“That was too close,” I said, “and for nothing.”
“Define nothing,” said Greatrex.
I turned and looked at him. “You found something, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“Give it up.”
“Well,” said my smug friend, “as mentioned, omega-level security and firewalls protected that system. Way too much for a company that small, even if they do ship hi-tech equipment. Also, while the computer screens looked outdated, the computers themselves were the latest model, high-end Macs. I made my way through every barrier and was doing okay until I got to the last hurdle.”
I was feeling very thankful for Jack Greatrex’s skills. “Go on,” I said.
“I tried ‘Vittoria’ as the password, but it wouldn’t let me through. I tried adding her birthdate—nothing. Then I remembered the year Vittoria Ascardi died. I added that and got through.”
“Inspired,” I replied.
“I had minimal time, but I did find two things. One of them I was looking for, the other I just stumbled across. I think they both might be important.”
I didn’t want to kill the big fella’s moment, but I wanted him to get to the point.
“The first thing was a shipping manifest with an address in Venice that wasn’t Ascardi’s house near the Grand Canal.”
“Do you remember it?”
“Sure, it was a street address on the Lido.”
“And the second thing?”
“This is where it gets a bit weird.” Greatrex took a few seconds to think. “What was the name of the environmental group that claimed responsibility for the attack at the Cinaed power station?”
“I don’t know anything about them, but they called themselves the Natural Earth Army.”
“I thought that was it.” This time Greatrex paused for a little longer. His expression was a picture of frozen concentration. Then he asked, “Why would Safe-Tech, a company associated with Antonio Ascardi, have manifests and paperwork connected to the so-called Natural Earth Army, a self-proclaimed eco-terrorist organization, hidden deep within its computer records?”
We both sat silently as Greatrex pushed the Fiat’s engine to its limits. The streetscape of Milan whirled past in a blur.
Chapter 23
Once we’d cleared the outskirts of Milan, Greatrex drove into an Autogrill and pulled over.
“You drive,” he said. “I want to get online and do some research.”
I didn’t argue. I was tired, but the three-hour drive to Venice was doable. Besides, I knew that when Greatrex said he wanted to do some research, that meant he was going to leave no dark corner of the internet unexplored. I wanted to see what he could find.
The drive also gave me a chance to think. We should have been relieved that we now had some firm evidence tying Antonio Ascardi into at least one of the events we were investigating, yet I was also disappointed. I had quietly hoped we were wrong about the man.
On the other hand, because we had to leave the shipping company’s office so quickly, we had nothing to present to the authorities as proof.
“Couple of things are bothering me,” I said.
“Shoot,” said Greatrex, looking up from his laptop.
“What’s Ascardi up to? I mean, if he has some sort of relationship with the Natural Earth Army and association with the power station break-in, then there’s a strong chance he had something to do with Paris and perhaps even the assassination in London. What I’m still not getting is what he gains from any of this.”
“Maybe you’re assuming too much there. Maybe he’s not looking to gain anything at all. Maybe he’s agitating for something?”
“You mean a crusade of some sort?”
“Possibly,” said the big fella.
I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Ascardi in his car in Paris. He was clearly wrestling with some major level of disillusionment. Maybe Greatrex’s idea seemed plausible, or maybe the entrepreneur had something to gain that we just weren’t seeing.
“Okay, question number two: Why me? Why is evidence mounting against me all over the place? If I’m being framed by Ascardi, what’s his reason? I’m not seeing it,” I said.
“I don’t get that one either,” said Greatrex. “You’d think that by framing you, an artist on his tour, he’d just be causing himself needless grief if you were killed or jailed.”
“You’d think,” I said.
A few more minutes and a few more miles went past.
“What if it’s a case of keeping your enemies closer?” I suggested.
“That makes sense, except for one thing.”
“Yeah, I know. Why am I Antonio Ascardi’s enemy? What did I ever do to him?”
“And that, dear Watson, is something we have to find out,” Greatrex said as he resumed studying his screen.
My phone rang through the car speakers.
“Nicholas.” It was the General. “Is Jack with you?
“Yes, General, we can both hear you,” I answered.
“Good, tell me, how did you go with your visit to Safe-Tech?”
I filled him in.
“You two do love to live close to the line, don’t you?”
“We don’t love it, General, but we always seem to end up there,” I replied.
“Probably semantics. Now listen carefully. We’ve managed to do a little more digging around in Ascardi’s early years.”
We were listening.
“Apparently, he was a gifted young programmer while at university, quite outstanding. Several corporate heads were chasing him, but he declined all offers. The young Ascardi was clear in what he wanted to achieve, and no one was willing to bankroll his vision.”
“There must be a lot of corporate headhunters who are kicking themselves now,” said Greatrex.
“Yes, Jack, probably so, but also probably irrelevant,” replied the General. Greatrex grimaced.
“What are you getting at, Sir?” I asked.
“Halfway through his second year, Ascardi just dropped out of his studies. He disappeared for several months. When he returned, he was cashed up and his future was assured.”
“Do we know where the money came from and what strings were attached to it?” asked Greatrex.
“Good question, Jack, but no, not at all. No one has the slightest idea,” said the General. “What does that tell you?”
“I don’t have much experience in corporate finance,” I said. “But it seems to me that if no one knows where the money came from, it didn’t come from somewhere good.”
“Precisely,” replied our former leader. “Now, moving on. It’s interesting that you found a connection between Ascardi and the group claiming responsibility for the Cinaed break-in. It changes the ball game, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does,” said Greatrex. “I’m just doing some more research on the Natural Earth Army as we speak.”
“Good,” said the General. “Perhaps you can find some information on the Union of Islamic Fighters.”
“The who?” asked Greatrex.
“The Union of Islamic Fighters,” repeated the General.
I really didn’t want to ask, but I couldn’t help myself. “Why so, General?”
“Because they have just claimed responsibility for the assassination of Sir Phillip Morton, British Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
This just wasn’t getting any easier.
Greatrex and I drove on into the night. After finishing the call with General Devlin-Waters, Jack went back to his computer and I went back to my thoughts.
An hour out from Mestre, mainland Venice, Greatrex again looked up from his research. “I’ve tried every trick I know and invented a couple of new ones. I can’t find any links between the Natural Earth Army in Britain, the Ghosts of the Revolution in France, and the Union of Islamic Fighters.”
I thought for a moment. “Were you able to find out anything about any of the groups—who they are, where they came from, their manifesto?”
“Hardly an
ything. Normally, these sorts of groups have a strong presence in the murkier waters of the net and social media. They can be hard to locate, but if you know where to look, you’ll find them.”
“But not with this lot?”
“They just seemed to appear out of nowhere. There’s a frenzy of online activity, and then they disappear again,” answered Greatrex.
“But they definitely exist?”
“Yeah, they do. There’s enough there to consider them genuine, but not enough to trace their history, membership, or anything more,” he said.
“There you have it.”
“There I have what?” Greatrex’s tone had become terse. We were both tired.
“What these groups have in common is their lack of detailed historical presence on the internet. There’s enough to identify them but not enough to find out much about them or where they’ve been hiding.”
We slipped back into silence. I pressed down harder on the gas pedal and drove into the night.
“You may be onto something here,” said Greatrex. “I’m going to try looking for links between the groups and common IP addresses. See if anything comes up.”
Maybe it was time for a little Nicholas Sharp, historian of popular culture. “Think back all those years to the first Die Hard movie,” I said. “Who was the bad guy?”
Greatrex thought for a moment. “Gruber, Hans Gruber. A classic villain.”
I knew he’d know.
“When Gruber made his speech to the authorities about releasing political prisoners and comrades in arms around the world, some of whom didn’t even exist, what was he trying to do?”
“He was distracting the authorities to cover up a robbery,” said Greatrex.
“Exactly.”
“You think Ascardi is a thief?”
“He may be or may not be; I don’t care. But is he behind some sort of mammoth distraction or ulterior plan that we have no concept of?”
“Your worrying me,” said Greatrex.
“I’ve been worried for a while. Now I’m moving into being really pissed. It’s like this guy has written some sort of heinous score and we’re all playing it for him, note for freakin’ note.”
We were entering the outskirts of Mestre when I announced, “I’m not going to Venice.”
“You’re what?” asked Greatrex.
“I’m not going to Venice, not yet.”
My friend looked at me quizzically, his furrowed brow speaking volumes.
“I think you should arrive in Venice now, tonight. Check into our hotel and let everyone know you’re there.”
“And you?” he asked.
“Anyone asks, tell them you’ve spoken to me, but I’m not due in town for another day or so. Plenty of time for the show,” I said.
“And where will you be?”
“Venice,” I said, “but not officially. I’m going to find a little out-of-the-way bolt-hole and do some snooping around.”
“Off the grid?”
“Yes, off the grid.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, alone, but I know you’ll be around.”
“Nicholas Sharp, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a plan and that you were keeping it from me,” said Greatrex.
“It’s not so much a plan,” I said. “More a calculated improvisation.”
“And what better way to sabotage a carefully written score than by improvising wildly over the top of it,” observed Jack Greatrex.
“I think you’ve got the idea,” I said.
Greatrex closed his computer and turned to look at me. “I’m not going to lecture you …”
“But …” I interrupted.
“But if Antonio Ascardi is up to half of the dreadful things you may be imagining …”
“Yes.”
“You may well be walking into a world of pain,” warned my friend.
“Point taken and appreciated. But if I don’t get my arms around this, all I have, at best, is a lifetime of you visiting me on Sunday afternoons in some forlorn European prison.”
“I don’t like to go out on Sundays,” said Greatrex.
Chapter 24
Walking out of the modern Venezia Santa Lucia railway station and gazing down the concrete steps to the Grand Canal was like staring at a vibrant painting on a wall, and then stepping right into it. New gave way to old as I strolled onto the ferry wharf, the wake from passing boats splashing gently on the pilings underneath. On the far side of the waterway spotlights reflected off the distinctive and colorful Venetian architecture that lined the canal, just as it had for centuries. Even late at night the waterway was active. Cashed-up couples climbed in and out of gondolas or bought tickets for a vaporetto. Eager local vendors sought to make a sale to tourists before they’d even set foot in the old city. If any European city over-delivered on its reputation, it was Venice.
My immediate aim was to find somewhere to stay, somewhere close to the Grand Canal for ease of transport yet hidden down an alley or two. I also wanted to be walking distance from the Teatro La Fenice, where we’d perform. In any military operation access and intelligence were everything. The whole purpose of my clandestine arrival in Venice was to gain intelligence; to do that I would need good access to a variety of locations.
It didn’t take long to arrange some suitable accommodation through a tourist information kiosk on the wharf. I’d gone dark again, wary of advertising my presence in the city by using my cell phone.
Thirty minutes later, I stepped off a vaporetto at the Mercato stop, just near the Rialto Bridge. A few minutes and a couple of alleyways later I was outside the Vecchio Hotel Canal, a small hotel in a perfect location. It had frontage onto the Grand Canal but an entranceway off Calle dello Sturion. It also had twenty-four-hour reception, a requirement at this time of night.
I traipsed up an interminable flight of stairs and registered at the front desk. The downside to my plan was that I had to show my passport to register; there was no way around it. I was directed to my room at the end of a long, narrow corridor. As I walked its length my footsteps seemed abnormally loud, the mosaic floor and high ceiling providing a perfect echo chamber. At least I would know if I was about to receive any uninvited visitors. The room itself was all very classic and very Venice. A vivid, deep red-patterned wallpaper lined every wall and the wooden bed; two chairs and a desk were stylishly ornate.
I had a quick shower and put my head down. I was asleep within minutes.
I awoke at 7 a.m. I’d slept well, but Elena had taunted my dreams, as had a vivid image of Ascardi, standing over a smoking ruin. It should have been enough to unnerve me, but it just made me more determined.
After a few relaxing moments enjoying a light breakfast accompanied by piped classical music in the hotel dining room overlooking the Grand Canal, I felt as ready as I was going to for whatever the hell I was about to do.
I figured my first job was to locate the address in the Lido that Greatrex had found on the computer at Safe-Tech. Again I chose the vaporetto as the most discreet form of transport. Who remembers anyone they saw on a bus? For insurance, I wore the classic American disguise of a baseball cap pulled low over my eyes—clichéd but effective.
The vaporetto cruised along the Grand Canal and past the array of palatial homes and hotels that fronted onto it. The slow, throbbing engine gently propelled the craft eastward. Every type of water transport invented moved along the canal, from the long, thin barges used for transporting local freight to some slender timber Venetian speedboats guided by the hands of the city’s elite. Sleek, low-profile water taxis were in abundance, carrying touristi to their destinations. As this colorful maze of humanity went about their business under the gentle glare of the warming morning sun, it occurred to me that in other circumstances I would have savored the frantic maritime atmosphere.
As we cruised past the Aman Canal Grande, where the rest of the tour personnel were staying, I decided to make a closer study of the Venetian architecture on the opposite s
ide of the canal. No need to advertise my presence. A few minutes later, the vaporetto was out of the canal, past the Piazza San Marco and crossing the more exposed waters of the Laguna di Venezia to Lido.
Scores of vessels darted like water insects in all directions at all speeds. It seemed incredible they didn’t collide. The scene was tempered by a vibrant blue winter sky aided by the morning sun casting a haze over the entire swarm. Even in my current state of mind, I couldn’t ignore the spectacle.
As we approached the Lido ferry wharf, I noticed a number of small islands scattered across the water to the south. Some seemed heavily inhabited, with ancient fortified buildings and walls rising from the earth, others less so. Lido itself was a long, relatively flat barrier island protecting Venice from the incessant swells of the Adriatic Sea. The buildings coming into view seemed mostly as old as those in the main city but were more spread out. I was guessing this seven-mile sandbank gave its inhabitants more room to move than Venice itself.
The closest stop to the address Greatrex had given me was a fifteen-minute bus trip south to the Malamocco area. Another ten-minute walk through a run-down marine industrial area and I found what I was looking for, at least what there was of it.
The large tin shed in front of me made the Safe-Tech building in Milan look like design genius. Set in an environment of shipwrights and maritime workshops, I could barely believe this shack bore any relation to the prestigious Ascardi Group. Maybe it wasn’t meant to. I couldn’t see anyone in the vicinity of the building, so I risked a closer look.
The metal door was padlocked, so I didn’t expect a reaction when I knocked. I’d prepared a vague excuse about looking for a boat-builder friend if someone had answered. No one did. Making sure I wasn’t being watched, I pulled out my wallet. Secreted in a back compartment was a small cylindrical metal tool, around three inches long. I took it out and began to pick the padlock. As a sniper, I’d frequently accessed high vantage points in locked buildings. US marine training at its best.
Two minutes later and I was in. The interior of the shed was in semi-darkness, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. Minimal light shone through a couple of small windows perched high on the walls; a little more glow seeped in from the cracks under the two doors. I looked around the dark space, but there wasn’t much to see. Most of the dusty concrete floor was bare, but new-looking wooden boxes sat piled at the far end of the space.
LETHAL SCORE Page 14
