by Thomas Locke
She must have seen a hint of it in his eyes, because she said, “I don’t want you doing something masculine and stupid. Brett is a noted biochemist. He is responsible for much of our research into the brain’s activities during ascent. His assistance is critical.”
“I’ve set up security for some pretty awful people. I haven’t clipped one yet.” Charlie didn’t see any need to add that there was always a first time.
“I need to find a new partner for my ascents. I have been thinking that if you and I work together, we might establish a greater range.”
“Count me in.”
“Really?” Gabriella actually looked relieved. As though he would ever have turned her down.
“My job is your safety. Seems to me this is a natural fit.”
She relaxed by degrees. “Thank you, Charlie.”
“What’s problem number two?”
“Money. Up until now, Byron paid for everything.”
Charlie knew a moment’s dismay at the prospect that she was actually going to discuss paying him.
But what she said was, “Before we were married, Byron made me sign a contract—I’m sorry, I can’t remember what it was called.”
“A prenup.”
“I am supposed to receive two million dollars. But I can only assume Byron will fight me on that. Yesterday morning before you arrived, I cleared out our joint account. It held just over sixty thousand dollars. Much of that will go to rent the villa in Brunate. But life in Italy is very expensive, especially for a team of scientists who are not used to the cost of living in Europe.”
Charlie warned, “Any contact you make with Byron could tip him off to where we are.”
“I am aware of that. I know he has accounts in Switzerland. I had thought perhaps I could use an ascent to discover where they are and how to access them.” She shook her head. “Something is holding me back. Perhaps I am just being silly.”
“If you are at all concerned about making a move like that, you shouldn’t do it.”
“Do you really think so?”
“You’re operating in uncharted territory. Any good soldier will tell you safety depends on listening to your gut.”
She touched his arm just above the elbow. It was a simple gesture, three fingers resting upon the fabric of his shirt. Yet it contained a sense of quiet intimacy, as though she had moved one step closer to trust. “You are a very wise man.”
He saw no need to break the flow by countering with the truth. “Now the third problem.”
“I don’t know if it is a problem at all. We have been very careful to delineate our ascents. Did I say that correctly, ‘delineate’?”
“Fine by me.”
“Until yesterday, I was the only one able to utilize what I call this forward focus. Now you. We have always been very careful to chart our course before we start each ascent. I like working within these tight confines. It keeps me anchored. Milo and Jorge are the only other two of our team who can regularly ascend. But neither do so easily, and their orientation is not always clear.”
It was only when she began twisting her fingers together that Charlie realized it. “Something is scaring you.”
“Yes, perhaps. When I established these protocols, I had no idea we would succeed in such an amazing manner.”
Charlie moved back a trace. He disliked doing so. But he needed to separate himself enough to focus upon whatever was worrying her.
“Now I wonder if my protocols are actually limiting us, holding us back from seeing a true totality. Keeping us from what we might discover. Blinding us to what we should perhaps have as our goal.” Her eyes held a distant sheen, steel behind dark waters. “Does that make sense, Charlie?”
“I’m not sure.”
She realized what she was doing with her hands and forced them down onto the table. Gripping the burled-walnut edge so tightly her knuckles went white. “I keep having these slight impressions, usually at the end of an ascent. It leaves me unsettled. And very scared.”
Charlie nodded slowly. “I know the answer to that one.”
“Yes?”
“The only time to move into the danger zone is when you’re ready. You scout, you prep, you focus as tightly as you can. And one thing more. You never, ever go alone.”
They landed in Milan Malpensa Airport an hour before dawn. Charlie and Gabriella followed the executive from the plane, pausing long enough to thank the pilots and receive a weary nod in response. They descended the jet’s stairwell into a cold and rain-swept morning. The lone customs officer stamped their passports without ever really waking up from his doze.
They took a taxi to Milan’s central station and bought tickets for the next express train heading north. The train station was as big as a factory and hewed from a granite yellowed by streetlights and rain. The terminal somehow looked larger inside than out. Charlie thought the place could probably swallow Grand Central Station. Gabriella led him to a café filled with other sleepy travelers and fed him a large coffee and a brioche and an orange juice.
The juice was squeezed by hand and the brioche was the best Charlie had ever had. The coffee was from another universe. There was all the coffee he had drunk up to that point, and then there was this. He lingered over it as long as he could and knew he would never forget this moment. A railside café lit with the tepid glow of a forties film noir, rain falling in sheets where the station opened to the dawn, a woman watching his face and finding something there that was worth a smile. Just the two of them, sheltered amidst the company of strangers. As alive as Charlie had ever been.
The trip to Como lasted less than an hour. But the short span of time was deceptive. In fifty-three minutes they left behind the world of plains and cities and highways, and entered the Alpine foothills. Only the rain was the same.
The taxi took them from Como’s central station through a truly ancient city. Just as they entered the traffic crawling around the lake’s shoreline, the morning sun emerged. In a single instant, the world was transformed yet again. Even the taxi driver seemed captivated by the change, for he reached over and turned off his chattering radio, then rolled down his window. The breeze carried an Alpine bite, and Charlie started to ask if Gabriella minded the chill. But when he looked over, he saw a woman who was happy for the first time since she had first entered the Satellite Beach community center. To Charlie, that event seemed like a hundred centuries ago.
Gabriella fumbled around an unfamiliar car door, searching for the window controls, not finding them because she refused to take her eyes off the scene. So Charlie reached across and rolled down the rain-speckled glass.
“Thank you, Charlie.”
“No problem.”
“It is like the best moments of my childhood have come alive again.” She took a deep breath. Then she fumbled again, refusing to turn her face away from the wind and the sun and the lake. She found Charlie’s hand and gripped it with both of hers.
The traffic seemed caught in the same wonder as Gabriella. Charlie could have walked faster. Pedestrians were frozen in a tableau of too-brilliant light. Every face Charlie could see was turned to stare at the sun-dappled water.
The taxi driver caught Charlie’s gaze in the rearview mirror and said something. Gabriella translated, “It has rained for forty-five days straight, the wettest spring in recorded history.”
One moment before, the waters had been as grey as molten lead and the world washed to monochrome dullness. Now everything sang a symphony of color. The lake was a shimmering song of blues and golds. Lakefront gardens were a chorus of every flower and every shade. Homes and buildings glistened. Windows winked a burnished welcome. People smiled. Children laughed and scampered. It was the Italy of dreams and infinite joy. As long as a beautiful woman kept hold of his hand.
The road to Brunate began well enough, but as it rose above the city it narrowed to an asphalt track. This being Italy, the road’s condition did not mean that traffic slowed. In fact, their driver used the hairpin curves a
s a challenge to his masculinity. Gabriella did not seem the least bit disturbed by how the driver attacked curves and blind corners, so Charlie kept quiet.
He took his mind off the road and the rise and the ledgeless drop by examining the world beyond the treetops. The lake was so vast, its opposite end faded into the mist of another approaching storm. Mountains paraded ahead of the tempest’s leading edge, granite waves capped by icy froth. Farther away, clouds draped trailing veils down from heaven, fragile ribbons of poetry and rain. Charlie counted a dozen rainbows.
When they halted before an ancient gatehouse, Gabriella released his hand and said, “Welcome to my world, Charlie Hazard.”
Irma Steeg approached the taxi and grinned a hello. “If I ever get to where the Italian coffee doesn’t give me enough of a kick, I’ll take up driving these mountain roads.”
Charlie stared out the gatehouse at the lake and the sky and the vista of emerald and blue and gold. “Nice welcome.”
“Take a good look, because it’s not supposed to last. This is the first sunlight we’ve seen since we got here.” She offered Gabriella her hand. “Irma Steeg.”
“I am Gabriella. You are a policewoman and Charlie’s friend.”
“Right on both counts.” She had a cop’s grin, twisting her features in unaccustomed directions.
“Let me get the bags, then you can show me around,” Charlie said.
Gabriella said, “Go, Charlie. I can take care of this.”
“Listen to the lady, Charlie.” Irma snagged his arm. “Welcome to the ten-cent tour.”
“Where is Julio?”
“Sacked out. The kid is doing nights. I’ve got to tell you, he’s been totally stand-up.”
Charlie forced his head clear of jet-lag cobwebs laced with a certain woman’s scent. He did a slow 360 of the surroundings and declared, “This place is superb.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
The villa backed up to a granite cliff that rose to a summit three hundred feet overhead. The rock face was certainly scalable, but not without ropes and a harness. Any such assault would be totally visible to a watcher down below. The gardens had been built into a series of elongated steps that tumbled in weed-infested profusion to a tall stone outer wall. The wall was topped by rusty steel bars shaped like spear points. An ancient gatehouse marked the only entry.
The villa’s ground floor was simply an extension of the cliff, built of hand-hewed granite with tall curved windows that were heavily barred. The upper three floors were shaped like a chalet, with blond-wood balconies and heavy oak shutters protecting all windows and doors. The entry portal was fifteen feet high and peaked. The door was blackened by age and studded with iron bars. The ground-floor window frames were a full two feet thick.
Irma declared, “This place could stop an army.”
Charlie figured a team of specialists could affect a full-frontal attack in about ninety seconds if they were willing to make enough noise. The sunlight dimmed a trace, filtered now through the tight squint of a pro laying down lines of fire. He did another 360, working out how he was going to protect seven scientists from attack. With a retired cop and an amateur surfer as his only backup.
Irma noticed the change. “What’s wrong?”
Charlie shook his head. He could almost hear Donovan Field tell him to do his duty with the weapons at hand. “I need a couple of hours’ sack time. Then we should bring everyone together and lay things out.”
He climbed the stairs and entered the villa, seeing everything through the scope of incoming fire. Back in full-alert mode. Doing the only thing he was good at. Taking serious heat.
Book 2
25
Illegal activity in Milan was dominated by an uneasy alliance between the local mob and Ukrainians. The Italian Mafiosi did not think much of their Eastern European allies. They considered them too soft in the brain from working with women. The newcomers had long since learned to smile and pretend not to hear what was said about them. Sometimes it was good to be underestimated.
The young man who entered the mob’s café outside Milan wore a silk suit cut in lines straight as a stovepipe. It exaggerated his narrow build. Even so, he swaggered a bit, like his shoulders were so heavy that shifting their weight caused his upper body to punch forward. He had obviously seen some of the muscle walk that way and thought it was cool. One of the men at the corner table said quietly, “Sbandato.” Punk.
Two gentlemen were seated at a partner’s desk by the grimy windows. The elder gentleman was known as the Prince because of his immaculate dress and manners. He was old and wizened and dressed in a black Savile Row suit and starched white shirt and black tie, an outfit drawn from the fifties. His dark eyes were fathomless, in the reptilian manner of one who had survived the Soviet years by simply doing whatever was required, no matter how lethal or terrifying.
He asked, “And who is this?”
The man who had brought him in replied, “Monti’s uncle handles the clubs in Como. They also run our security operation in that region.”
“Monti, forgive me. My Italian. What kind of name is this?”
The young man’s swallow was audible from across the room. He replied, “My given name is Montefiori, capo.”
One of the men seated at the bar by the side wall laughed. The old man glanced over. “There is nothing wrong with our guest’s name.”
“Sorry, Prince.”
“Montefiori. Hill of flowers. It is a name from beyond time. Before even the Romans, your name existed. Don’t shorten it, lad. You disrespect your heritage.”
“Sorry, capo.”
“Tell your uncle we see too little of him. Very well. I am listening.”
“We heard from a client we’ve done business with a couple of times before.” Montefiori named a certain telecommunications magnate. “They seek information about a group coming from America. But most of the group are not American.”
“Terrorists?”
“I heard they were scientists.”
“There is a reward?”
“Quarter of a million euros. The money is for information. They say, ‘Do not strike.’ ” He hesitated.
“Speak, Montefiori. You are among friends.”
“Capo, I thought, if they pay so much just for information, how much more do they pay if we deliver up the people?”
The room was intent now. “Capture them ourselves, you mean. Hold them for an appropriate ransom.”
“Yes, capo. And maybe see if we can discover what they have that’s so big. See if we can sell that as well.”
The Prince exchanged a look with the man seated next to him. The pockmarked gentleman was built like a concrete slab. He nodded once. The Prince turned back to Montefiori and asked, “Does this mean you know where the scientists are located?”
“Maybe. My uncle and I, we run a cleaning operation on the side, capo.”
“Did I authorize this?”
The young man paled. “No, capo. But, well . . .”
The man who had brought the young man in said, “Monti passed it by me.”
“Montefiori.”
“Yes, capo. Montefiori heard how we had these older women on our hands. We couldn’t use them in the houses or the clubs.”
“So you passed them on to our young friend, who sent them out as cleaners.”
“And cooks, yes, capo.”
“And if they happen to find an interesting item in one of these houses?”
Montefiori swallowed again. “Sometimes I sell the information. Sometimes me and my boys, we go in. But we always pass on your share, capo.”
The Prince glanced at the other man seated in his booth. The pockmarked man nodded once. “He pays.”
“Was this your uncle’s idea, lad?”
“No, capo. But he gave me his permission.”
“An enterprising young man who wastes nothing. I am impressed.” The Prince studied him a moment, then said, “You understand, Montefiori, much depends on
our taking such a step in a discreet manner. And only if the group is truly who your contact is seeking.”
“The group arrived here a couple of days ago. They’ve rented a villa that’s very isolated. I brought the cleaner here with me, capo. I thought maybe you would want to ask her yourself.”
The Prince nodded once. A grave approval. “Bring her in.”
The woman was clearly Slavic, with broad peasant features and hands swollen from a life of hard labor. She clunked in, her black leather tie-up shoes scraping the polished floor.
“Montefiori, be so good as to give the lady your chair. Sit, sit, madame.”
She settled into the chair offered her and muttered, “My Italian no good.”
The Prince shifted to fluent Russian. “I would be so very grateful if you would kindly share with us everything you know.”
The woman responded in terse clips. Finally the Prince switched back to Italian and said, “She confirms all we have heard from Montefiori. They are indeed scientists. Some are American. Also two Asian ladies. There is one Italian woman who has only arrived this morning, apparently quite beautiful. They are all involved in some elaborate scientific procedure. They have filled most of the villa’s upstairs rooms with their equipment.” He turned back to the woman and continued in Russian. “A few questions further. When are we most likely to find them all at home together?”
“They never leave.”
“What, never?”
“They stay, they work, they meet for meals, they argue, they return to their work.”
“And what, pray tell, is this vital work of theirs?”
“I do not see. I cannot enter the upper rooms when they work. But there are many computers and wiring everywhere, and—”
“Yes, yes, thank you, madame. You have already said as much. Tell me, do you see any sign of explosives, guns, or drugs?”
“None. Some medicines, yes, but nothing else.”
The Prince translated for the others, then asked, “Are there guards?”
“A woman and a young boy. Another man arrived with the beautiful woman.”
