“We can monitor their activity as we keep track of Raza,” Marni said. “Sooner than later, they will all be in the same location.”
“Raza is the one we must be rid of,” Vladimir said. “But if in the exchange of fire, one or both mob bosses goes down? It would not be a tragedy.”
“They have so many men at their disposal, yet the Italians seem to be heading into this battle practically solo,” Marni said. “Doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s for the other crime bosses to take note of,” Vladimir said. “They still need to be convinced the war the Wolf wishes to wage is one they need to fight. By taking Raza head on, he and the Strega are leading by example, and nothing impresses the other syndicates more than a show of leadership. It’s what the old school gangsters would have done. We may be in a new century, but the codes of conduct are firmly planted in the past.”
“They’re good enough to foil Raza’s plan,” Marni said. “We could help prevent that.”
“We remain invisible, until the last possible moment.”
“I’m not certain how it will play out,” Marni said, “but I believe it will be bloody and messy before a conclusion is reached.”
“No different than any other skirmish,” Vladimir said. “Granted, this is being fought on a larger scale with deadlier ramifications. The risks are higher, as are the rewards. But a battle is still a battle regardless of where it is waged. All that matters is that we are the ones left standing once the bodies and debris have been cleared. It is the only truth that has ever mattered.”
Chapter 49
Rome, Italy
I walked with Angela past the crowds gathered on the Spanish steps, Brunello and Manzo close behind us.
“Did you know these steps are not owned by Italy?” Angela asked.
“No, Professa, I didn’t.”
“The steps are property of the French government,” Angela said. “In fact, the Romans pay a small tax each year that is sent back to France.”
“I’m sure there’s a logical answer as to why they’re not called the French steps,” I said.
“Logical? In Italy?” Angela said. She pointed to her left, toward a long line of high-end clothing stores and a two-story house turned museum that had centuries earlier been the summer residence of Lord Byron. “One of the two Spanish embassies is located in the square.”
“And there are two Spanish embassies because …?”
“There are two embassies from every country in Rome,” Angela said. “One for the Italian government and the other for the Vatican.”
“You make a terrific tour guide,” I said after we moved from the steps, then passed Bernini’s Fountain and crossed the plaza.
“Speaking of tours, what is this you’re taking me on?” she asked.
“It’s an electric golf cart tour,” I told her. “Best way to see the city. The driver can take us down those narrow side streets that are hard to walk on and most cars can’t fit through. I asked for two carts. They’re going to meet us over by the bookstore.”
“What about the main streets?” Angela asked. “Are they allowed to drive on those?”
“Piece of cake,” I said. “They can go as fast as twenty-five kilometers an hour and they’re good for about ninety miles. It’ll give us a chance to talk.”
“Is there a problem?” Angela asked.
“There’s always a problem,” I said.
Angela and I sat in the backseat of a white electric golf cart, the driver steering his way through the throng surrounding the Trevi Fountain. We were in the lead cart, Brunello and Manzo in the second, somewhere behind us.
Our driver turned toward us. “You want the full tour or you want some time to yourselves?” he asked.
“Little bit of both,” I said. “For now, just focus on the drive.”
“You want scenic or you want to, you know, cuddle?” he asked.
“Your English is pretty good,” I said to him.
“You mean for a guy from Brooklyn?” the driver said, turning to look at us.
“You chased here or come on your own?” I asked.
“I married Italian,” the driver said. “Real Italian, like your lady. You fall in love with a Made in Italy woman, be prepared to live in Italy.”
I smiled. “Looks like you’ve made it work.”
“No complaints, amico mio,” he said. “She’s a good woman, the kids are great, and this business has been solid enough to get me a house and a full table every night.”
“Low overhead,” I said. “Smart. The only thing cuts into your profits are the batteries on these things. They can run a credit card.”
“You know the Pope mobile?” he asked. “The one they scoot the Pope around in two or three times a year?”
“What about it?”
“The battery in the Pope mobile has to be changed every three months whether he puts one mile on it or a thousand,” he said.
“Why?” Angela asked.
“Who the hell knows?” The driver shrugged. “But it works out great for me. I got a friend on the inside and he puts the batteries aside and sells them to me for a hundred euros each. Simple, no?”
I exchanged a look with Angela. “The Vatican has more scams going than we do,” she said.
The crowds parted to let us through, many people waving or pointing. The golf cart tours were still a novelty, in business less than a year, but the Italians seemed to have warmed to them.
“What do you think?” I asked Angela.
“It’s a fun idea,” she said. “Of course if we need to make a speedy getaway, we’re doomed.”
“We could always jump out and run,” I said.
“Good to see you have a backup plan,” she said, gazing at the passing shops.
“I know you came into this reluctantly,” I said, “and I can’t blame you. But I am glad you’re on my side.”
“It was a business decision,” Angela said. She turned to look at me. “And a personal one as well.”
“I can take it from here,” I said. “Burke and his team are on their way to Florence. They’ll deal with the target there. I’ll work the Vatican.”
“And I go back to Naples?” Angela asked.
“I’ve lost one friend already,” I said. “And a large chunk of my family, even before it began. I’m not quite ready to lose someone else I care about.”
“I appreciate your concern, enzo mio,” Angela said. “But when I decided to join you in this fight, it wasn’t to be your backup. I have my organization to consider as well, and these bastards are as much a threat to me as to you.”
The backseat was tight and we were snuggled against one another. I hadn’t been this close to her since we were teenagers, and I closed my eyes and allowed the warm memories of many years ago wash over me. Her left thigh was resting casually against my right, tanned skin exposed, and in those brief moments I forgot the mob boss by my side and instead looked at her as someone whom I had always loved and with whom I had always felt safe.
“This is the beginning of a long war,” I said. “And we can’t afford to lose our best people out of the gate. I think you should go back to Naples.”
“I have never left a fight,” Angela said, “and I won’t start—”
“If something happens to me,” I said, “it will fall on you to lead the fight from there. That’s a business decision.”
“We walked into this together, Enzo,” Angela said. “We’ll walk out of it together or we’ll fall together.”
“No one calls me Enzo,” I said.
“No one but me,” Angela said, smiling.
“I don’t want to lose you,” I said, not meaning to blurt it out, taking a quick look at the driver as he navigated the golf cart down the Via Veneto.
“Then don’t,” Angela said. “Because, you know, you’ll have my father chasing you from one country to the next.”
“I can only imagine,” I said.
Angela turned away and looked out at the Piazza Navona. “You
were right not to marry me,” she said. “It was the wrong time. It would have been done for the wrong reasons. I was angry at first. Who wouldn’t be? But you made the choice that needed to be made. You got lucky. You met someone you loved. I’m very sorry you lost that.”
“And now?”
“Now?” she said. “Now we have a war to fight.”
I said something then that I had felt for a long time but had never consciously thought. “You and me, Angie. We’re a story of bad timing.”
“We’ve known each other a long time,” Angela said, her voice lower. “We’re comfortable with each other. Perhaps we shouldn’t mistake that comfort for anything other than that.”
Something inside me spun the wrong way.
“Fair enough,” I said.
Angela leaned forward and rested a hand on the driver’s shoulder, getting his attention. “How long do these cart tours last?” she asked him.
“As long as you want,” the driver said cheerfully, veering the cart toward the Pantheon. “Forty-five minutes, seven hours—whatever you like!”
“Then stop the cart at the next corner,” she said.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“For a walk,” Angela said. “And don’t worry. I won’t be completely alone. Brunello and Manzo won’t let me stray from sight.”
The cart eased to a stop. Angela leaned over, kissed me on the cheek and let go of my hand. She stepped out and started a slow walk toward the Pantheon. Brunello and Manzo followed, keeping a respectful distance.
I sat there in that stupid golf cart and watched her until she disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter 50
Florence, Italy
David Lee Burke had his back to the statue of the David, looking at the crowd mingling around the work.
Jennifer Malasson was in one corner of the room, her back against a cool wall, a sketchbook cradled in her arms.
Robert Kinder was having a quiet chat with an elderly couple visiting for the first time from England, celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in the company of a Michelangelo masterpiece.
Franklin J. Pierce was at the entrance to the Galleria, a guidebook in his right hand, checking the faces of the visitors as they entered the large, well-lit room.
Carl Anderson was squeezed in between two art history students, a short distance away from the entrance to the Galleria, and had already spotted the two Russian shooters snaking on the same line, about a dozen feet from his back.
Beverly Weaver was inside an idling black van parked around the corner. She had six computer monitors running, three giving her visuals inside the Galleria and three outside. She also had audio transmission relays switched to green mode and could hear and see everyone on the team and alert them to any hot spots.
The Silent Six were in place.
Avrim had his head bowed in prayer, standing in the middle of the long line. It seemed to take a lifetime to move even one step. He was wearing a black T-shirt and an oversized New York Yankees jacket, a bit too heavy for the humid weather but a perfect buffer to shield the thin but burdensome device attached by leather straps to his chest.
The device had been delivered to him earlier that morning by an unknown courier, a young, fragile looking teenager he had never seen before who knocked on his apartment door and handed him a sealed Amazon box. He nodded his thanks when Avrim took it from him, jumped back on a rusty red bicycle and peddled up Via Pietro Maroncelli under the imposing shadows of the soccer stadium.
It took Avrim slightly less than an hour to cut open the package with a dull kitchen knife and stare at the device inside. It took him even longer to bathe and choose the proper clothing, since he was unable to ease the fear that was raging inside and calm his trembling body. He sat and prayed and drank a cup of lukewarm tea. He then stood, walked over to the Amazon box, lifted the device and held it in his hands. He was surprised at how light it felt and how crudely it was put together. But he was also aware of the damage such a device was meant to cause and the number of people it could leave dead in its wake.
Avrim had placed the device on his chest, his head barely fitting through the small opening, and snapped the leather straps in place, making it as tight as he could manage. He wiped his face and hands with a damp towel and then reached for the Yankees jacket, a final gift from his mentor and friend, Raza.
Now, he glanced at the two guards stationed near the Galleria entrance, their attention focused on faces farther down the line. He handed his entry ticket to a young woman in a blue jacket and matching skirt and waited as she tore off the top and handed the rest back to him, already reaching out a hand for the next visitor on the line. Avrim walked past her into a small vestibule, turned right and entered the Galleria.
He was in place.
Chapter 51
Vatican City, Italy
I spotted the Russian shooters long before I caught sight of Raza. They were spread out, a dozen if I made them right, two to a team, mingling among various tour groups, moving from one room to the next. I was wearing a small hearing device in my left ear and had audio contact with Angela, Brunello, and Manzo, the four of us spread throughout the Vatican exhibits. I also had a miniature video camera clipped to the collar of my black leather jacket, linking me back to New York and John Loo, who was working in a room that enabled him to see and hear what I did across the faces of six large computer screens.
“Anything?” I asked.
Angela’s voice popped into my ear. “No sign of him,” she said.
“He’ll show,” I said.
“Two of the Russians made me,” Brunello said. “So I won’t be there alone.”
“Don’t worry,” I said. “None of us are going to be alone for long.”
We made our way toward the Sistine Chapel, walking through the small entrance nearest The Last Judgment. I was the first one in and caught a glimpse of Angela with a cluster of teenage girls, chatting casually with one of them. She was wearing a black jacket, Nike running shoes, form-fitting J. Crew jeans, and was walking toward the center of the large room.
Brunello and Manzo took their positions, one against the wall closest to the exit, the other standing directly across, blocked from view by the guards stationed around the milling crowd.
I was facing the rear of the room, The Last Judgment at my back, Michelangelo’s ceiling above me.
I was in my place.
Raza stood in the center of a children’s tour group, eighteen boys and girls in the requisite camp outfit—matching T-shirts hanging loose over the tops of jeans or shirts, three female guides watching them. He smiled at the children, seemingly at ease in their company, chewing a thick wad of gum, an expensive camera hanging on a leather leash over his neck, a black cap on the lens. Then he paused, taking in the room. He gazed at all of it—the paintings, the centuries-old furniture, the sheer majestic power of it—and a smile came to his face. It was as if he were looking at it for the first time.
And for the last.
He was in place.
Chapter 52
Florence, Italy
“He’s in,” Burke said. “He’s slow walking from the main entrance, not stopping to look at anything, coming straight toward the target.”
“There are Russian guns in every direction,” Malasson said into her body mike. “They wanted to, they could spray this place and give him all the cover he needs.”
“He’s the suicide bomber,” Burke said, “the one who came in here to die. The Russians won’t want to join him. They must have an exit strategy.”
“Once that bomb goes, there’s no way out of here for anybody,” Pierce said. “Them or us.”
“Then let’s make sure it doesn’t go off,” Burke said.
“I got four here with me,” Anderson said. “And they keep letting others get in front of them, which means they don’t plan on going in.”
“They’ll give cover fire from outside,” Weaver said from the van, “aiming at either us or any
guards blocking the others making a break.”
“You get a visual on where they stashed their transport?” Burke asked.
“Two streets past the Galleria,” Weaver said. “Two four-door sedans, no drivers waiting.”
Burke was twenty feet from Avrim and started to move in his direction. “I’m going to go make contact,” he said. “If I’m not getting anywhere with him, I’ll give the signal and you take him down.”
“I’ll be ready,” Kinder said. “It’s going to be tighter than I’d like with all these folks around. If you could work him toward a quieter spot, be a big help.”
“If you can’t take the shot, don’t,” Burke told him. “Turn your attention to the Russians. Jennifer will take him with a blade.”
“I’m moving now,” Malasson said. “I’ll have him through the neck. Device will be covering his chest and back.”
“The rest of you, remember, drop the Russians,” Burke said. “But if you have to hit one of the guards, try for flesh wounds.”
Burke walked down the center of the hall and stopped in front of Avrim, startling the young man. “Hi,” Burke said with a smile and in a pleasant voice. “I was wondering if you could help me out?”
Chapter 53
Vatican City, Italy
I made eye contact with Raza, wanting him to see me, to know I was there, throw him off—if only for a moment. He looked back and I saw that he recognized me, probably from a photo somebody gave him. He looked younger than I thought he would, moved with deliberate motions, like a dancer rehearsing something he needed to learn. He was wearing a jeans jacket with a faded T-shirt underneath. He raised his right hand to waist level, waved the fingers at me and smiled. He moved away from the kids around him and began to walk in my direction, casual and relaxed, in total control of the moment.
A terrorist about to step through the door to paradise.
It was then I knew.
Raza wasn’t the bomber.
He was the decoy.
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