by G. L. Baron
Tanaka had purchased the building – which served as his company’s shop front – at the end of 2008. The whole operation had cost him just under four million pounds. A great deal – only five years later the property prices had been revalued by over thirty percent in that area.
Outside the imposing crystal entrance doors to the building, an anonymous brass plate announced:
QUALCON SERVICES
Consulting Firm
First floor
The writing was very generic. There was no indication as to what kind of advice was given. There was no document which specified that the employees were mostly mercenaries or paramilitaries from the four corners of the earth.
But it was not important.
Those who needed him and his services knew exactly how to reach him… exactly what Edward had done in December; there was a small object to be retrieved, and Qualcon Services, accurate and reliable, seemed the best choice.
Yet what had seemed like a trivial operation – at least for those who were able to plot coups and overthrow monarchies – had proven more difficult than expected.
There were a total of two prototypes, the Prince Ibrahim Al Husayn had explained to Edward. The first, the one Monsignor Claude de Beaumont had kept with him, had been destroyed in the Vatican and finished in the hands of Interpol. The second one had been taken by the Sheikh’s wife, first to Florence, and then to Paris.
And Tanaka had managed to lose it both times, leaving behind a trail of corpses.
Accurate and reliable.
Not this time.
*
Edward closed the umbrella and slipped into the mirrored elevator.
When the doors opened again, the Japanese was standing still, waiting for him in the foyer, his eyes hard and his arms straight at his sides.
It should have been a breeze. Fuck it! he thought just as the Australian’s stupid smile materialized before him. ‘Welcome,’ he muttered instead. ‘Did you have a good trip?’
Edward nodded several times. ‘So, you lost him,’ he lashed out, exiting the lift.
The Japanese stiffened but did not yield to the provocation. His face was impassive.
‘Time is getting tight. The company that hired me to pick up the device, which pays my bills and therefore also yours, expects results,’ thundered Edward again.
They crossed a large room, decorated with Victorian furnishings. The ceilings, at least four metres high, were adorned with well-made Venetian plaster mouldings. A Schimmel grand piano stood next to the lift, one of Tanaka’s few concessions to his musician memories. There were some photographs on top taken of the young man during a concert.
‘My men are starting to move. We have a trail,’ the Japanese lied, as soon as they reached his office. Edward sat on the edge of the chair in front of the glass desk. The rain poured violently down, as if a cloudburst was fighting over London.
‘I’m worried,’ Edward confessed, with an inscrutable expression. ‘I’m afraid that the Prince will lose his temper. He has that strange idea of overthrowing his uncle’s government. I wouldn’t want anyone to find out.’
The host smiled. ‘Bashar Al Husayn is a great customer of ours…’
‘Exactly,’ agreed the Australian in a dry tone. ‘Then let’s close this business as soon as possible. This is why I came; Ibrahim hasn’t been entirely honest. He forgot to reveal a detail despite having signed a contract; his father considers him an idiot and has himself kept the right of veto over Ibrahim’s decisions.’
‘This means that…?’
‘It means that, despite having acquired the rights to the patent, the Sheikh can block the sale whenever he wants to.’
The Japanese was dumbfounded; he was convinced that the legal terms of the issue had already been resolved. But that was not the case.
‘Obviously, as soon as the Sheikh dies, there will be no further impediment,’ concluded Edward. As soon as he dies.
‘I see…’ Tanaka nodded.
‘Can you handle this? Or will you manage to complicate this as well?’ The Japanese was not used to being treated this way by his clients, but in this case, the man in front of him was right.
‘Okay. I only need a few days.’
62
Rome, January 4th. 6:58 p.m.
‘Slow steps. Small steps.’
Cassini had his eyes closed. He was taking deep breaths and seemed serene, as if he had been freed from the burden of cumbersome armour.
‘Already had my steps, though slow…transported me, I could not ken the place, where I had enter’d.’ He collapsed on the car seat, comfortably. As he relaxed, he started mentally repeating the verses of The Divine Comedy he had remembered from a few nights before. In Purgatory canto XXVIII, Dante recounts that he had been pushed into the forest so deeply that he was unable to see where he had entered. Almost as if it had happened to him, Cassini could not remember his arrival at the Ritz in Paris… And that had happened only four days before!
Slow steps. Small steps.
The traffic lights of Via Gregorio VII and Via Cardinal Silj turned red and the car stopped behind a Toyota van.
‘Let’s recap,’ urged the inspector, with one eye on the professor and one on the traffic. ‘Tell me more about this Japanese with different-coloured irises and the golden gun.’
Cassini turned his head repeatedly and looked around, as if to reassure himself that he was far enough away from Castel Sant’Angelo. ‘I’ve never seen… at least not in person,’ he repeated for the second time. He had already briefly told him how he had arrived in Rome, but apparently the inspector wanted more details. ‘He tried to kidnap me the first time the day before yesterday – in the morning, shortly after we had met in the Tuileries Gardens.’
‘And then he succeeded in Milan, at Leonardo’s Last Supper.’
The professor nodded.
‘What did you say the name of the device was?’ enquired Sforza, who in any case had read about it on Cassini’s mobile.
‘OCST.’
‘OCST,’ repeated the inspector nodding. ‘So, was the Japanese searching for this device in your opinion?’
‘Not according to me,’ scolded Cassini. ‘He told me clearly; he said that I had a prototype that belonged to their clients and he wanted it back.’
‘If what you said is true, I imagine that a prototype like that is worth a lot of money.’ The inspector looked at Cassini’s tired face. ‘And, do you have it… the prototype?’
‘Of course not!’ snarled the professor, in an annoyed tone. He wondered if he had been right to call him, but basically he had no choice. Who else would believe him?
‘Let’s go to Lyon, you’ll be safe there for a few days…’ He thought about Sforza’s words, spoken a few minutes earlier, reassuring himself.
‘And then this woman, Julia, comes into the picture,’ pressed Sforza. ‘First she saved you and then brought you here to Rome… for an experiment. That’s what you said, right?’
‘That’s exactly what happened!’
‘And you’re sure she’s the one in charge of installing these memories, right?’ That was the part of the story that intrigued him most. Cassini had told him that Julia, with the Sheikh’s wife, had inserted others people’s memories into his mind. Of course, he had also read the article explaining how the OCST functioned… The interest in the device could possibly explain the deaths which he was investigating. But there was still something that eluded him.
‘My memory is accurate now. The more days pass, the clearer the images become. It was her, I’ve no doubt about it.’
‘But I don’t understand one thing: what correlation is there between the experiments conducted by Julia and this device?’
The professor shook his head sadly. ‘I don’t see any correlation. The experiments, if we can call them that, are all about works of art…’ He cleared his throat and continued, ‘Julia told me that her boss, the Sheikh, simply wanted to relive the works through the eyes of experts.’
<
br /> Sforza raised an eyebrow – even more doubtful – but decided to find out more. ‘As a kind of DVD, to be reviewed every time he feels like it? And you believed her?’
‘Initially, yes, even though I didn’t understand my role. But then I became convinced that there had to be something else; they are trying to decode clues to something through the works of art… like a map.’
Sforza smiled. ‘A treasure map in short.’
The car reached Piazza Pio XI and by that time the traffic had somewhat eased.
The professor pondered as his gaze went from one illuminated shop front to another. ‘There is no correlation,’ he snapped, gritting his jaw. ‘The Japanese simply wanted the device. Julia instead, used it for her own purposes…’
Sforza agreed. ‘It seems that you and the other victims simply found yourselves in the middle; on one hand there is an experiment to entertain a bored Sheikh, and on the other, a story of industrial espionage.’
‘How do we get out of it?’ asked Cassini, his face tense. That was the only thing that interested him: get out alive.
‘Before, you spoke about another experiment in the Vatican.’
The professor nodded.
‘The fact that you escaped from the Stanza della Segnatura must have upset their plans. That’s already a good advantage.’
Cassini spun around. His blood froze suddenly in his veins.
‘In a hundred and fifty metres turn right at the roundabout. First exit.’ The voice of the navigator broke into their conversation but only the inspector seemed to notice. He came to a roundabout and went onto the Aurelian ring road.
‘And so this Julia had the device with her?’ continued Sforza, his face smiling.
The professor was stiff, he had stopped breathing a few seconds ago. He had made a terrible mistake!
Not hearing any response, the inspector looked away from the road and glared at him with his searching eyes.
‘I never talked about the Raphael Rooms,’ muttered the professor finally. He seemed to be afraid to say it.
‘Of course you did,’ scolded Sforza, but his voice started.
‘I have only ever spoken of the Vatican,’ continued Cassini sadly. ‘I’ve never even spoken about the Raphael Rooms, let alone the Stanza della Segnatura.’
The Interpol inspector swallowed and licked his lips with his tongue. After a few seconds of reflection he parked the car by the pavement and pulled a metal object out of his jacket.
Cassini watched the scene as if in slow motion. He had committed an unforgivable mistake.
‘Put your hands behind your head,’ he ordered grimly, with a Beretta in his hand.
While he saw any hope of salvation dissolve in Cassini’s face, Sforza went back mentally to Lyon. A week ago, an investigation started by accident had turned into a great opportunity.
63
Lyon, December 28th. 09:33 a.m.
‘Who are you?’ Sforza began quietly, deep in the leather seat. In front of him was a blonde woman with a glacial expression.
He had just come out of Fabien Bérot’s lab – Interpol’s information technician – with more questions than answers, and the car had approached him outside the building.
It was in the early days of the investigation, shortly after the discovery of Andrea Cavalli Gigli’s body. The meeting he had with the nerd for the previous half hour was far from enlightening.
For the young technician, the little damaged microchip found at the Vatican was a combination of technology, although, he had not understood its real purpose. ‘Patents of this object would be of great value if it works,’ he had noted, with his usual inexpressive face and flat tone.
In that instance Sforza – who had recently separated from his wife, Claudette, and had some trouble with gambling debts – had not understood the importance of what he had seen. Shortly after, however, a totally unexpected event happened that had helped open his eyes: at the corner of the road a black car with tinted windows had arrived. ‘We have some information for you on Monsignor de Beaumont,’ said the passenger who, showing the design of one of the actin microchips, had invited him to get in.
A faint smell of vanilla floated around the inside of the car and a sax melody sounded in the background. The car was a big Bentley; the dashboard looked like that of a spaceship, the interior was champagne with polished burr walnut trimmings. Two integrated touch-screens were visible on the front headrests for passenger use. There was a small, light-coloured wooden table between the seats, with an open bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and a single glass on top.
‘We know that you have some economic problem,’ the woman said, crossing her legs. She wore vertiginously high heels and skin-tight trousers.
The inspector looked at her more intensely.
He was not sure, but it seemed to him that he had already seen her; she was young, mid-twenties, blonde with an upturned nose and big emerald eyes.
‘It happens…’ she admitted, peaceful. ‘Money comes and goes. In your case it could come today! Depending if you choose to listen to me or not.’
The inspector rubbed his beard and raised an eyebrow. He had never been too loyal to the rules and often his conduct was a clever balancing act between the grey areas of the law. He had never committed egregious crimes, and had almost always remained within the law. The contacts he had acquired through his work allowed him to integrate the salary he earned with Interpol. That way he could lead the comfortable lifestyle he liked so much. ‘I’m all ears,’ he said drily.
‘Four days ago, after the death of Monsignor de Beaumont, two small microchips and an aluminium device were found in the Vatican,’ she began.
‘I’m afraid I can’t reveal this kind of information. This is an on-going investigation.’
The woman smiled, revealing shiny white teeth. ‘I’m not asking… I know it’s so!’
The inspector settled further into the seat and crossed his arms with a theatrical flourish.
‘Those objects belong to us and we want them back.’ She went straight to the point, no beating about the bush.
‘What makes you think that I’m able to let you have them?’
She stared at him with her deep eyes, and after a second of false hesitation, she handed Sforza a sheet of paper folded in four parts. ‘A hundred thousand?’ he exclaimed after reading it. ‘A hundred thousand what?’
‘Euros, or dollars if you prefer…’ she smiled. ‘Although, with the exchange rate, I don’t think it’s worth it.’
Sforza swallowed. That paper was a tentative bribe.
One hundred thousand euro.
‘I’m sorry. What you’re asking me is a crime!’ he returned the paper and grabbed the door handle.
‘You decide the amount! Money isn’t a problem,’ she insisted, as he was getting out.
‘Now you’re talking.’
Everyone has a price, and Sforza was no exception; if he should risk it, however, he would do it for a lot more than one hundred thousand euro. ‘Add a zero,’ he shot back, decided. It was a huge figure, certainly – much more than he would have settled for.
She did not move a muscle and without hesitation nodded, ‘Okay.’
The inspector got back in the car and closed the door again.
‘But for that amount you could be helpful in another way…’
In what way? He wanted to ask, but waited for her to explain.
‘After the death of Cavalli Gigli, during your investigations you could come across similar devices… I ask discretion. Whatever information you should have, before sharing it with your superiors, you should tell us first. We’ll then tell you to either make it disappear from the record or if it’s insignificant.’
Sforza nodded several times with his head. Basically, she was not asking for a lot, if on the other side of the scales there was one million euros.
Once the agreements on the method of payment were agreed, in less than half an hour he had illustrated the laboratory where the microchips were
kept. He gave the woman all the operational information, the location and the combination of the safe, and the access codes to the locks.
Fortunately, he explained, the devices were still being examined by forensics; if she had arrived a few days later, they would have been transferred to the evidence deposit. Once there, it would have been impossible to recover them. This way instead, with that idiot Bérot totally committed to playing video games, it was ‘pretty much a no-brainer.’
*
Three days later, on New Year’s Eve, someone sneaked into the Interpol laboratory, and with the guidance provided by the inspector, took possession of the microchips and the damaged archiving device.
Sforza had earned a considerable amount. In return, he promised to advise the woman when, during the investigation, he would come across similar devices. Exactly what had happened the following week, when Manuel Cassini had called from Rome. ‘I need your help,’ he said in a shaky voice and funereal tone.
After the message left on the answering machine, in which the professor had spoken of the microchip and the new phone call, Sforza had simply put together the clues. He dialled the number and told the woman everything. She had been particularly happy, so that the inspector had felt free to end with a joke: ‘If we’re going to continue with our lovey-dovey phone calls… at least this time you could tell me what your name is.’
‘Feel free to call me Julia.’
64
Ciampino Airport, January 4th. 7:52 p.m.
The air was cold and heavy rain pounded the runway insistently. The Challenger 850 – hired especially for the occasion – had stopped, the lights in the cabin on. Not far away a vehicle appeared with the logo ADR, the terminal operator reserved for private flights only.
A flashing light placed under the cockpit, lit up the staircase already positioned in front of the doorway.
Julia was motionless, arms folded, soaked, wrapped in a black leather motorcycle suit.
She had just finished filling out the documents for the trip. Despite the fact the terminal was intended for business clients only, the customs had asked for dozens of signatures and a considerable amount of paper work.
