carpeted room lit by a glittering chandelier. Then he flopped down into a green, velvet arm chair, short legs tightly crossed and sighed.

  "Yah, yah, five million Euros using Puff. The fucking Syrians won't miss it. They'll waste it."

  There was a pause and he stood up again.

  "OK, OK, seven million Euros. Yah, because I didn't know where you were, Herr Eischmann. You, you fucking disappeared…Mi dispiace. I am very sorry, Dirk, but this business is too complicated now because you…mi dispiace again… I mean we, of course, we have been too, what shall I say, ambitious. I say many, many times, Herr Dirk, a good business is a simple business. You…mi dispiace…sorry, we, we recruited too many new people and now that fucking… that, that asshole, that fucking piece of shit, that faccia di merda, Kerkman has gone. He's talking, I know he is. He was in Zurich. But I'll find him because he doesn't have any money. But you, Herr Dirk, you can live on five million Euros… Sorry, seven million Euros. It is like a leaving present, the gold watch for good service. Retire, Dirk. Take your wife, Petra…it is not Petra? OK, it is Paula… it is the same letter P, Herr Dirk."

  There was a pause as Guido stood and the frantic pacing continued.

  "OK, I hear you, I hear you. They will hear you in Brussels. OK, OK, ten million Euros…yah, yah. That way you can pay the others and they will leave you alone. Tomorrow it will be transferred—Ciao, buonanotte, yah, yah…"

  Guido screamed. Then he screamed again. "Toni. Where the fuck are you?"

  Chapter Ninety-Two

  "I CAN'T SEE anything, Tom. It's too dark. And if it is Guido in there—which is only your opinion, not mine—and he comes out and sees me there is no way that this Fiat 500 will outpace that Mercedes. Let's come back in the morning. At day break if you like, I don't care."

  They were standing outside an iron gate in the shadow cast by a light from the winding driveway of a large house that overlooked the lake. Just visible were two big cars—a Mercedes and a BMW parked side by side, their registration plates hidden from view. Two lights were on inside the house.

  "Did you hear that?" Tom asked.

  "What?"

  "Someone shouting."

  "It was an owl. Let's go, find a hotel."

  "But if I can get in there, close enough, I can check the number plates."

  "By climbing over this gate? Or over the wall with the ivy growing on it. If it's Guido he's probably got guard dogs—bloody big Alsatians or a Doberman.

  "Ah, for God's sake. But perhaps you're right. I hate fucking dogs. Let's sleep in the car."

  "Tom. Christ's sake. Do you not fancy a pizza or something? I tell you, Tom, I'm about to collapse of hunger. We've hardly eaten since yesterday."

  "Ah, OK, I'm hearing what you sa
y. Let's come back at daybreak."

  Chapter Ninety-Three

  JIM HAD RETURNED to the Windsor hotel. It was almost midnight. He had earlier given Scott Evora his mobile phone number and on the stroke of midnight it rang.

  "We've got some petty politics, Jim, but it shouldn't take long to sort. We've asked the Italian police to help but I don't see anything happening until morning. Where are Tom and Jan?"

  "At a hotel somewhere near Como. Jan is not at all convinced Guido is anywhere near Como. Tom, for whatever Irish reason, is. But whatever the outcome Jan is now talking about what he should do once we hand things over. He's received serious threats before, now he's scared not just for himself but his family."

  "OK, Jim. I'm listening. We'll do what we can."

  ***

  In Torno, at a small bed and breakfast inn on the lakeside, Tom awoke, checked his watch and pulled the curtain. It was five thirty and still dark. He opened the window onto a cool breeze coming in from the lake, then shuffled along to the next room and knocked on the door.

  "Jan, are you awake in there? Time to move." He heard a murmur and returned to his room. By six, the two men had relocated to the lakeside villa. Dawn was just breaking but the two cars were still inside. A single, head height light was still on in the driveway, but the house was in darkness.

  "So what's your plan, Tom? Walk in and ring the bell only to find it's not Guido or…"

  "We need to check the number plates. Then, we either hope the Italian police now know something from the FBI or…"

  "Or what? You're still convinced then, Tom?"

  "Yes," Tom said, "and you know why?"

  "Tell me."

  "There's something in the rear windscreen of the Mercedes that reflects the light in the driveway. When I followed Guido in Antwerp, I noticed the same thing. It's a sparkling umbrella. He keeps it on the rear shelf. For sure, I'd never seen anything like it in my life."

  Jan stared at him. "You've seen that umbrella as well? He prodded me with it once. It's covered in giant red poppies. Jesus."

  "Convinced now?"

  "Perhaps it's something else that shines."

  "Jan, you'd never make a good investigative reporter. Tell you what. You stay in the car, park a bit further along the road. I'm going to have a closer look."

  "And what if there's a security system—bells going off? Why don't we wait for the Italian police? Or phone them."

  "And spoil my big story? Anyway, they might be doing the ironing."

  "Tom, what the fuck are you talking about? Who is ironing? Why are they ironing?"

  "The Carabiniere. You know, the best way to burn a Carabiniere's ear off is to phone him when he's ironing. Have you not heard that one? Do as I say, Jan, for God's sake. Go and park over there. I'll be back as soon as I can. If I don't come back then you can phone the bloody FBI, the Carabiniare or anyone else."

  Tom got out of the Fiat and went towards the high iron gate of the villa. The light in the driveway showed that it curved behind the two cars towards some steps up to the main entrance. The villa itself was in darkness. Tom had never been agile. He was overweight and had never been very fit. Going over the gate was not on. Instead, he followed the stone wall that bordered the villa around to a narrow alleyway that ran downhill towards the lake. From what he could now see, the grounds of the villa sloped right down onto the lake. But a few yards along the alleyway Tom found a ramshackle, wooden door built into the wall. He pushed it. It gave a little but seemed locked. He pushed a bit more and it flew open with a loud crack and hit the trunk of a tree behind. He waited a second or so to see if a light came on in the villa or an intruder alarm sounded but there was nothing.

  Light was slowly creeping into the sky now and he could see the two cars parked together on the gravel driveway. Next to the BMW were wide stone steps leading up to a big front door. The villa itself was still in darkness as Tom crept forward towards the cars. He crouched down, quickly noted the registration numbers, then stood up to peer into the back window of the Mercedes. There was the umbrella.

  At the same time, a light came on in an upstairs window. Tom ducked down and made his way back to the side door, the alleyway and the road. Back in the car he reported to Jan.

  "That's Guido's car," he said. "Next to it is Toni's BMW."

  "Jesus. They are in there?"

  "Well yes, unless they've just parked there while on holiday. Anyway someone's inside because a light is on upstairs."

  "What next?"

  "First we'll phone Jim. Then I'm going back there. There is a side gate and a lovely big bush that I can hide behind. Keep your phone ready. If I need anything I'll call you. But for Christ's don't phone me."

  "And what if Guido catches you?"

  Tom looked at Jan's nervous face. "Don't worry. You stay here, if you hear a shot being fired or any other commotion, drive off." He tried to smile but then phoned Jim.

  "It's definitely them, Jim. We are already outside the villa. Where are the bloody police?"

  "I'll check and phone you back, Tom."

  "No, Jim. Don't phone me. Phone Jan. I don't want my phone going off when I'm sat behind a bush in Guido's garden—which, by the way, badly needs a gardener. If they catch me perhaps I'll say I'm an unemployed Irishman who’s checking it out before applying for the job. Speak later."

  Jim had no sooner switched his phone off when it rang again. It was Scott Evora.

  "Been up all night, Jim. We've got the Italian State police involved, but we're still waiting on the provincial police around Como. What news from Tom and Jan?"

  Jim explained Tom's call of minutes before.

  "Guido's cornered?" he exclaimed. "Well, we don't want to fuck that up."

  Tom had settled himself on the wet grass behind a thick evergreen bush thirty yards from the front door. The sky was getting brighter and lights were now on in two upstairs rooms. Then a downstairs light behind green drapes came on. He checked his watch. Seven thirty. His thighs were already hurting and damp had seeped through the seat of his pants. He thought of Maeve and wondered what she'd think of him sitting in a wet garden in Italy. He looked at the sky for a sign of pink as Jim had once suggested, but it was gray. As he wriggled into a more comfortable position, another downstairs light came on.

  A few early cars passed on the road, a dog barked somewhere, there was the sound of a boat on the lake and then a much closer mechanical, sliding sound. Tom glanced towards the gate. It was opening, automatically, as if remotely from inside the house.

  Then he saw the lights of a taxi as it pulled onto the gravel driveway from the road, the headlight beam passing right over him. It was another BMW but a white one this time. It stopped alongside the Mercedes, reversed and then maneuvered to face the gate once more. A man in a white shirt got out, walked to the rear, opened the car boot and returned to sit in the driver's seat with the door still open. Then the big door of the villa opened.

  In the doorway, lit from behind by a bright ceiling light, stood a tall, slim woman in a dark trouser suit with long black hair tied sharply back into what may have been a pony tail. "Toni," Tom said to himself. She looked behind her, bent down and dragged out a shiny black holdall. With her foot she then pushed the bag nearer to the steps and spoke loudly in Italian something about "bagaglio a mano."

  Her voice was deep and husky and as she turned to go back inside, the taxi driver got out, ran up the steps, picked up the bag and carried it to the boot of the car. He then stood, looking at his watch.

  From within the house Tom heard the same husky voice speaking to someone else but for a while nothing happened. The taxi driver strolled around, kicking at the gravel and as he did so, the clouds cleared to reveal a bright pink sky over the lake. A low red sun then suddenly appeared. It lit the whole garden in a rosy light that shone directly onto the steps and door of the villa.

  This was definitely Toni, Antonia Goretti, Tom decided. It was her BMW, it was her height and build and the way she walked fit. So w
here was Guido?

  Then he heard a high-pitched voice as if from upstairs.

  "Rilassatevi e soprattutto non fatevi prendered dal panico …I am ready. Don't be so nervous, my flower. I hate scarpe col tacco."

  The tall, lanky Toni re-emerged, checked her watch, came down the steps and walked towards the taxi driver. She spoke to him, too quietly for Tom to hear. But Tom's attention was now on the sunlit doorway. Standing there, holding a small case, was a short, fat woman in a dark, knee-length skirt, high-heeled shoes and a white blouse printed with large red flowers. Poppies?

  "Jesus Christ," Tom stared at her. "Guido's a woman."

  He watched Guido, or whatever her name really was, potter awkwardly down the steps, walk across the gravel to the taxi and almost fall in the rear seat like someone totally unaccustomed to high heels. A minute later, the taxi drove away and the iron gate slowly closed after it.

  Sure they were gone, Tom tried to get up but his legs hurt him, he felt stiff and wet and when he eventually stood, his back hurt. Nevertheless he went out through the side gate, pulled it shut, hobbled onto the road and looked for the blue Fiat. It was nowhere to be seen.

  Tom walked up and down for a hundred yards or so then reached for his mobile phone.

  "Where the hell are you?"

  "I'm following a white BMW. I saw it come out of the gate."

  "What about me?"

  "I'll come back for you."

  "For fuck's sake, Jan. You'll probably follow them to Milan."

  "Are Guido and Toni inside the taxi?"

  "Yes."

  "Then call a taxi for yourself, Tom, or walk into Torno. I'm already in Como."

  "Jan, for Christ's sake. Listen. You should know something before you go any further."

  "What? What?"

  "Guido's not a man. He's a woman."

  There was a sound of breaking. Tires squealed. "What?" Jan yelled.

  "Guido's a woman, did you hear me? Dressed to the nines. High heels, short skirt and a lovely shirt with red poppies. If I'm not mistaken his lipstick and finger nails are the same color as the poppies. He's definitely not my sort, Jan, but for Christ's sake, stop right now and come and pick me up. I've got the taxi number. Let's call Jim to call the FBI to call the Italian police. Enough's enough, man."