This wasn’t going as planned. Paul saw in David a lot of himself at that age and recognized that in order to help him stand up for himself, the boy needed to feel comfortable around him. He gently asked, “But they also said you have a hard time making friends. Are they right?”
David put his hands in his lap and looked down as he fiddled with his fingers. He nodded, and Paul thought he saw him stifle a tear.
He put his hand on David’s shoulder. “Hey.” He had to approach this delicately. David had been homeschooled for most of his life, and Paul had heard his mother passed away in May. “Making friends at a new school can be tough. And given how smart you are, you probably find it difficult relating to students your age.”
David’s mouth dropped open, as if Paul had said exactly what he was thinking.
“I had the same problem at your age. I had…family issues growing up and I buried myself in books and facts to escape. I could tell you that, in the grand scheme of life, high school doesn’t really matter, but that’s experience talking. When you’re in high school, it is the only thing that matters. So I’m going to help you out. I learned three easy ways to make friends. Want to hear them?”
He nodded.
“One, you’ve got to use more colloquial terms in your speech. Say things like ‘hang out’ instead of ‘consort.’ You understand?”
David nodded.
“Two, be really nice and offer to help people study. They may refuse your help at first, but eventually they’ll realize your value. And three, do things they’re envious of.”
His eyebrows scrunched together. “Like what?”
“There are a bunch of things” An idea popped into Paul’s head. “But Founder’s Day is in a few days, and there’s a student inventor’s competition. If you were to build something that the other students thought was really cool, that would open doors for you.”
David leaned forward excitedly. “What should I build?”
“Whatever you want. But given that you’re dealing with teenagers, something that makes a loud bang and has a bunch of colors is a safe bet.”
Student conversation and boisterous laughing sounded in the hall.
“Class is about to begin, and having students see you hanging out with your teacher will not help you make friends.” Paul gestured for him to put the desk he was sitting in back in the row. He watched David sit in his assigned seat and wondered what the boy would build.
Chapter Six
Naples, Italy
Franco waited in a shadowy alley for the man he was planning to kill. He wore a long coat over his massive frame to protect against the December cold. He’d spent eight months, without success, searching for the man who’d nearly destroyed his family. Today, he believed his luck would change.
The flagstone street beyond the alley was narrow and rarely trafficked during the morning, when residents of the surrounding apartment buildings were at work. But he’d learned that his target used the street as a shortcut to get his favorite coffee shop at roughly the same time every day.
Right on cue, US Consular Attaché Mike Kelly turned onto the street. He wore a thick, ill-fitting suit and carried an imitation leather briefcase. The meager attire of a young embassy official. He was alone, as usual, and he walked with his eyes glued to the cell phone in his hand.
The familiar tingle of excitement swelled inside Franco. He clenched his massive fists and began to sweat. He wanted to break this man’s spirit in the brutal way that would feed his need, but if he succumbed to that urge, he might get lost in the moment and kill him. Franco’s father had drilled an important lesson into his head from the time he was eight years old: information first, pleasure second. So he kept his urge in check by remembering how he controlled the submissive women at his club.
As the man passed the mouth of the alley, Franco grabbed him by the neck and yanked him into the shadows. The attaché experienced a moment of puzzlement, followed by shock and fear. He struggled, His long, blond hair whipping back and forth as he fought to pry Franco’s vise-like hand off his neck.
Franco slammed the embassy official against the brick wall and said, “Eight months ago, you helped an American agent flee Naples. He used the alias Dario Giomani. Where is he now?”
“Help,” the man croaked.
Franco stifled a laugh. No one would help him. Franco’s family had bribed the police and many others to make sure of it. “Where is he?” Franco yelled, squeezing harder.
The man struggled to say something.
Franco relaxed his grip.
“Please,” the attaché said. “I don’t know anything,”
“You do,” Franco said, his thick fingers tightening around the man’s throat again. The man’s face gradually turned a dark shade of purple. The deep pleasure of holding someone’s life in his hands boiled inside Franco’s chest, and he realized his control was slipping. Again, he thought about the women in his club who were his slaves. The pressure subsided.
“You helped him escape. Where did you take him?” Franco asked, loosening his hand.
“I don’t…” the man whimpered.
Franco smashed the man’s head against the wall and choked him again. He repeated those actions until the man’s eyes held utter terror, the expression all Franco’s victims took on after he battered them into submission.
“Tell me what you know.”
The man spoke haltingly, still trying to catch his breath. “I was working late. The phone rang. A man said the code words for ‘agent in distress.’ He thought the mafia was watching the embassy. He wanted me to come get him. I called my boss in Rome. She told me to pick him up and drive him to her. I was ordered not to talk to anyone.” Tears slid down the man’s cheek. “That’s all I know. I swear! Please don’t kill me.”
“When he was in your car, did he say anything?”
“Scattered words. A few phrases,” the man sobbed.
“Tell me!” Franco yelled.
The man’s eyes flicked to the side, as if searching his memories. “Portia!” he yelled. “He mentioned someone named Portia. And Eric.”
Franco brought the attaché’s face close to his. “Who’s your boss in Rome?”
“Sandra. Sandra Hepburn.”
“Did she say anything that could help me?”
“She called him Paul.”
“Anything else?”
“No. I swear. Please don’t kill me...”
Franco’s phone buzzed. It was a burner. Untraceable. And only his family had the number. Keeping his hand around the man’s throat, he answered it.
His brother, Antonio, said, “An Ndrangheta informant called, offering the location of Dario Giomani.”
“What does he want?” Franco asked.
“Money, and for us to kill a few people in the order he gives us.”
“How many?”
“Three,” Antonio replied. “He said killing these people will make it seem plausible that we discovered the information regarding Dario on our own, so he can stay hidden. As soon as they’re dead, he claimed he’ll tell us Dario’s location.”
“We’ve been searching for him for eight months,” Franco said. “And we get this information so easily?”
“You think it might be a trap?”
“Possibly,” Franco replied, and glanced at the man he had pinned to the wall. He realized the information this man had given him was a small clue in a very long trail. One that could take several more months to travel. If the informant did know Dario’s, or Paul’s, location, Franco could hunt him down in a matter of days.
“What’s the name of the first target?” Franco asked his brother.
“Sandra Hepburn.”
Franco smiled. The same name the attaché had given him. That was a promising sign.
“There is potential in this,” Antonio said. “If we follow the trail the informant gives us, we might be able to discover his own identity and use it to blackmail him. Make him work directly for us.”
“I�
��ll do it.”
“I’ll text you the addresses. After you kill each one, send me proof of death, and I’ll relay it to the informant.”
“When I get Dario’s location, I’ll confirm it’s him. I don’t want to risk all of us if the informant is setting a trap.”
“All right, don’t kill him until we get there. We all deserve revenge after what he did to our family.”
Franco didn’t respond.
“Franco?” Antonio pressed.
He hung up and dropped the phone in his pocket. He stared down at the attaché and said, “Beg me not to kill you.”
“Please don’t kill me.”
“You don’t sound sincere enough.”
The man clasped his hands together in prayer and said, “Please don’t kill me. I told you everything.”
Franco savored the feeling of power—then snapped the man’s neck with one sharp twist of his hand and let the body crumple to the ground. He grabbed the attaché’s wallet, slashed the briefcase open, and pocketed the documents. The police would label the man’s murder a simple robbery gone wrong. Franco’s family would bribe the right officers to make sure of it.
Franco’s phone beeped as he exited the alley. The text message displayed the first address, and he couldn’t help but smile as he committed it to memory. He was going to enjoy a nice trip to Rome.
Very soon, Franco would find Paul and make him and everyone around him die in agony. It was the least the man deserved for what he had done to the Grimaldi family.
Chapter Seven
Shelly walked through the Museum of Modern Art in Montreal. The rooms had white-painted brick walls and hardwood floors and smelled faintly of lemon floor cleaner. Contemporary piano music played in the background.
The exhibits varied by room: large paintings in geometric shapes, metal work of various colors twisted into a variety of unusual shapes, and more traditional paintings of faces and figures. Art students in thrift store clothes and wool caps meandered between older, well-dressed couples.
She entered the designated rendezvous room. A rotund man roamed the exhibit, examining a bundle of white tubing rising from the ground and curving into hanging branches near the ceiling. At the end of each branch hung paper bags.
Shelly moved toward the back of the room. The man soon left, and Shelly stood alone, contemplating the events that led her here. She had worked hard and risen to the position of assistant director of the FBI in New York City faster than anyone else in the agency’s history. Her papers on the Ndrangheta and their spread across North America and Europe were required reading at Quantico. There was even talk about her being the next director. But all of that stopped after the Italian Operation.
When Tom Forton, the FBI legal attaché in Rome, had refused to get Paul out of Italy for political reasons, she’d violated orders, flown to Rome, and smuggled him out. The FBI had suspended her for that, but they’d frozen Tom’s career for stating Paul couldn’t be rescued. Neither of their careers would get back on track until Paul remembered his last hours in Italy, or the trial concluded.
Footfalls echoed into the room from the hallway, careful steps that sounded too even, as if someone was walking on the balls of their feet rather than the heels. Shelly moved so her back was against the wall, and reached for her gun. Her heart beat faster as the steps rounded the corner and Tom Forton walked into the room.
He wore a dark-gray suit and had black hair. His goatee was streaked with gray. His face was handsome, but riddled with worry lines that made him look older than his forty-three years.
Tom moved through the room, his eyes searching everywhere, and stopped in front of her. Even though they were alone, he spoke in a low voice. “Will he see the psychologist?”
Shelly removed her hand from her gun. Despite the fact that his actions could help Paul, she still felt anger at him for recommending her suspension in an attempt to save his career. But she swallowed her emotions and replied, “Yes, but I don’t know how seriously he’ll take it.”
“He needs to take it seriously.”
“I know. And I’ll keep pushing him to remember.”
“Remember.” Tom snorted. “Face it, Shelly. He stole it. He’s just waiting for the right time to collect the $64 million.”
“You know the trauma he went through. He legitimately can’t remember.”
“Two years, Shelly. He was undercover with the most notorious killers and human traffickers on the planet. That’s long enough to change even the most honest man.”
“Not Paul.”
“You’re letting your emotions interfere—”
“Enough of that crap. Being a woman doesn’t make me stupid or too emotional to make accurate decisions. I’m analyzing this dispassionately and using my knowledge of him to gauge his character.”
“If you won’t see the truth, there’s no point in me being here,” he said, and started to leave.
“Wait,” Shelly said. “What if there was a way to prove neither you nor Paul were responsible for the Italian fiasco?”
He shook his head. “Don’t tell me you believe his idea about the traitor. You went to internal affairs with that and they said there was no proof. Then you went to your friend Cynthia Chang at the DOJ and she didn’t see any connection either.”
“Cynthia said that she couldn’t do anything without evidence. That’s a big difference.”
Tom’s eyes widened. “Oh my god, you’re investigating FBI agents on your own, aren’t you?”
Shelly knew she had to be very careful. Conducting personal investigations without the Bureau’s authorization was a prosecutable offense. And any evidence she collected would be inadmissible.
“Hypothetically, I’m only reviewing data. And what I’ve found is that two previous undercover operations against the Ndrangheta were blown. Both agents died. And no one seems to know about it.”
“I would have known about…”
“It happened before you took over in Rome.”
Tom went silent.
“Think about it,” Shelly urged. “If there is a traitor, you’d be held blameless. Your career would get back on track. If you helped uncover the traitor, you might even get a promotion.”
“That’s why you called me here?”
“Yes. You have access to the files I need.”
Tom appeared to mull over his options.
“And I know you can get the files without anyone discovering you,” Shelly added.
He glanced over his shoulder. “If I do this, I want you to keep me informed of your progress.”
Shelly nodded.
“And if there’s a traitor, you come to me first. I’ll alert internal affairs.”
“No, I’ll tell you first, but we’ll tell everyone else together. I won’t let you take credit for all the work I do.”
Tom didn’t respond.
“I’m not budging on that.”
“Fine. Who do you need files on?”
“Luther Freedman, Emily Kowalewski, and Robert Manganello.”
He fished a phone out of his pocket and tossed it to her. “That’s a secure phone. I’ll contact you when I have something.”
He turned to leave again, but she needed one more piece of information from him. “Who’s watching Paul at Hillcrest?”
“You think they’d go that far?”
“$64 million is missing and Paul’s the only suspect. Why wouldn’t they?”
“And you’re thinking that the traitor might have influence over this spy, and if Paul does remember something, they’ll kill him.” It was a statement, not a question.
Shelly nodded.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Tom said as he walked out of the room.
Shelly watched him go and wondered which Hillcrest staff member was working for the traitor. She then realized it didn’t have to be only one.
Chapter Eight
Immediately after classes let out for the day, the classroom phone rang. He answered it and Kathy, the matronly sch
ool secretary, said in a crisp New England accent, “Mr. Taylor, Mr. Haverford would like to see you as soon as possible.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “Of course he would,” he said, guessing what this was about. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”
He left his classroom and headed downstairs. The main building was almost vacant after the end of classes. As he walked into the administration offices, a woman with shoulder-length gray hair and a stylish business dress leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “Watch your back.”
“Thanks, Kathy,” he said as he took the hallway to the right and followed it past several offices. He knocked on the door marked Acting Principal Haverford, waited for a voice to yell, “Come in,” and entered.
Dark oak paneling covered the office walls from floor to ceiling. Pictures of the campus through its 200-plus-year history were organized in neat rows along the left wall. A large window at the back of the room overlooked the mountains of Vermont.
Two dark leather chairs sat in front of the large walnut desk, on which every item had been arranged in a straight line or at a perfect angle. Even the laptop was perfectly centered.
Haverford made a crisp gesture with his hand. “Please sit.”
Paul sat.
Haverford leaned back in his plush office chair and steepled his fingers in front of him, a neutral expression on his face. He wore a tweed jacket and a bowtie, and was what some women would call “too pretty,” with a smooth face, sharp nose, and blue eyes.
Asshat Principalis said nothing.
Paul knew this display of silence was meant to project authority and resented that the bureaucrat was playing mind games. Paul pointed out the window and said, “That is an amazing view of the countryside.”
Haverford glanced out the window and Paul quickly twisted the stapler, pen holder, and tape dispenser out of alignment. Before the acting principal turned back, Paul asked a question that he knew would needle him, “Has the Board of Directors finished their principal search?”
The Italian Deception Page 6