by Mark Leggatt
“Patience, they will find out, then the feeding frenzy will really begin. First, we let the dog see the bone. As lucrative as the second missile may be, it is not part of the final deal. The Russians would pay dearly for the return of the missile, and they will try, but the CIA will win this auction quite easily, and at the right price. Remember, gentlemen, this is the hors d’oeuvres.”
“Director, I am aware of the need for secrecy, though I’m sure I speak for the other members around this table when I say…”
“My friend, if you need support, then you are unable to stand on your own.” The fat man began to protest, but the Director waved a hand. “The best method is a need to know basis. That is all the knowledge that is required at the moment.”
The fat man’s lips tightened, and his Dutch accent became clipped and guttural. “Then perhaps we can move on to Montrose and whether he is dead?”
“Gentlemen, remember what I said about opportunity? Carpe Diem!” He watched as puzzled faces turned to each other and allowed himself a wry smile. “Tell me, what would happen if we had video evidence of a known CIA operative in possession of a missile?” They stared at him. “I’m sure you can appreciate that would be very beneficial, no?”
The Englishman spoke slowly, “You mean… Montrose? He no longer works for the CIA. They want to shoot him on sight.”
“Indeed, they do, but that is of no consequence. The fact that he was once a career CIA man is all that matters.”
“He was just a technology specialist. A geek. And he was to be killed in Florence. You told the CIA…”
“That was then, this is now. We must adapt our tactics to extract the maximum from our forces. With Montrose, we only have to win once.”
“And the risk, Director? How do we express that risk?”
The Director placed his hands behind his back and clenched them into fists. “The risk is that he is shot by the CIA before he is any use to us. But, if he tells them all he knows, then he will tell them nothing new. After all, they were the source of his information.”
“But Florence…”
“Forget Florence.” He relaxed his hands and let them fall to his side. “Are there any further questions?” There was silence. “Then we shall move on. The delivery logistics have been prepared.”
“And the payment? Will they track it?”
“They will try, of course. But our Swiss friends have prepared and isolated an entire technology platform and can replicate it within a day. The account will be open for ten seconds and then disappear forever.” He stepped back from the table and walked towards the window. “Now, the video of the first attack will soon be ready for release. I hear the drone had quite a spectacular view. The second missile is now on its way to the collection point. We will inform the CIA and Moscow at our convenience. In the meantime, Mr. Montrose is to perform one last act before his untimely death.”
The fat man spluttered as he spoke. “We cannot… what if he…?”
“Fails?” The Director strode towards the table and placed both hands down, leaning over at the fat man. “And what would you do?”
“What? What would I…?”
“Too late. If you fail to plan, you are planning to fail. You become reactive, not proactive, and then you are dancing to someone else’s tune. We will do this our way. We are the pipers. The others will follow.”
Chapter 8
He let the Kawasaki’s engine idle and stretched both arms above his head. This is a little unexpected, he thought. All the time he had been speeding down the autostrada, the engine screaming as he weaved between traffic, he had pictured his destination as a nondescript hotel, one star, maybe two, in a forgotten part of suburban Rome that the tourists shunned. Or a dingy apartment in a 60s tower block overlooking an industrial estate on the outskirts of town. But not this.
He stamped on the gear lever of the Kawasaki and edged forward, pulling in behind a stretch limousine when it turned through the high gates. Beyond lay a tree-lined drive, leading to a six-story mansion fronted by huge Corinthian pillars that reminded him of the White House. Looking up, he heard the chopper before he saw it. The Sikorsky flew low over his head and descended onto the middle of a manicured lawn. While the rotors wound down, several golf carts pulled out from the wide steps at the front of the hotel and trundled across the grass to the chopper. At the end of the drive, Montrose pulled into the side of the steps, killed the engine and flicked out the stand. A uniformed concierge hurried over. Montrose slowly lifted his leg off the seat, his hips and knees aching from the ride, and flexed fingers that had been wrapped around the handlebar grips for three hours. He pulled out his phone. The concierge stood before him gesturing away from the front of the hotel.
“Non puoi parcheggiare qui!”
Montrose held up the phone. “I have a reservation. And I bet you do too. Badoom-tish! You do valet parking?”
The concierge shrugged, “Si, signore, but…”
Montrose pulled the helmet from his head and held it out to the concierge. “Safety first. Good luck.” He headed for the steps. Halfway up, he could feel the joints in his knees grinding together and he stopped then turned towards the chopper.
Shit, he thought, I’m getting old. Next time find a Harley. Or my own helicopter. I reckon Mr. Pilgrim has got the cash.
A valet opened the door of the Sikorsky and held out a hand. A black-haired woman in a bright red trouser suit that clung to her generous curves like a second skin reached out and took his hand, then adjusted her sunglasses and stepped down. Her high heels sunk deep into the grass. Montrose watched her bend forward, peering down over her breasts with amusement, and some difficulty, then step out of the heels, stand barefoot for a moment, then ignore the golf carts and walk across the grass in a way that threatened to set off car alarms. A valet pulled her heels free from the turf and hurried behind her. The other valets loaded her luggage onto the carts and followed her in procession, every one of them with their eyes fixed on her ass.
Montrose looked up at two more uniformed staff flanking the door. They watched in horror as he wiped his shades on his t-shirt, where they left a grimy smear. “Hi, guys. Where’s reception?”
They both said nothing for several seconds before one swept a hand behind him. “Straight ahead, signore.”
“Cool. And more importantly, where’s the bar?”
“To the right. You can’t miss it.”
Montrose replaced his sunglasses and strolled into a cavernous lobby leading to a hall so high it reminded him of a cathedral. At the far wall, he saw the marble reception desk set below long, high windows where the altar would have been. All around him, potted palm trees, garish furniture and gilt-lined tables crowded every pillar. It was a church of wealth and appalling taste. Americans would love it, he thought. And the Russians.
Through open doors to his right, he saw a bar lined with bottles and chrome beer taps. A sudden thirst hit him and he tried to swallow but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and he could taste bitter dust from the autostrada and exhaust fumes.
A white-jacketed barman stood slowly polishing a glass. His greased hair shone like the steel buttons on his coat and he held the glass up to the sunlight streaming in from windows overlooking the lawn, then turned towards the door.
Montrose could see him watching through the glass as he approached. He made to sit on a bar stool, then reckoned that sitting down was something he wanted to avoid for a few days. The barman held the beer glass up to him and Montrose nodded. Yeah, he thought, I look like a beer drinker. He watched the barman pull the beer from a chrome tap then slide it towards him.
The bubbles burst on his lip and the beer seemed to evaporate in his mouth, but the alcohol washed away the grime and soothed his throat. He had finished three quarters of the glass by the time he set it back on the bar.
“You came on the motorbike?” said the barma
n.
“Yeah.”
The barman smiled. “I have a Moto Guzzi 1982 Le Mans.” He held his thumb and finger in the air. “Classico.”
“Oh yeah,” replied Montrose, trying to remember what a Moto Guzzi Le Mans looked like.
The barman took a cloth from under the bar, sprayed it with some water and tapped his cheeks, then folded it expertly and placed it on the bar beside the empty beer glass.
Montrose nodded and quickly wiped his face, and saw the stains on the cloth. “Thanks, man.”
The barman pushed another beer towards him and picked up the cloth.
“I’m going to enjoy this one.” He closed his eyes and lifted the glass, but a hint of heavy, sweet musk made one thought stab through his mind. He placed the glass on the bar before it slipped from his fingers.
Kirsty.
The scent played a movie in his head. Her red hair falling across his face. Her hand around his throat. And the red and green dragon tattooed on her perfect ass. He felt her breath on his neck.
“The swallow flies low over Vladivostok.” She flicked her tongue against his earlobe.
He looked up to the mirror behind the bar and saw her reflection, making a little kiss with her lips.
“I was going to grab your arse,” she said, “but I didn’t want that thing going off in your pocket.”
He took a long drink of the beer. “It’s not loaded.”
“I wasn’t talking about the gun.”
He turned around and couldn’t help staring down at her bright red trouser suit. “You are…”
“Rocking a fat suit.” She slapped the padding on her ass. “A little booty works wonders.”
“Well, you look…”
“Hot and chubby. Literally.” She drained his beer. “Maybe you like that in a girl? Well, tough.” She placed the empty glass on the bar. “How’s Mr. Pilgrim?”
“In a wheelchair.”
“Will he walk again?”
“I don’t know, he has to heal inside. That bullet he took made a mess. He was pretty ripped up. He should be flat out in a hospital bed.”
“He took it for us, Connor. That time in London, if he hadn’t... it could have been me, or you.”
“I know. We owe him.”
“Yeah. Is he here? In Rome?”
“Somewhere.”
“I know where the safe house is. I know my way around this city.”
“So do I.” His mind flashed back to where he found the body of the secretary, and the office near the Coliseum. He shuddered at the thought of the blood. He felt Kirsty squeeze his hand.
“That was before my time,” she said. “Were you in love with her?”
Montrose shook his head. “The one that was killed in Rome? No. I never knew her. She was killed simply to set me up.”
She leaned in and rested her head against his for a moment. “Ah, the one you loved, it was Paris, wasn’t it? Maybe you’ll find her again. Mr Pilgrim is good at finding people. He found you in Morocco.”
He shrugged. “Another life. Some people don’t want to be found. I was an innocent then.”
“In some ways, Connor, you still are. But I like that.”
He looked down at his hands. “I won’t give up. I’ll find out who killed her.”
“Your sister?”
“Yeah. One day…”
She whispered in his ear. “And I’ll help you. So will Pilgrim. I know he will.”
Montrose nodded. “He’s a good man at collecting lost souls. He found you, no?”
She kissed him. “Not all those who wander are lost.”
“Yeah.”
“We need to go.” She smiled at the barman and spoke in a cut glass Long Island accent. “Put the beer on room 502, prego. And send up some sandwiches and San Pellegrino.” She gave the barman a wink that made his mouth drop open, then turned away and took Montrose’s arm. “Let’s go, Connor. I have to get out of this suit. I’m sweating like a nun in a sex shop.”
“You just made his day.”
She raised an eyebrow. “If you weren’t here, he’d be making dinner tonight. But I’ll make do with you.” Once clear of the bar, her lilting Welsh accent returned. “I’m so hungry I could eat a scabby horse. I can’t eat a thing in this suit or I’ll bloody burst.” They entered the lobby and she gently pulled him to a stop. “You know, let’s not be seen together, just in case.”
“Kirsty…”
“Do what you’re told, there’s a good boy. Room 502, the elevator is over there, stay ten feet behind me. And don’t stare at my arse.”
The door to 502 was ajar. Kirsty stood in the middle of the room unzipping the fat suit and wrestling her arms and shoulders out of the tight cloth. She lifted both arms free and pushed it past her belly, then hopped on one leg trying to shove the suit down over her knee. She giggled and fell to the floor, looking up as Montrose closed the door. “Get me out of this thing.” She lay on her back and lifted her legs in the air.
Montrose grabbed the thick material around her ankles and gave it a tug, but it had no effect other than to drag her across the floor.
She burst out laughing. “You’re going to get carpet burns on my backside!” She reached back and held onto the bed and he dragged it from her legs. “Thank God, I was melting in that bloody thing.” Her skin was damp with sweat, and she pulled off the black wig. Her red hair fell across her shoulders. She stretched out her arms and let her head drop back. “Oh, that feels so good.”
“Is Pilgrim paying for this?”
“No, I am. I just cleaned out a pedophile politician in London. He was laundering money for the Russian mob. There are plenty of those bastards if you know where to look. And I do. He shouldn’t have kept all his eggs in one bank account he thought he had hidden offshore.”
“Does he know?”
“Oh, yeah. I even took his pension fund.”
“But what if he…?”
“Who’s he going to tell? MI5? They’d have him by the balls if they knew he was taking money from the Russians.”
“And what about them?”
She nodded towards the red trouser suit lying on the floor. “They’ll be looking for her.”
“It might not be all his money, what if the Russians…”
Kirsty opened up her suitcase and pulled out a laptop. “Then I’ll kill him.” She peeled off her damp underwear. “He’s the kind of guy who buys little boys and girls. Robbing him is just the start. I’ve told him if he stays away from kids, he might get his money back.”
“Kirsty…”
“But there’s no chance of that. I want to see him suffer and fall. His expensive aristocratic wife is about to find out she won’t be staying in the Ritz any more. And once I get back, I’ll take care of him personally.”
“Right now, we need to…”
“Connor, this is business. London is pleasure. It can wait.” She stood close to him and sniffed. “You need a shower. C’mon, scrub my back and tell me the latest. Then you can pump me for information.”
“Kirsty, I can’t believe you just said that.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the chin. “Pretend you’re in a Bond movie. You know what happens next.”
Napier stood at the window and let the blast from the aircon cool his neck and shoulders. The sweat chilled on his neck. Faber closed a door behind him. He didn’t turn around, but peered down into the busy street. “So, what’s new? Any good news to brighten up this tsunami of shit?”
“Not much. The guys in the village were known to us. Ex-Syrian militants. They were supposed to be retired. We gave them money to drop out or disappear. Looks like they changed their minds.”
“Or somebody changed it for them with a big pay check. Suicide?”
“No, the guys were professional. One shot with a 9mm round, p
robably. Forensics think the other was shot from above with a .50 round, judging by the meat counter display that was left of him. Might have been from a high point across the valley.”
“So, who’s the paymaster?”
“Maybe the…” A sharp knock came from the door. Faber pulled it open and the technician stood holding a piece of paper.
“I didn’t send it through the system.”
“Good man.” Faber took the paper. “That’s all.” The technician turned away smartly and Faber closed the door.
“Well?”
Faber scanned the handwritten note. “We have an address on The Silk Road, and the auction time.”
Napier stepped forward. “And the opening bid price?”
“One billion dollars.”
“Holy shit.”
The phone rang on Napier’s desk. He walked over, blew out a breath then pressed the speakerphone button. “Director Campbell, this is Na…”
“I know,” said Campbell, “can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good, because I am not sure you heard me before. I told you to kill Montrose.”
Napier glowered at the phone. “When we find him, we will. Right now…”
“Where is he?”
“He slipped the net in Florence.”
“I count that as a failure,” said Campbell.
Napier pressed his fingertips to his mouth for a moment, then spoke slowly. “Who told us he was in Florence?”
“Don’t overthink this, Napier, just find him. I don’t want questions, I want results.”
“Mr. Campbell, he is the only one alive who was in the village when the missile was fired…”
“You’re not listening. Kill him. With another missile on the market he is too much of a threat. Save your powers of deduction for tracing the two men killed in the village. Are we clear?”
Napier closed his eyes. “It’s not…” The cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out, but didn’t recognize the number. He hit the answer button. “Yeah?” He listened for a moment, then held the phone away from his ear. “Dimitri, listen to me, just calm down, I’m going to make this call more secure. Hold the line.” He pressed the mute button. “It’s the Russians. They’re not happy. About the missile or the price.”
