I walked carefully toward them, trying to avoid any hazards in the dim light. When I got to the boxes, I tried to make out the writing on them. Most of it had been blacked out—odd. I shifted one of the boxes around, turning it in the direction of a faint beam of light from one of the high windows. I could just make out a few words. Whoever had been blacking out the shipping details must have been running out of paint at this point. I could just read a logo I recognized as that of a well-known IT company. I could also just discern the faint outline of another company name: the Ascardi Media Group.
It was then that I heard a scraping sound behind me, like a foot dragging on the concrete floor.
I started to turn around but I didn’t get to finish.
There was only blackness.
When I came to, my head was pounding. I knew someone had hit me hard. My hands were tied behind my back, and I was on my side staring at a white wheel arch. I craned my neck to get a clearer view. I was in some sort of old van. From the rough ride, I gathered it was being driven along a road full of potholes to which the driver paid little mind.
I cursed myself for letting someone surprise me in a situation where all my senses should have been heightened. I was no longer an elite sniper, but I still had some professional pride. The bigger issue was that my clumsy break-and-enter could now expose my hand to Antonio Ascardi and his people.
Eventually, the van stopped. I pretended I was still unconscious, attempting to buy a little more thinking time. The rear doors creaked loudly as they opened. No one spoke. Probably there was only one man. I had come across too many professionals in the last few days not to expect the same here. It was a little late now, but I needed to be judicious.
Suddenly, two hands gripped my feet. They felt like metal clamps. I was dragged backward along the van’s metal floor; there was no gentleness in the movement. I heard someone draw a deep breath, and then two arms enveloped my waist. In almost the same moment I was hoisted up into the air and twisted around. I felt myself being roughly slung over some sort of pivot point; feeling the hardness of bone pressed to by stomach, I assumed it was someone’s shoulder. A stolen glimpse offered me nothing more than a face-to-face encounter with what I presumed to be the back of a man’s coarse woolen coat. A short walk along a pathway, through a barn door, and I was thrown mercilessly onto a dirt floor, now with a greater understanding of what a sack of potatoes felt like.
Thirty seconds later I felt the full force of a blast of cold water on my face. I couldn’t feign unconsciousness any longer. As I opened my eyes I coughed, spluttered, and gasped for air. I wasn’t faking that.
The man in front of me was huge, a giant. He wasn’t too much short of seven-foot tall and had a width of near half that. No wonder he’d picked me up so easily. He had long, straggly dark hair and a matching unkempt beard. My captor was probably in his late forties, but his weathered skin made an accurate guess hard. I looked hard into his eyes. They didn’t appear to have the detached coldness of a professional killer’s. An old and stained brown wool jacket failed to conceal his massive forearms, while his boots and pants were discolored and caked in dirt, suggesting of years of use. Judging from the giant’s calloused hands, I would have guessed he worked on the land. More like a farmer than a henchman. I felt sure his name was either Ned or Hagrid. I didn’t believe for a second that he was part of Antonio Ascardi’s inner circle.
“Giusto, dimmelo ora. Cosa stavi facendo in quell’edificio?”
I knew then he wasn’t called Ned or Hagrid.
“Parla Inglese?” I muttered.
The giant shrugged his shoulders, “A little. Tell me … now. What were you doing in that building?”
It was time to lie. What happened in the next few minutes was going to have a big impact on how things played out here. I knew I couldn’t beat this man in a fight, certainly not with my hands tied behind my back. I had to try and talk my way out, as slim a chance as I had.
“Norbert Fontana asked me to come down and check on the latest shipment, make sure it arrived,” I said. I looked him straight in the eyes.
“You know Mr. Fontana?”
“I do. Very well, in fact.”
“Why would he ask you to check on a shipment when he knows I’m here?”
“A fair question. We had word there was a break-in at Safe-Tech Shipping. Norbert wanted someone he trusted to come down and check,” I responded.
“He doesn’t trust me?”
I thought I may be gaining ground here.
“You know Norbert. He doesn’t fully trust anybody.”
The giant froze in thought. “Why didn’t he tell me you were coming, and why didn’t you have a key?”
I had no clue how to answer that, so I just started talking. I knew it was vital not to hesitate.
“Norbert tried to call you,” I said. “He told me you were going to meet me there, with the key, but you didn’t show up. Well—correction—you did show up, but way too late.”
There it was, a glimpse of confusion on the giant’s face. I pressed my point home.
“You know Norbert is going to be furious when he hears you knocked me out. I reckon you’ll get no more work from him.”
The giant rubbed his chin. “I didn’t get a call, but I did leave my phone in the van earlier,” he said.
“Well that might explain it,” I suggested.
“I’ll just go out to the van and get my phone now, to check,” he said.
I couldn’t have that.
“Yeah, do that,” I said. “But first can you untie my hands so I can call Norbert and tell him all is well? He’ll be waiting to hear from me.”
“Are you going to tell him I knocked you out?”
I thought I had him.
“I’ll cut you a break. I won’t mention it if I can call him now,” I said.
A further moment of hesitation. “I think it may be foolish to trust you. I don’t know you.”
“It would be foolish to cross Norbert Fontana.”
The giant looked at me, his face screwed up, decision impending. There was no more I could do.
“Ho concordato—agreed.”
The big man reached down and helped me up. I turned around so he could untie me. As he loosened the knots and removed the rope, I turned back to him, simultaneously kicking the front of his right knee and slamming my fist into the side of his head. If he came up again, I was done for. He didn’t; he went down and was out cold.
I quickly tied my former captor up with the rope he had used on me. I found some more twine and bound his legs. I really felt sorry for the big guy. I was certain he wasn’t evil to the core, more likely just a working man picking up some extra cash. I still needed him out of action, for at least a couple of days so he couldn’t contact Fontana or Ascardi. That said, I’d have laid a bet that he didn’t even know who Antonio Ascardi was.
I looked around the barn; there was a bucket in the corner. I found a tap, filled the bucket, and placed it within the giant’s reach. I found some more rope hanging on a hook on the wall and tied him to one of the main posts supporting the structure, giving him enough room to move but not escape.
He’d survive, but he wasn’t going anywhere. Nicholas Sharp, compassionate fugitive.
I walked out of the barn door into the afternoon sun. The building was on the edge of a once graveled yard, which now showed a lot more dirt than gravel. The yard opened up to a small, empty, poorly fenced paddock, whatever grass it once held overgrazed long ago. On the other side of the yard was a small cottage; like the rest of the property, it looked greatly in need of maintenance, its once painted facade now a mess of peeling paint. Several roof tiles were skewered at odd angles—makeshift repairs over many years. In front of the cottage a large black dog on a chain barked furiously.
I figured that if the giant had any associates in the cottage the barking canine would have alerted them by now. Just to make certain, I skirted the reach of the dog’s chain and peered in though the cottage’s
dilapidated side window. There was no one in sight.
The old white van I’d arrived in sat in the middle of the yard. Again skirting the angry animal, I ran over to the van. The keys were still in the ignition. Before I climbed in, I looked once more around the old farmyard. The damn dog. I walked back toward it, trying to talk in a calming voice. I may as well have been singing Black Sabbath songs for all the effect it had. I ventured close enough just to check that he had enough water for a couple of days and then retreated. Despite my best intentions, he kept barking at me like I was Satan.
As I climbed in the van and drove off down the potholed road, it was hard to believe that this ramshackle farmlet was less than two miles from the refinement of Venice.
I grabbed for my cell phone in my pocket, feeling only my hand on my thigh. It must have either fallen out of my pocket when the giant slugged me back at the boat shed or the giant took it. Not searching him earlier had been a mistake, but I wasn’t risking going back to do it now. That meant I’d have to make another visit to the boat shed. The problem was I still didn’t know where I was.
Although cars were allowed on Lido, I figured there wouldn’t be too many, especially in a remote area. The giant’s car was probably known to locals. A strange man driving around in it may raise suspicions, so the driving had to be kept to a minimum.
The giant’s phone! He’d said he left it in the van. I reached into the glove compartment, and there it was, laying in a mess of registration papers and half-eaten food. I reached for it as I drove. Fortunately, there was no passcode required. The giant was definitely not a professional. I brought up Google Maps, found my location, and headed back to the shed.
Twenty minutes later, after breaking into the shed again and locating my phone in a pile of dust by the packing crates, I was out and heading back to the ferry terminal. I briefly considered staying and staking out the shed, but I could have been there for days. I didn’t have days. All I could do was go back to Venice proper, pack my bags, and officially arrive at the tour hotel.
Showtime.
Chapter 25
“That’s it. I’m just not letting you out on your own anymore,” said Jack Greatrex, his eyes narrowing.
We were sitting at a table in one of the private gardens owned by the Aman Grande Canal Hotel. A private garden in Venice is a rare luxury. This place had two. I had just told Greatrex of the afternoon’s events.
“I’m beginning to think you’re right,” I responded. “My record for staying out of trouble isn’t great.”
I took a sip of the scotch in front of me and gazed out over the boats going about their business on the canal. The background soundscape of marine engines racing and waves splashing against the buildings permeated our conversation.
After leaving the giant’s van near the ferry terminal at Lido, I had caught the vaporetto back to my hotel and packed half my bag, leaving some basic necessities in my room, paying in cash for three more nights, and heading to the Aman. It wouldn’t hurt to keep my bolt-hole.
“Do you think the big guy you took out will remain undiscovered until all this is sorted?” asked Greatrex. “There’ll be problems if he contacts Fontana or Ascardi.”
“All we can do is hope,” I said. “I tied him up pretty well. Besides, we may be coming to the point where running around behind Ascardi’s back serves no purpose.”
“You think he’s on to us?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. I suspect that to some extent we came into this whole situation with him on to us. I appear to have been set up from the beginning, although I still don’t know why. The only difference is that now we know I was set up.” I could feel the blood rushing to my head as I spoke. It was my own little ‘Hulk’ thing. I don’t turn green, but it usually doesn’t end well.
“Then you think Ascardi knows that you know?”
“How could he not know?” I asked. “He must be aware of the break-in at Safe-Tech in Milan, and he’s probably aware that I went to Füssen to meet Elena. He may well even be implicated in her death, and let’s face it, Antonio Ascardi is more genius than fool.”
“Then why the pretense of everything being normal between the two of you?”
“Look, I’m not sure, but it has probably suited him up to this point. For some reason, he has needed the tour to continue, although again, I have no idea why,” I answered.
Greatrex looked lost in thought.
“Maybe Ascardi needed you to be in certain places at certain times,” he proffered. “Maintaining the tour schedule may have been the only way he could guarantee that.”
What Greatrex had suggested made a modicum of sense.
“You’re right,” I said, leaning forward on my chair toward the big fella, urgency creeping into my tone. No other answer made sense. “Damn, I should have seen that earlier. You have to be right.”
I sat there looking out on the water, sipping my drink. My mind was jumping around like a cat on a hot tin roof, looking for a place to land, a place where everything fell into place.
A few minutes of silence stole past before I finally managed to corral my thoughts into a cohesive idea. “Assuming you’re right, that means that we’re here in Venice because Ascardi wants us to be here, and the real reason may have nothing to do with music.”
Greatrex nodded.
I continued, “That means this is not over. Ascardi isn’t done with us yet. No wonder he wanted the tour to continue.” As the words spilled out of my mouth, I felt an arctic chill invade my core. The uncertain tremor in my voice reflected my growing concern as I pressed home my point. “Jack, based on past recent experience, it is likely that more people will lose their lives before this is done. That may well happen here in Venice. Not only will I probably be painted as the scapegoat for their deaths, but it will be our fault because we can’t work this whole damn mess out.”
We finished our drinks and stood up to walk into the hotel building. “One more thing,” I said just before we reached the entrance. “I’m sure that boat shed near Malamocco is just a waypoint for Ascardi’s tech equipment. We still have no idea of the final destination.”
Greatrex opened the door into the hotel foyer and ushered me through. He stopped just inside the building and turned to me. “I agree. But I also think we can be fairly certain that Ascardi’s house is not the destination. No point sending the gear to Malamocco first; it’s out of the way.”
“I suspect you’re right,” I said. “There remain two probable endpoints: offshore or a location close to Malamocco.”
We began to cross the foyer as we continued talking in hushed tones. “We need to find that location,” said Greatrex. “If we can get a look at what’s going on there, I think we’ll find out what this is all about.”
“Well, so far, the deeper we dig, the further away we seem to get,” I said. “Maybe we should change tack. Maybe it’s time to get a bit more aggressive. Instead of following the equipment’s trail, maybe we should start following some of the players.”
“Risky,” said Greatrex.
“I think we’re way beyond worrying about that now. We either go for it, or more people die and I—or we—go to prison.”
“We have no choice,” said the big fella.
“No, and what troubles me the most is Antonio Ascardi knows that.”
“Nicholas, it’s so good to see you.” Aislinn Byrne’s voice sounded as soothing as a fine Bordeaux as we sauntered up to our table.
I leaned down and kissed her cheek.
“Mate, you do look one step the other side of dreadful,” said Patrick Jay Olden as he got up to shake my hand.
Jack and I had just been shown into in the hotel’s restaurant. As great as it was to see the two of them, I was distracted by the sheer lavishness of the room we had just entered. Rococo artworks lined the walls; ornate gold leaf framed them. The ceilings were well over double height with matching grand windows overlooking the waterway.
Aislinn seemed to read my thoughts. “Thi
s is some place, isn’t it?”
“It seems more like a palace than a hotel,” I said.
“Apparently, it once was,” added Patrick.
“And all on Antonio Ascardi’s tab,” added Greatrex with a wry smirk.
It did seem strange that we were chasing down the man who was footing the bill for our splendid, if temporary, lifestyle.
“So, what’s the story, Nicholas?” continued Patrick Jay. “You look like a Christian who’s just taken on the lions and not fared so well.”
Interesting analogy.
“Well, I guess the bombing in Paris has hit us all pretty hard,” I said, trying to make up ground. “I’ve also had a couple of issues to deal with.” Not very convincing, but it would have to do.
“As devastated as we all feel,” said Aislinn, “we’re here to do a show, make some beautiful music, and lift the spirits of those who come to see us.”
Aislinn was already lifting my spirit. The music. I had almost forgotten about the music.
“We’re playing the day after tomorrow,” I said, even though they all knew. “Has anyone been to the venue yet?”
“Yes,” replied Aislinn. “Patrick Jay and I had a private tour this afternoon. Teatro La Fenice. It is spectacular.”
“That being said,” began Patrick, “I’m starting to become acclimatized to spectacular being the norm.”
“Do these venues compete with a campfire at Uluru at sunset?” asked Greatrex cheekily.
Patrick Jay smiled. “Not quite, but the drink service is better.”
We laughed. Laughter was good.
“Have you heard about the press conference tomorrow afternoon?” asked Aislinn.
I felt my unease rise in tandem with my eyebrows as I looked questioningly at Greatrex. “Sorry, I hadn’t gotten around to mentioning that yet.”
LETHAL SCORE Page 15
