The Wolf: A Novel

by Lorenzo Carcaterra

  “The bomber’s in the room,” I said into my mike. “Find out who and where.”

  “How will we be able to tell?” Brunello asked.

  “You won’t,” I told him. “Let the bomber tell you. Eyes, body language, nervous looks. The closer he gets to pressing the timer, the faster the adrenaline moves, the more exaggerated the gestures. They all say they want to die, but it’s no easy thing.”

  “Once you spot him,” Angela said, “make your move. Target needs to go down without the device going off.”

  I watched as Raza moved into a crowd of Japanese tourists, pushing his way toward the exit at the rear of the room. “Looks like Raza’s not going to stay for the fireworks,” I said. “John, track him and make sure he doesn’t get too far from range.”

  “He’s on my radar,” John said.

  “Manzo, the Russians belong to you until we get our sights on the target,” Angela said. “Don’t waste bullets. Drop to kill. There’s a badge in the room to help you take them down.”

  “Does he have a name?” I asked.

  “Frantoni,” Angela said.

  Chapter 54

  Florence, Italy

  “I look at you and don’t see the eyes of a young man who wants to die here today,” Burke said to Avrim.

  Avrim had been startled by Burke’s approach, especially given Burke’s size. Burke had the casual manner of a man who was good with both his hands and with a weapon, and Avrim did his best not to show either panic or bravado, to remain as calm as possible.

  “I am here same as you,” Avrim managed to say, “to see the David.”

  “You got two Russians drawing closer to your left,” Pierce said.

  Burke took note but kept his eyes on Avrim. “It would be so easy to prove me wrong,” he said to Avrim. “Wouldn’t take more than a few seconds.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Avrim asked. He felt the crowd closing in tighter around them and was feeling light-headed and drained.

  “Pop open that Yankees jacket,” Burke said, moving closer to Avrim, sensing the Russians coming at him from behind.

  “Three more hitters coming straight at you,” Pierce said.

  “I have a clear shot on one,” Kinder said. “Once he’s hit, people might scurry for cover and give me a look at a second. Still leaves a bit of a crowd.”

  “There are three more on my side of the statue,” Malasson said. “It’s starting to get tight.”

  “I’m not going to open my jacket,” Avrim said.

  Burke reached over and grabbed both of Avrim’s hands. The move startled the terrorist and made him flinch. “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “You don’t need to open the jacket, the set button is in one of your pockets,” Burke said, gripping down tighter on Avrim’s hands. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

  “You cannot hold onto me for the rest of the day,” Avrim said, regaining a fraction of his composure. “Some in the crowd have started to look our way. Soon the guards will sense something is wrong and come toward us. I only need a second.”

  Burke looked over Avrim’s left shoulder and spotted two of the Russian hitters closing in. Each held a Glock, guns low, letting them ride against their legs. “When I start to move with my new friend here, begin to clear out some of our company,” Burke said into his mike. “But stay silent. Take down as many as you can before we have to make some noise.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Avrim said, confused, looking around and catching a glimpse of the two Russians coming for them.

  “And if it looks like the target is giving me trouble,” Burke said, looking right at Avrim, “take him out fast, center of the head. And if I’m in the way, put me down, then take him.”

  Burke turned Avrim around, bending his arms behind him and began to walk him toward the Galleria exit.

  He estimated he had a fifteen second jump before the Galleria became a fire zone.

  Chapter 55

  Vatican City, Italy

  I stood in the middle of the Sistine Chapel and looked for the face of the one person in the room eager to bring it crashing down. Raza would not select an innocent for such a monumental job; he couldn’t risk any last minute indecision or error. He would want someone to whom the destruction of the chapel would have a deeper meaning; someone who could override emotion with strength.

  And someone who could squash his fears and zero in on the task.

  I scanned through the crowd looking for the face of that person, the one face I needed to find. A face as marked by damage as by determination.

  A face like mine.

  John’s voice came through my earpiece. “I’m not picking up Raza.”

  “There are two cameras in every room,” I said, “keep looking. He’s not going to stray far. He’ll want to see this through.”

  I turned to my left and spotted a man in a dark brown sports jacket and matching slacks. He wore thick glasses and a designer scarf hanging around his neck and kept both hands inside the flaps of his jacket. He was doing his best to act calm but could do little to disguise his nerves. He was in his mid-forties, with a well-groomed beard and a visible scar that ran from the corner of one eye down the length of his cheek, partially hidden by his facial hair.

  “I have to go, John,” I said. “I think I found our target.”

  I took a few steps closer to the man, waiting for him to look away from the panels on the far walls and turn to me.

  “Keep your distance,” I said to Angela and her team. “And keep looking in case I’m circling the wrong guy.”

  “There isn’t time for you to be wrong,” Angela said.

  I walked up to the man, blocking his view of the panels over my shoulder, catching him off guard. “A son?” I asked him. “Or a daughter?”

  The man stared at me for several seconds, glanced at the crowd milling around us and then turned back to me. “One of each,” he said. “Two years ago this day.”

  “How old?” I asked.

  “My son was twelve, my daughter not yet ten,” the man said. “They were walking home from school along with some other friends when the bomb … A bomb sent by people who look like you.”

  “You want your revenge,” I told him. “And you’ve been led to believe what you are about to do will get that for you. You’re wrong.”

  “It is the only way,” the man said.

  “No,” I said, “it’s not. All it will do is kill these innocents who wished no harm for your children. It won’t bring justice. It won’t give you the revenge you seek. If that’s all it took, then I’d be setting off bombs in as many crowded places as I could find.”

  “Who?” the man asked.

  “My wife,” I said. “Two daughters. A terrorist attack.”

  “And did that not make you want to kill all terrorists?”

  “Yes,” I said, “as long as they lead me to the one I need.”

  “Is Raza the one you seek?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “I still have two children,” the man said. “Raza will send them money. For education. To buy a home. To live a better life than I can give them.”

  “That’s what he told you,” I said, feeling the man’s conviction starting to fade. “It’s what he tells anyone. Any up-front cash?”

  The man shook his head.

  I grasped his shoulder. “Your children will be without a father and there will be no money.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked.

  “I’m the one who’s going to stop you,” I said. “You’re different from them, and from me. But that changes if you push down on that button in your pocket. That will make you a hated man, despised even by your own country. Your own children. What you do here is how they will remember you.”

  The man looked at me and shook his head. “Raza gave me his word,” he said. “And I left him with mine. What was meant to happen will happen. And it will happen now.”

  I pressed my right hand against the on
e he had hidden in his jacket pocket, the one whose fingers were near the trigger point that would set off the bomb.

  I fired three bullets into him at close range, two in his chest, one in his stomach. The sounds of the gunshots were partially drowned out by the crowd noise and the ringing of the bells outside. I wrapped my arm around the man and held him up as blood poured down on our feet. I heard a woman behind me scream and saw one hold her fingers to her mouth, her eyes frozen in fear. To my right a male voice shouted for help.

  “Get out of there now,” Angela said, her voice coming through clearly in my earpiece.

  I reached into the man’s jacket pocket and felt for the timing mechanism, pushed his limp hand aside and pulled it out. I looked into his eyes and saw he was close to gone. I let him slowly slip from my grasp. He fell to the floor like a deflated balloon as I moved toward the Sistine Chapel exit, the frightened and stunned crowd parting to give me space.

  I walked until I made it past the small entryway leading out of the chapel and then began to run. “I’m going for Raza,” I said into my body mike.

  Behind me I could hear gunfire, people shouting and screaming, police whistles echoing, alarms going off in every corner of the chapel. I knew Brunello and Manzo were in a firefight with the Russians, giving Angela as much cover as they could as she made her way toward the exit to join up with me.

  “John?” I said into the mike. “You have a location on Raza?”

  I was racing through the halls, not certain which direction to go, losing time. John’s response came across garbled and then silent.

  “He’s heading for the bridge leading to Castel Sant’Angelo.” It was a male voice coming in through my earpiece, speaking English with an Italian accent. “The ancient route the Popes used to escape any Vatican attacks.”

  “Frantoni?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You on our frequency or a police intercept?”

  “He’s on ours,” Angela said. “He’ll get you to where you need to go.”

  I leaned against a wall to catch my breath, timing device still in my hand and closed my eyes for a brief moment. “Okay,” I said into my body mike. “How do I get to the bridge?”

  Chapter 56

  Florence, Italy

  Two of the Russian hitters were down, left for dead on separate benches in the Galleria, their backs against a wall. Malasson had killed the first, burying the blade in his stomach. The second had been taken down by Kinder, firing at close range.

  Burke was leading Avrim toward the Galleria exit. Pierce walked in front of them, providing a shield against anyone looking their way. “You got heavy company coming at you from both directions,” Weaver said from inside the van. “Russians on your back and waiting for you to come out.”

  “Anderson, meet us by the exit,” Burke said. “I’m going to hand the target off to you.”

  “Taking him where?” Anderson asked.

  “To where the Russians parked their cars,” Burke said. “Weaver will lead you there.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll tell you when you get there,” Burke said. “Everyone else, full loads out and secure your vests. Do your best to minimize collateral, civilian and police. Make your way to where the Russians left their cars. We’ll catch up with Weaver and Anderson there.”

  “There’s six hitters left inside the Galleria and they’re moving fast to come out,” Malasson said.

  “Four, maybe five more on the street heading toward you,” Anderson said.

  “How many guards out there, Weaver?” Burke asked.

  “Four that I see on the screen,” Weaver said. “There’s a blue car parked farther up, three at least sitting in there.”

  Avrim, his upper body coated in sweat, his hands numb from the grip Burke had on them, was dragging his feet as he walked, trying to hold his ground. “You cannot make it out of here,” he said to Burke. “You might as well have been the one to plan a suicide mission, not me.”

  “What do you care?” Burke said. “You were planning to die today anyway.”

  They were less than twenty feet from the Galleria exit.

  Burke nodded at Anderson. “He’s yours now. He tries to free himself from your grip, snap his neck and use him as a shield when the Russians start firing. That bomb can only go off if the button is pushed down. “

  “How much time before set-off and explosion?” Anderson asked, grabbing hold of Avrim’s hands.

  “It’s a crude device, hard to give an accurate read,” Burke said. “But I would guess fifteen, maybe twenty seconds tops before it blows.”

  They stepped into the afternoon sunlight, Anderson and Avrim out ahead, Burke trailing, Russian hitters rushing down the corridor behind them, Malasson and Kinder somewhere nearby.

  “Here we go,” Burke said into his mike. “Treat every bullet as if it’s your last and I’ll see all of you on the other end.”

  Chapter 57

  Vatican City, Italy

  I was running down the Passetto di Borgo, a narrow and exposed red brick corridor that led out of the Vatican and toward Castel Sant’Angelo.

  The structure had once functioned as a jail and a refuge, but was now a tourist attraction approached by crossing the Bridge of Angels that led to its front gates.

  I was halfway across the corridor when I heard what had to be Raza’s footsteps ahead of me. Luca Frantoni had navigated me out of the Vatican and onto the corridor, moving me from one corner to the next, one stairwell to another, before I finally broke through and caught some daylight.

  Inside the halls of the Vatican behind me, I could still hear heavy fire and knew the battle between Angela and her men against the Russians raged on.

  “Anyone have eyes in there?” I asked.

  I heard Frantoni’s voice. “Don’t worry,” he said. “Angela’s got plenty of backup. I have a dozen men inside and another twenty making sure the crowd gets out in one piece.”

  I picked up my pace and made my move to close in on Raza. I heard footsteps coming up behind me and turned and saw Angela heading toward me. Just seeing her, jacket open, a gun in each hand, sneakers kicking up dust on the stone and sand pavement, brought a smile to my face. I continued my run toward the Castel and did not notice the three Russian shooters bearing down on her. Not until I heard the shots and her painful moan as she took a hard fall, her face scraping against the side of the red brick wall.

  I turned toward her, catching a glimpse of the three Russian shooters. Angela was on the ground, on her side, her back to the wall, her guns out of reach. I jammed the bomb device into my pocket and pulled out a second gun, another Glock from my left hip holster, aimed them and fired off rounds in the Russians’ direction. They returned fire, bullets whizzing past me, chipping at the wall and kicking up dust from shattered stones.

  “Angela”s down,” I said into my body mike. “Three Russians are coming my way, and they’ll get her. Raza is on the run and should have reached the Castel by now.”

  I could barely make out Brunello’s voice amid all the shooting going on across both ends. “The three coming your way and the two we’ve got cornered down here are the last of the Russians. The cops have either rounded up or killed the rest.”

  “You’re on your own up there,” Manzo said. “We won’t be able to get to you in time.”

  I was twenty feet from Angela when I stopped running. I dropped out my empty clips, jammed in two new ones and took aim at the Russians. I was working off adrenaline and anger, afraid to look straight. Afraid to know.

  I felt a burning sensation in my right leg and knew a bullet had found its mark. I kept my ground and held my aim steady. I hit one of the Russians just below his jawline, sending him sprawling on his back.

  I heard him before I saw him, his words coming across my earpiece. “Make your way to Angela,” Frantoni said. “Leave the last two to me.”

  Frantoni was a dozen feet behind the Russians and taking aim at his two targets, one falling quickly
to his knees before a final bullet to the head laid him down.

  I limped over toward Angela and cradled her head in my arms. Her right arm was drenched in blood, thin red lines flowing past her fingers and onto the pavement. I stared down at her, holding her close to me, the blood from the wound in my leg dripping onto her jacket. She opened her eyes. There was a long gash on her forehead and some of the blood had streaked down onto her shirt and neck.

  “You think you can stand?” I asked.

  “I know I can,” she said, “but I’m not too sure about you.”

  We both struggled to our feet and then stopped when we heard the footsteps coming at us from behind. I kept my arms around Angela and whirled with the two guns still in my hands.

  The man coming toward us was in his mid-thirties, dark hair, muscular build, two guns in his hands, blood staining the white T-shirt he wore under his jacket.

  “Relax,” Angela told me. “It’s Luca Frantoni.”

  I looked at him and gave him an appreciative nod. “We’ve met,” I said to her. “Sort of.”

  I scanned the terrain behind Frantoni, glancing at the bodies of the three fallen Russian shooters.

  I gripped his shoulder. “I owe you,” I said.

  “It will even out soon,” Frantoni said.

  Angela pointed to the Castel over my shoulder. “Raza’s holed up in there,” she said.

  “He could have made it out by now,” I said.

  “We would have heard,” Angela said. “I have half a dozen of my crew by the exits and Frantoni has his team in place as well, both eager to take him down. No, he’s in there, waiting.”

  I took the bombing device out of my pocket and handed it to Frantoni. “You probably could make better use of this than I can,” I said.

  Frantoni took it from me and jammed it in the rear pocket of his jeans. “Bomb’s already been dismantled,” he said. “My guys stripped it off the body while the fireworks were still going on.”

  Frantoni then reached down, picked up Angela’s guns and handed them to her. She took each one, holding them in her bloody hands.