by Mark Leggatt
To Kirsty B.
For Stealing her name.
Chapter 1
A faint shadow on the stone showed where the crucifix had been. He turned his back to the bare altar and brought up his hand to his chest, then touched the butt of the pistol in the holster, next to his heart. The door to the church, like all the other doors in the village, lay wide open.
To his right, the stone staircase cut into the mountain that made up the east wall, twisting steeply up to the bell tower. The rough-hewn steps were bowed and smooth after a thousand years of worshippers, though they had long gone.
The bell tower would give the best vantage point. He peered over his shoulder to make sure the exit was clear. If he was trapped in the tower, he was a dead man. Keeping to the wall, he shoved his way past the crumbling remains of the wooden pews, then edged towards the door. He pulled the pistol from the holster and knelt just inside the doorway, then glanced down the street. It was clear, but he knew they were close.
He sat back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His hands stung where the rocks had cut into his flesh during the climb. He took another look. The church was at the end of the street, the highest part of the village. To his left, the road wound past the open doors of the houses that had survived destruction, then dropped suddenly at the end, down into the valley, hidden by the bushes and stunted trees clinging to the mountainside. He wondered how many centuries it had been since the villagers had left. Scattered between the empty houses lay piles of rubble, shattered roof tiles and exposed, crumbling timbers, in a graveyard of buildings that had succumbed to the earthquakes. He checked the street again, then pinpointed the alley that led to the cliff on the south side where he had entered the village. The treacherous climb up the south face had been the only way to follow the suspects without being seen. One road to the top of the mountain and the same road down. He would have been spotted in minutes. And he’d be dead.
Halfway down the street, he saw faint tire tracks curving around a low, leaf-filled water trough. A gouge in the earth led to the edge of wide wooden doors. Above them, just below the pointed roof, a weathered beam jutted out, the remains of a hoist to a hay loft.
He turned away, and leaned back against the wall, feeling the dust stick to his sweat-soaked t-shirt. The stable doors seemed to be the only ones closed in the entire village. They must be in there. He wiped his wet hands on his jeans then pulled back the slide on the pistol and chambered a round. He stood, his leg muscles tight from the climb, then stepped out into the road.
The stable doors swung open. He ducked back into the doorway of the church and watched the two men each drag a wheeled suitcase down the street. One walked like a soldier, head high, and the other, a fat, squat guy, took quick steps to keep up. They turned and disappeared down an alley towards the village square. The suitcases left a track in the dust behind them. They looked heavy.
He stood for a moment, then edged out of the doorway, his gun raised, keeping his back against the wall of the church. He listened to the rumbling wheels of the suitcases become fainter. Mr. Pilgrim had told him there were two suspects. He had seen two men in the BMW as it climbed towards the village and two men had come from the stables. He glanced left and right, his heart thumping. They weren’t here for a vacation. He ran over to the stable door and ducked inside, then brought up the pistol.
Out of the glare of the Tuscan sun, the sweat cooled on his skin. In the center of the stable stood the BMW, thick with dust and grime from the drive through the endless mountain tracks. He could hear the engine ticking as it cooled. He made to reach for the door handle, then noticed the cloth rags on the floor and the lines through the dust caked onto the windows and doors. They had wiped their fingerprints. He stepped back, lowering the pistol. If the men were leaving the car behind, how were they going to get out of the village with two heavy suitcases and one road down to the valley? Mr. Pilgrim had said the CIA were interested in the two men, but he had no idea why. Yeah, he thought, you and me both, buddy.
He ran into the sunlight and sprinted towards the church. There had to be another way down the mountain.
Dust from the church floor flew up as he ran to the foot of the bell tower. Plaster flaked off the wall when he stuck out a hand to steady himself up the steep, winding steps, and stopped at the top, just before he placed a foot on the rotting floorboards.
The bell had long gone, and shafts of sunlight shone through the wooden slats of the louvered windows. The wood was grey and twisted, swollen with winter rains, then baked dry in the summer.
I’m missing something, he thought. Why an Italian ghost town? He shuffled around the edge of the tower, the paper-dry wood creaking under his feet. The village commanded a view across the low, wide valley to the north, and the forested plain he had come through from the south. He peered through the slats towards the north, down to an expanse of green fields, and a river cutting through the valley hemmed in by steep hills. He watched the white flecks of the water tumbling across the rocks. The thick, hot air in the tower caught in his throat and he dried the wet butt of the pistol on his t-shirt.
Something doesn’t add up, he thought. They had cleaned the car of prints. They weren’t going to drive out of here. Why would they dump the car?
He gazed over the jumble of low rooftops. The two men were nowhere to be seen. Nor their suitcases. He turned towards the village square overlooking the valley, hidden from the road behind the houses, and bordered with a low wall at the edge of the drop down the north side of the mountain. In the center, below a broken wooden roof, lay a wide stone trough, filled with dry leaves, where the villagers had once washed their clothes. For a moment, he wondered how they had managed to get water up so high, then realized it must have been the hard way. He looked down the valley to the river. The only things up here are goats or tomatoes, he thought. No wonder they emigrated. Like so many before them, away from the feudal landowners and crushing poverty. Along the steep hills bordering the valley he saw more abandoned homes, some no more than a scatter of rocks down the hillside. One famine, one earthquake too many, and they had left in their thousands, down to the sea, and across the Atlantic to the promised land.
Shards of sunlight flashed on the river coursing through the valley. If villagers had carried water up the mountain, he knew there had to be a path down to the river. The east side of the village square was bordered by sheer rock. He peered down to the bottom of the bell tower, hard against the rocks on the west side, but the trees blocked his view. If there was a path, it had to be there, somewhere in the trees, and down through the thick forest to the valley.
The sound of a door creaking open made him twist his head towards the village square. He pulled out his phone and brought up the map, then traced the blue line of the river, before it ended abruptly. That’s not right, he thought. Rivers don’t suddenly stop. He expanded the screen and saw a shaded area to the west. He looked up, but the area on the map was hidden behind the forest on the west side of the hill. He switched to satellite view, and the whole area was blurred out on the screen. That’s got to be military, he thought. Is that why they’re here? To set up a spy station? On the map, he saw several arrow-straight tracks at each end disappear into the blurred area. He grinned when he realized it was an airport. He tried to look west, but it was hidden behind the forest.
Now it’s making sense, he thought. That’s why the CIA and Mr. Pilgrim are following these two goons. If they were spying on a CIA airport in the middle of no place, then they were gonna get their asses kicked all the way back to Rome. No wonder they needed an escape route. The CIA wouldn’t be happy about their black ops flights being monitored. Italy made for a perfect stopping point to the Middle East. He exp
anded the map, trying to gauge the size. He realized it was a long runway. Too long for private jets full of terrorists with a bag on their heads being invited back for coffee and a chat. But long enough for a bomber. He peered down to the village square. If it was a secret site for stealth bombers, then Iran would be very interested. And the Russians.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the two men enter the village square, dragging their suitcases behind them. He looked at his phone. Mr. Pilgrim would be very interested. Then Langley could send some goons to clean up. They probably had a unit at the airport. He almost laughed out loud at the thought of phoning the CIA and telling them himself. That’s one call he couldn’t make. Somewhere in Langley, a team of technicians would be crouched around computer screens, dedicated to only one thing. Finding him. And if that ever happened, a world of shit would descend, and the only thing left would be his lifeless body. Treason and murder tended to shorten your life span, especially where the CIA were concerned. When you blow the whistle on a CIA black op to buy Afghan oil using the lives of US servicemen, then watch it unravel live on CNN while you stick a bullet in the Afghan Ambassador’s head, they tend to get a bit pissy. They tend to dedicate a whole team to making sure your next breath is your last. Though if the desk-bound bastards in Langley knew where he was, they might not bother sending anyone. They’d probably napalm the whole goddam mountain just to make sure he was dead. Then they’d carpet-bomb Tuscany just to be absolutely sure. He could imagine them whooping with delight when they found the charred corpse of Connor Montrose. “Yeah,” he muttered, “but not today, bitches.”
The two men placed their suitcases against the stone water trough and stood before the low wall, looking down to the valley.
Montrose shook his head and laid his pistol on the window ledge. If they were going to set up a spy station, they should have used one of the houses, not the village square. Anything they set up there would stick out like a bulldog’s balls.
A low rumble came from the West. He looked up then realized it was coming from the valley. The rumble echoed around the hills, then grew to the roar of aircraft engines.
In the village square, the fat guy pulled out a phone and jammed it to his ear.
Low in the valley, a USAF C-130 transport plane emerged, climbing slowly into the air, its engines roaring under full load.
The fat guy dropped his phone and pointed to the valley.
A cold shock stabbed through Montrose’s spine when it dawned on him. They didn’t care if they were seen. They didn’t give a shit.
The fat guy laid his suitcase down and popped the locks, then lifted out two green cylinders from the foam packing. He laid them carefully on the ground and slotted them together before twisting off the end to reveal a red cap. The other man had his suitcase open; he lifted a black mechanism onto his shoulder and faced the valley. The fat guy stood behind him and fitted the cylinder onto the top of the mechanism.
“Holy shit,” said Montrose. “That’s a fucking missile.”
“We have company.”
The Director leaned over the operator’s shoulder towards the video screen. The village street was empty. “Where?”
“One man. With a gun. He ran into the church.”
The Director stood up and cleared his throat, ignoring the other board members gathered around the wide table. It was unfortunate to have an incident so soon into the plan. “Only one?”
“We’re checking all the footage. There’s no trace of anyone else.”
“And our friends from the CIA?”
“We have another drone monitoring the approach road to the valley, and the village. They are still in convoy. About five minutes from arrival. They don’t seem in a hurry.”
The Director smiled. “No hurry? That will change.” He heard the low voices of the other directors behind him. He knew he couldn’t show any concern. “Lift the first drone higher. I want a view of the village square. But before you do, show the view from the valley drone.”
The operator swapped the screens to show a line of SUVs negotiating the twisting roads through the wooded valley and the climb up to the village.
“Inform our two operatives about the man in the church. I’m sure it will focus their minds on the task in hand. That is all.” He ignored the voices at the table, then placed his hands behind his back and strolled to the window, gazing out over the industrial estate, and across the forest canopy to the spires of Dresden. The British bombers must have seen the same sight, he thought, but at night, when the fires would consume the city. “Gentlemen, the operation will continue as planned.”
Chapter 2
Montrose tried to shove the muzzle of the pistol between the narrow wooden slats covering the window in the bell tower but couldn’t twist his hand to get a straight shot. Floorboards cracked as he ran towards the steps and threw himself down, thumping his shoulder into the wall to keep upright. He vaulted the broken pews and ran into the street. Between the houses and deserted alleys he could see the blue sky of the valley to the north and hear the C-130 as it rose into the sky. He scrambled over a pile of rubble and saw the edge of the village square. A house to the right was still standing and he ran through the twisted doorway, across the earth floor and jammed his gun out of the broken window frame.
The tall man stood still, the missile launcher on his shoulders. The C-130 climbed higher.
Montrose rested his hand on the wooden frame, blew out a breath then squeezed the trigger.
The tall man fell to his knees. The fat guy spun around holding a machine pistol and fired towards the house.
Bullets tore through the thin mud and plaster wall and Montrose threw himself to the floor. Above him, sunlight speared through ragged bullet holes and the swirling dust. Another burst blew over his head and he forced his face onto the floor. He scrambled through the door on his knees and crouched behind a low wall. The fat guy would be covering either side of the house, waiting for him to raise his head. Only an idiot would try to fire from the same position. The cloud of dust obscured him as he crawled back into the house. He peered out the window and saw the tall man lying motionless on the ground, a pool of blood spreading around him.
The fat guy was facing the valley. He widened his stance, then lifted the missile onto his shoulder.
Montrose snatched at the trigger, firing off four rounds and caught him in the leg and arm.
The fat guy toppled backwards and a searing jet of orange flame burst across the square as the missile launched into the air, streaking away from the valley and back over the roofs of the village.
Holding his pistol level, Montrose watched the C-130 as it rose into the sky. “You missed, asshole!”
The fat guy clutched his leg and rolled sideways behind the stone water trough. Montrose reckoned he wasn’t going anywhere and ran back through the door and into the street, listening for an explosion far behind him. Dust stuck to the sweat on his face and he looked up into the sky and watched the missile continue south, then lift gracefully into the air and curve north in a wide arc, back towards the village. His mouth dropped open. “No!”
A thin stream of smoke traced its path high over his head, and down to the valley. He ran between the houses to the village square and saw the C-130 rising between the hills, before the nose lifted sharply and the engines screamed. A shower of flares erupted from the belly of the plane, their blinding lights piercing his vision, and clouds of silver chaff blew out from the wings, sunlight glinting on a million tiny strips of aluminum in a shimmering cloud as the plane weaved left and right.
The missile speared through the cloud of chaff and flares and exploded just below the starboard wing. The C-130 flipped left and seemed to hang in the air before a fireball erupted from its ruptured fuel tanks. It rolled over and began to fall from the sky, tumbling backwards towards the valley floor, then slammed into the ground. A mushroom cloud of black smoke spewed out a
cross the valley then slowly lifted, drifting over the hilltops and revealing the burning wreckage strewn across the green fields.
The Director stood up, nodding slowly as he watched the screen. The whole valley floor seemed to be ablaze. “Turn back to the village.”
The operator rotated a joystick and the view on the screen spun around and showed the village square. One man lay spread-eagled in a pool of blood. Another crouched below the water trough, ripping cloth from his shirt and bandaging his leg.
“Where is our visitor?”
The screen moved to show a man standing between the ruined houses, staring up into the sky.
“Can he see us?”
“It is unlikely, sir,” replied the operator.
A hand slammed on the boardroom table behind them. “Kill him!”
The Director didn’t turn around, but squeezed his lips tight, then relaxed and spoke slowly. “All in good time. Patience is what is required here.”
“He nearly ruined the entire operation! If he captures our operative, then…”
The Director turned and walked towards them. “Then what? Do you think I have not planned for this eventuality? Every situation provides an opportunity. It is wisdom to know when to seize that opportunity, and when to let it slip.” He faced the operator. “Is the drone armed?”
“Yes, Director.”
“Good.” He pointed to a man on the screen. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”
“Tracking enabled.”
From the cover of a ruined house, Montrose saw the fat guy scramble from behind the water trough, weaving unsteadily on his injured leg, heading for the rocks and trees below the church. The smell of burning aircraft fuel drifted up towards the village. “You bastard!” He fired two rounds then took off after him. “Stop!” He fired off another round at the man’s feet.
The fat guy stumbled and fell to the ground, clutching his leg.
