by Nick Hale
Or an assassination! Italy’s sports minister, Ignacio Lauda, had been a lawyer before, and brought down several Mafia families. Now he was tipped to be the next prime minister. What if there was a hit man on his tail? Jake’s dad would need help, another pair of eyes …
Jake forced himself to focus on the task at hand – skimming the photos, just to check they were all suffering from the same problem. It was as though water had been spilled across a traditional negative, blurring the pictures. As he continued to scan backwards, he found older images. Judging by the date-stamp, they were taken earlier in the day when Hayley had picked them up from the airport, and showed people in some candid Italian street scenes.
Jake paused when he recognised a face.
Abri …
Holy shit. Abri Kuertzen was the hottest model on the planet. South African, still under twenty, her face had already graced the covers of Vogue, Elle and Cosmopolitan. Not the kind of magazines Jake bought, but even he knew who she was. In fact, she’d presented an award for MTV a couple of months before.
‘Found a quiet corner,’ said a female voice.
Jake looked up, and did a double take at the face that looked down at him. Blue eyes, blonde hair cut short above perfect cheekbones. Lips that …
‘Cat got your tongue?’ said Abri Kuertzen.
4
Jake stood up quickly as Abri glided into the chapel. A supermodel – the supermodel – in the flesh. She was tall, only a few centimetres shorter than him, but her feet were bare. In heels she’d be taller. She was wearing a flowing white dress that came to her knees. Nothing special, but she looked, frankly, awesome.
‘I’m Jake,’ he said. ‘My mum’s the photographer.’
Duh! Make yourself sound like a kid, why don’t you!
‘I’m Abri,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m a professional coat-hanger.’
She said it with a straight face, and it took Jake a second to realise she was joking. He laughed, and her face split into a wide grin. Jake shook hands, hoping his palm wasn’t clammy, and that he wasn’t laughing at her joke too hard.
‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘I recognise your face … I mean …’
Don’t sound like a stalker. Don’t sound like a stalker.
‘I get it,’ said Abri, still grinning. Jake realised that he’d never seen that expression on her face before – in all the posters she was pouting, looking half asleep.
‘So,’ she said. ‘You haven’t answered my question. What are you doing in here?’
Jake shrugged, trying not to blush and thinking he’d got it about right. ‘I think Mum wanted me out of the way.’
Abri pointed at the camera. ‘Are you a photographer too?’
‘Oh, no, I’m just trying to fix it for her. I’m a …’ Don’t say you’re at school! ‘I’m in Italy helping my dad out. He’s a footballer. Steve Bastin.’
Abri’s blank face suggested she had absolutely no idea who Steve Bastin was.
Typical! thought Jake. The one time I actually want someone to have heard of my dad!
‘Do you play football?’
‘Sure,’ Jake said. ‘Though not professionally. Yet.’ Suddenly he felt stupid, and added by way of excuse, ‘I’m only sixteen.’
Nice one, Jake. You may as well have said you’re still in nappies!
‘Hm,’ said Abri. ‘You look older. Bigger, y’know. I’m only seventeen.’
She bit her bottom lip. Was Abri Kuertzen checking him out? Jake knew he was blushing now. An image flashed in his mind of Abri’s latest campaign for Calvin Klein underwear.
Stop it, Jake!
‘So, you having any luck fixing it?’ she asked.
She reached over and placed her hand over the camera, bringing herself within centimetres of Jake. Her fingers slid under his and lifted the camera to look closer. His stomach lurched.
Was she flirting with him?
‘I … I need to get it plugged into a computer,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t look good. You can hardly tell what most of the pictures even show.’ He released the camera, but stayed close to her.
‘That’s a shame. You seem to know your stuff.’
Jake was about to say that wasn’t really the case, when one of the Granble reps, that raven-haired thirty-something with too much make-up and a too-tight skirt Marissa, poked her head round the wall. She pursed her lips when she saw Jake.
‘There you are, Abri! Come now, please. We’ve got a reporter from Avvenire here to speak with you.’
‘I’m coming,’ Abri said, finally backing away. She smiled at Jake. ‘Nice to meet you, Jake. Perhaps we’ll catch up later, yes?’
‘Yeah. Sure,’ Jake said.
She held out the camera and Jake reached to take it. But it slipped from her hand too soon and fell to the floor.
‘Oh!’ she exclaimed.
Jake didn’t have time to catch it, and stuck out his foot, cushioning the camera and balancing it on his shoe. With a deft flick, he launched it into the air and caught it.
‘Show-off!’ said Abri, winking. ‘Perhaps you should go pro.’
After she’d gone, Jake waited for his heart to stop thudding.
Perhaps spy stuff could wait.
Jake went out into the main part of the church, carrying the camera. His mum was busy with two models by the lectern. One was a statuesque black girl with hair shorter than Jake’s, the other a tanned blonde Jake thought he’d seen in a music video. She was standing on the lectern, resting her hands on an open Bible. Hands wearing glittering diamond rings, Jake realised. The other model stood beneath, wearing a dazzling necklace against her dark skin. Granble’s female assistant looked on like a hawk, while Granble himself was sitting talking to Jaap in one of the pews. He clicked his fingers for his assistant to scurry over, and whispered something in her ear, which she then relayed to Hayley.
Jake saw his mum make adjustments in light of Granble’s comments, but he could tell from her forced smile and stiff body language that she wasn’t particularly happy with the interference.
He looked around for Abri, and saw her sitting in a pew near the back next to a glamorous-looking female reporter holding a Dictaphone. Jake didn’t want his mum to think he was loitering, so he headed round the side of the church until he reached the doorway near the front, which opened on to the spiral stone steps. Abri noticed him and waved. Jake gave a wave back then headed up the narrow stairwell. It led to the mezzanine level above, which was covered in a thick layer of dust and scattered bird droppings. The boards creaked a little as Jake crossed them. He wondered for a moment if they were safe, then saw other footprints in the dirt, and figured he wasn’t the first person up here. Presumably the lighting guys had checked it out as well.
He reached the edge, which was shielded with a balustrade, and peered over. At the far end of the church, his mother was still arranging the models. But it was the voices below that caught his attention. By some curious acoustics, Jake could hear the supermodel and the reporter talking very clearly below.
‘And how have you enjoyed your stay in Italy so far?’
‘Well, Lenka,’ Abri said, ‘you know that Italy is very close to my heart, because my mother is Italian …’
‘So, Abri, how do you feel about wearing such beautiful diamonds?’
‘You know what they say about a girl’s best friend!’
It sounded like a pretty dull interview, and Jake was about to leave when the journalist asked a more interesting question. ‘But you must have some reservations, as a South African, about wearing these specific stones. There have been so many protests. After all, the source of the diamonds is …’
‘That’s enough!’ another woman’s voice cut in.
Jake looked down and saw that Granble’s black-haired rep, Marissa, had seized the reporter’s Dictaphone.
‘You can’t do that!’ the journalist protested.
‘Wrong,’ said Marissa. ‘Please leave. The terms of the interview were clearly stat
ed in the contractual agreement.’
With a few huffs and sighs, the reporter gathered her things and left the church, closely trailed by Marissa and Jaap. Jake thought it was time to leave too, and made his way back across the mezzanine. He noticed that the stairs continued upwards to the bell tower. A rope hung across, and part of the wall above had crumbled on to the stones. As he came back down the stairs, Abri was standing up from her pew.
‘Hey, footballer,’ she said. ‘You following me around?’
Jake blushed. ‘No, I …’
‘I’m kidding,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t mind if you were.’
‘Oh,’ was all Jake could think to say.
‘Listen, I’ve got a couple more shots to get done, but why don’t we catch up later?’
Was a supermodel asking him on a date?
‘Sure,’ said Jake, trying to sound cool. ‘Are you OK, though? I couldn’t help hearing the end of the interview.’
‘Oh, that,’ she said. ‘It was nothing.’
‘It sounded like something.’
She laughed. ‘You sound like a detective!’ Abri leant closer. Her breath tickled his ear. ‘Some people don’t like the way Granble operates his business, that’s all.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jake. ‘Granble and his people are, well, not what I’d describe as nice.’
Abri frowned, looked around, then lowered her voice.
‘Between you and me,’ she said, ‘I think Granble is raping the continent, destroying the landscape and robbing the community of what is naturally theirs. He’ll trample anyone to get what he wants.’
Jake was speechless. There was a new hardness in Abri’s eyes that he hadn’t seen before. ‘So … why are you doing this campaign?’ he asked.
Abri lowered her eyes. ‘I do what my agent tells me,’ she said. ‘I can’t afford to get a reputation for being difficult at this stage in my career.’ She looked at him again. ‘You think I’m a hypocrite, don’t you?’
Jake didn’t know what to say, but he knew he couldn’t voice what he was thinking – that if she wasn’t hypocritical, who was?
‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I just …’
He was spared an explanation when another model sauntered up the aisle. She was the blonde, and probably the second best-looking woman Jake had ever seen.
‘Hey, Sienna,’ Abri said, suddenly smiley again.
‘The fitter wants you, Abs,’ she said with a West Coast American accent.
Jake said, ‘Hi,’ but Sienna ignored him, took Abri by the arm and pulled her away. ‘See you around, footballer,’ Abri called.
‘Oh, please!’ hissed Sienna.
Jake watched them go into the vestry, and tried not to imagine Abri changing into her next outfit. It wasn’t easy. His mum interrupted his reverie. She looked really stressed.
‘Look, Jake, things are going pear-shaped here. We’ve got the wrong filters for the lights, one of the dresses is missing its train …’
Jake put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Chill out, Mum,’ he said. ‘What can I do to help?’
His mum sighed. ‘It’s not that. I’m going to have to be away for a couple of hours sorting things out. Can you keep yourself busy? I’m really sorry …’
‘Mum, that’s fine,’ Jake said.
His mum smiled and gave him a big kiss on the forehead. Jake looked around anxiously to make sure none of the models had seen.
‘Great,’ his mum said. ‘How’s the camera, by the way?’
Jake held up the broken camera. ‘I’m not sure. I need to plug it into my laptop. Don’t get your hopes up.’
But his mum was already looking to the front of the church, where Hector was up a stepladder.
‘Not that one, Hector!’ she shouted. ‘Number three!’
Jake watched his mum walk briskly away.
A few hours of freedom.
And a dilemma: stay here with Abri, or use the time to find out what his father was really up to in Milan?
Hot girls or adventure?
The models were all in the vestry now, with the door closed. Who knew how long they’d be? And, though Jake had got on well with Abri – really well, in fact – Sienna didn’t seem to be very friendly. Plus, if he knew anything about girls, it was that they took a long time to get ready.
Decision made, then. Girls would have to wait.
5
Jake traced the streets back the way his mother had driven.
He guessed his dad would have to visit the Milan TV studios sometime that day to prepare for his official duties that night, commentating on England–Germany.
And if he’s not there I’ll track him down.
Jake looked for a taxi, but this area wasn’t like the centre of the city. It was all small local shops – butcher’s, baker’s, hairdresser’s – and most of the people he saw in the street were middle-aged or older. What he did spot was a bike shop with an emerald-green racing bike outside. Not the colour he would have chosen, but the gears looked good. He was checking the tyres when a short, stocky man in braces emerged. He was wearing a flat cap, but took it off in way of greeting, revealing a bald head.
‘Buongiorno,’ he said.
‘Buongiorno,’ Jake replied, using the bit of Italian he had picked up at school. He didn’t want to buy a bike – just to borrow one for a few hours. What was the Italian for ‘rent'?
They went back and forth for a while, with Jake trying to say he’d pay thirty euro for three hours. He mimicked riding the bike up the street and back again, but the shop owner seemed to think he meant he wanted a test ride.
Jake took out three ten-euro notes and showed his watch face, indicating the dial travelling round three times. Then the man understood, but he pointed to the watch as well. Jake shrugged. Surely he didn’t want that, too? But the man went inside, and came out with a dictionary. He said the word ‘deposit'.
So Jake handed over his watch, and the money, and climbed on to the bike. The owner came out with a battered orange helmet, and Jake put it on gratefully. If the Italians drove anything like his mum, he might need it.
He set off slowly, getting used to the bike. Soon he was pedalling steadily, and took a main road towards the city centre. The traffic became dense, but Jake was able to weave through on the bike. Taxis were the worst, cutting in front of him, and honking loudly when he returned the favour.
Jake’s dad had said the main studio was on Edoardo Jenner to the north of the city, but he had to sneak a look at a tourist’s map to find his way. He found Viale Edoardo Jenner, and cycled along it. It was a busy road, lined with offices and apartment blocks. He was beginning to lose hope of ever finding the place and thought about asking for directions, but then he saw it.
Milano TV.
The massive glass-fronted office block had a wide courtyard out front, and a fountain catching the sunlight in its spray. Potted fir trees lined the entrance. Jake hopped the bike up on to the pavement, swerved around a couple of suited men and skidded to a halt beside the front door. He didn’t want to leave the bike outside in case it got stolen. So he wheeled it inside.
An enormous modern sculpture shaped something like a bull rested in the centre of the reception, surrounded by lowbacked leather chairs and tables piled with TV and industry magazines. Against the far side, huge screens showed several TV channels silently.
Jake arrived at the desk, and the receptionist looked up.
‘Hi,’ said Jake.
‘You have a delivery?’ she said in English. ‘Who for?’
Jake looked down at the bike. ‘Oh, no, I’m not a courier. I came to find Steve Bastin. He’s my father.’
The receptionist sighed loudly and checked her computer screen.
‘Steve Bastin …’ she said. ‘He works here?’
‘No,’ said Jake. ‘He’s commentating, tonight.’
The receptionist clicked away on her keyboard. ‘No, I have no one of that name.’
Jake calmed his frustrations. He had to be here.
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‘Maybe I should just go and look for him,’ Jake said, pointing to the elevators.
‘Not possible,’ said the receptionist, losing her patience. ‘All visitors must have passes.’
Jake could see he wasn’t going to get anywhere, and was about to take his bike back outside when the elevator doors opened.
A small man, flanked by two security guards, stood within. Jake recognised him immediately as the Italian sports minister.
The security detail scanned the lobby for a moment, then strode across the reception area and ushered the minister out through the door. As they passed him, Jake caught a reflection of himself in the mirrored sunglasses of one of the guards.
I obviously don’t look like much of a threat.
He pushed his bike outside and watched the sports minister climb into a silver limousine with tinted windows. One guard went in the back too, the other took the passenger seat. The car quickly pulled away.
Half a second later, two other cars moved as well – one, a BMW on the same side of the road; the other a Lexus across the street. The BMW followed in the limousine’s wake, and the Lexus steered across a lane of traffic and slipped in behind the BMW.
It was too slick to be a coincidence. Sweat prickled on Jake’s skin.
He hopped on to the saddle of the bike, and pedalled after the convoy. If something big was going to go down, he wanted to be there. His dad could thank him later.
They took the road behind Garibaldi Station, past small designer boutiques. The BMW was trailing fifty metres behind the limo, with the Lexus following one car after that. The traffic was fairly heavy, so it wasn’t hard to keep up. Jake kept a few bike-lengths back from the Lexus, but he could see through the rear windscreen that there were two guys in the car.
They reached some lights, and Jake came up alongside, shooting a look into the front seats. One of the men, a mean–looking skinhead, was wearing some kind of communications earpiece and microphone. Was he linked in to the BMW?
