by Karen Dodd
Nico’s gut tightened when the signs for Valletta came into view. The hotel he had in mind would be expensive, but thanks to Sami, he had the cash and he didn’t plan to stay for long. Just long enough to be noticed.
Upon check-in, he was offered a glass of champagne and given a tour of the iconic five-star hotel that had hosted the likes of Queen Elizabeth II. If the elegant concierge was alarmed by the state of Nico’s dress and that he had no luggage, she covered it well. Once escorted to his deluxe harbor-view suite, his first priority was to take a shower. He’d had one at the restaurant and again at Mrs. Rapa’s, but except for the shirt Sami had given him, he’d had to get back into the same clothes he’d been wearing since their escape from Gozo. He’d swear his trousers could stand up on their own.
After wrapping himself in a thick terry robe and ordering room service, Nico phoned the concierge and asked if someone might be available to purchase some clothes for him at the luxury men’s store he’d noticed off the hotel lobby. After giving his sizes, and this time his credit card number to an enthusiastic young man, he settled in to wait for his meal to be delivered. He tipped heavily, both the room service porter and, later, the concierge who delivered his new wardrobe. After changing into one ensemble, he headed up to the rooftop club lounge, where he ordered a bottle of the most expensive wine on the menu. He took a long sip from the heavy crystal glass as he looked beyond Grand Harbour to the sparkling lights of Valletta.
Here I am, you bastards. Now come and get me.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It took two days and an obscene amount of cash and credit card chits, but they finally took the bait.
“Excuse me, Sinjur Moretti,” the concierge said when Nico answered the door to his suite. “This came for you, marked urgent, so I thought I’d bring it right up.”
Nico handed her a tip and took the envelope, careful to only touch one edge with his thumb and index finger. After casually questioning her about the person who’d delivered the envelope to the hotel—it was a courier they regularly used—he thanked her and closed the door.
Holding the envelope with a pair of tweezers helpfully provided in the hotel’s complimentary toiletry kit, Nico carefully slit it open and extracted a folded sheet of paper.
Tonight. 9 p.m. Albert Town wharf.
We each have something the other wants. Come alone.
His pulse thrumming, Nico placed the paper on the marble counter. Then he sent a text.
Game on!
* * *
It was dark when the cabdriver dropped Nico off at the vast stretch of concrete dock in the Albert Town. In the absence of streetlamps, Nico caught sight of an enormous heap of rusted heavy-gauge chains in the glow of the taxi’s lights as it pulled away into the night. He stood by a metal-link fence that ran parallel to the deserted stretch of road. Looking toward the water, he could see the moorage lights of commercial fishing boats, and what appeared to be a private yacht. It stood out amongst the others, its pristine condition a stark contrast to the rust buckets floating beside it. Was that the vessel that would come for him?
It was said that Malta had a church for every day of the year. Although he wasn’t a praying man, looking along the coastline, Nico took some solace in seeing a lit spire punctuate the night sky. A sign he chose to view as a comforting omen.
Alone on the dock, Nico felt like a singular pulsing beacon. He was vulnerable from every direction; they could take him out in a heartbeat. But then, that wouldn’t serve any purpose for whoever he was yet to meet. They had something they wanted from him. And he sure as hell knew what he wanted from them.
* * *
Nico had lost count of how many lengths of the wharf he’d paced when he heard a car’s tires crunching over gravel. The vehicle slowly edging toward him must have been dark in color. All he could see in the blackness of the night were two pinholes of light from the car’s parking lights. He slowed his pace as every muscle in his body tensed. So much for the yacht.
His eyes strained to penetrate the opaque darkness. He heard a car door open.
“Nicoló Moretti?”
“Who’s asking?”
“I don’t have time for games.”
Like car lights flashed on high, and like a deer caught in the headlights, Nico froze.
“Remove your jacket. Hold it, and your other hand, at your sides and walk toward me.”
They were going to check him for a weapon and probably a wire. He took a deep breath, shrugged off his jacket, and took several paces forward. The man standing beside the car was a good six inches shorter than him, but built like a tank. He stepped directly in front of Nico, then bent down and patted one of his legs from hip to toe. He repeated the same thing on his other side.
“Open your shirt.”
Nico did as he was instructed.
“Get in the back.” The man slid in next to him, then tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Nico asked, buttoning his shirt.
The man shook his head. “I’m just the deliveryman.”
Great. Where and to whom am I being delivered?
Using himself as bait was seeming less and less like a stellar idea.
The sickly sweet scent of his escort’s aftershave wafted over him as they sat side by side in silence. Nico felt each jarring bump and pothole as they sped along the road that led from the wharf. Their driver glanced rather too often in both his rearview and side mirrors. By the time they reached the main highway, he seemed confident no one was following them.
Nico estimated they’d gone about twenty kilometers when the car crossed two lanes before exiting to the left. Again, he noticed the driver checking his mirrors, ensuring no one had followed them off the highway. From the dim lights dotted along the road, they appeared to be in an old warehouse district.
The car slowed, then turned off the road. The driver pulled up in front of a gate topped with enormous curls of razor wire. He rolled down his window and looked up at the camera mounted above. Within seconds, the gate slid open and they drove into what looked like a disused mini storage facility. Several expansive buildings ran parallel to each other; each had a straight lane of cracked and faded asphalt between them. The driver took the last lane to the far right and drove about halfway down before stopping behind a black Jaguar XJ sedan that was parked outside a rusty metal door. Nico fought to slow his racing heart. The sound of his own pulse was deafening, and his mouth was as dry as dust.
“Get out,” Mr. Cheap Cologne said.
Nico slid from the back seat, hoping his trembling legs would hold him.
His escort rapped on the door before opening it. “Inside,” he ordered.
Coming in from relative darkness, the lights inside the warehouse assaulted Nico’s eyes. When his vision cleared, he half expected to see the clichéd single wooden chair sitting in the middle of this cavernous room. Instead, a man of average height strode out from a darkened corner as if he was an actor entering stage right. Wearing sharply creased navy trousers and a pale blue linen jacket, his well-shined brogues tapped across the concrete floor as he walked toward them. Recognizing him from his photographs, Nico knew he was looking at none other than Alesandru Baldisar.
“Sinjur Moretti, thank you for coming. I believe we have something to discuss that is of mutual interest.”
A wave of nausea hit Nico. Was Francesca here? Being held somewhere in the background, bound and gagged?
“Get to the point, Baldisar.”
“Ah, I see you’re not a man for small talk. Very well.” He tilted his head and nodded at his man, who was still standing inside the door. He turned and slipped back outside.
His hands clasped behind his back, Baldisar paced in tight circles. “Are you a gambling man, Sinjur Moretti?” he asked with a smile, though it came nowhere near to reaching his eyes.
Nico was trying to decide how to play things when the door opened. But instead of seeing Baldisar’s man, he saw a tall indivi
dual with a black sack over his head stumble in ahead of him. His hands were cuffed in front of him and on his left wrist he wore a large Oyster Rolex. He was shoved to a halt in front of Baldisar.
“Take off the bag,” Baldisar ordered.
His goon had to stretch on his tiptoes to pull it off.
“Turn around.”
Slowly, the captive turned.
Nico looked into the eyes of Special Investigator Roberto Pezzente.
His face was swollen and bruised, his eyes barely visible in the puffy folds of flesh. His bloody nose sat at a sickening angle, flat against one cheek. There were angry red ligature marks around his neck.
“I believe you two know each other.” This time, Baldisar’s smarmy grin illuminated his face like a twisted jack-o’-lantern.
In that moment, Nico raged with emotions. This man, one of his own countrymen. He’d suffered, yes. Hit rock bottom, yes, but to work for this disgusting man. It was all he could do but to spit at—
Pezzente’s eyes flicked side to side.
Nico opened his mouth to speak. Pezzente still faced him, his back toward Baldisar.
Pezzente’s swollen and red eyes moved again. Then again, this time more urgently. What was he playing at?
Nico scowled and moved aside. “Is this what you brought me here for? You told me you have something of mutual interest.” He looked back at Pezzente. “What is this bullshit?”
Baldisar looked momentarily caught off guard. “Admittedly, my people were a little rough on him, Sinjur Moretti, but are you telling me you don’t recognize a fellow citizen of Italia?”
Nico stepped right into Baldisar’s face, causing him to take a step back. “I don’t know who the fuck this is, and I’m not interested in whatever game you’re playing. Either you have something to trade or you don’t. Which is it, old man?”
Mr. Deliveryman stepped forward, but Baldisar cut him off. “Wait outside!” he snapped. It appeared Baldisar didn’t like to be shown up in front of his people.
“Well, what’s it going to be?” Nico asked more aggressively than he felt. Shit! Why the hell would Baldisar have Pezzente and was he about to suffer the same fate when he discovered Nico didn’t have what he’d come for? Ariana’s list.
Nico’s heart raced. He was grateful for the jacket he’d been allowed to put back on after they had searched him. It hid the fact that his shirt was stuck to his back, soaked in sweat. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Pezzente raise his cuffed hands to wipe his forehead.
He tried to piece together how the investigator had come to be there. He’d clearly turned rogue, but why would Baldisar’s people have beaten him to a bloody pulp? He’d be on their side, right? But Pezzente had definitely signaled not to acknowledge him.
Jolting him from his thoughts, the door to the warehouse suddenly flew open and in burst Cheap Aftershave. Baldisar’s expression darkened. “I told you to wait—”
“Boss, we need to get out of here, now!” He crossed the floor, pushed Nico out of the way, and hissed something in his superior’s ear.
The color drained from Baldisar’s face. “How long ago?” he asked.
“Ten minutes. Sir, we need to go now!”
Baldisar looked at Nico, then at Pezzente. “Bring him.”
Nico’s pulse raced. Did he mean him, Pezzente, or both of them?
The man threw the sack over Pezzente’s head and within seconds, the three of them bolted for the door. Nico ran, lunging at it before it slammed closed with a bang. He knew before he tried the handle that it had been locked. Turning, he scanned the empty expanse of the warehouse. Along the back wall, from where Baldisar had first emerged, were a couple of closed doors and a row of internal windows that had been papered over. They must have been offices at one time. A trickle of sweat rolled down his back as he crossed the cement floor. With a sense of foreboding, he reached for the handle of the first door. Locked. He rattled the second, and then the third, but they were all locked. Baldisar had brought him here for a reason. Had he meant to obtain the list in exchange for Francesca?
“Hello, hello, is anyone in there?” he called out.
Nothing.
He was about to call again when he thought he heard a muffled bump. He stopped dead, straining to hear. There it was again! The doors were made of metal, but he was sure he’d heard repeated bumps coming from inside.
Frantically, he scanned the warehouse for something he could use to smash through a window. Nothing. Then he saw it: a red fire extinguisher haphazardly hanging in a corner. He ran and snatched it off the wall, then raced back to the nearest of the three offices. Holding the extinguisher with both hands above his head, he heaved it against the window. He leaped back as paper and splinters of glass flew everywhere. Then he shrugged off his jacket and wrapping it around his fist, he knocked off the jagged pieces around the perimeter of the window. As he prepared to climb through, he halted.
There was nothing in the tiny room but four walls. Not a stick of furniture, nothing. Now what? The only tool he had was on the inside, so he hitched himself up, feeling a piece of glass cut through his jacket and into the soft palm of his hand. Ignoring the pain and his aching side—this is not what Dr. Camilleri would describe as ‘moderate’ activity—he jumped through the opening and landed clumsily on the other side. He grabbed the fire extinguisher from the floor and was about to turn and jump back through when he heard a thunderous bang. He looked over at the warehouse entrance literally before the steel door exploded into the room. A blaze of black-clothed men in helmets charged in like locusts, assault rifles collectively pointed at Nico.
“Don’t move!”
Still standing on the inside of the office, Nico dropped the extinguisher and winced as he shot his hands in the air. As he thought he was about to lose control of his bodily functions, he read the bold letters on the front of their bulletproof vests. Pulizija. Thank you, God.
“Please,” he shouted. “Someone’s in there.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Still pointing their assault rifles at Nico, the sea of black uniforms separated. An officer, wearing a vest and helmet but considerably less weaponry, emerged from the gap and strode toward him. Quickly, efficiently. “Sinjur Moretti?”
“Yes,” Nico said, his trembling hands still in the air.
“I’m Inspector Farrugia. Are you all right?”
Nico lowered his arms. “Yes . . . yes, I think so.”
The inspector turned and gave his men an affirmative nod, and they lowered their weapons.
“The two men.” Nico asked. “Baldisar and Pezzente?”
“Someone must have tipped them off, and they’d gone by the time we got here,” Farrugia said. “We have a team out looking for them.”
Looking for him? The bastard had escaped!
“Right now, we need to clear this place and get you out of here.” When Nico hesitated, Farrugia said, “If there’s anyone in there, my men will find them. Follow me.”
Nico reluctantly followed Farrugia out of the building and along the cracked asphalt lane to an open area inside the barbed-wire fence. Empty when they’d driven in, there was now a cluster of black SUVs and vehicles in what looked to be a makeshift operations center. The inspector motioned toward the steps that led up into a customized van. “I have to get back to my team, but there’s someone inside who’s eager to see you.”
“But what about—” Nico began to ask, but the inspector had already turned on his heels and left.
Nico climbed up the stairs into the van, which was tall enough to stand up in. To his right, at the dash of the vehicle, two uniformed officers worked at computers. Nico looked to his left and saw someone grasp the back of one of the seats and, with a grunt, pull themself to a standing position. Leaning on a cane with one hand, a tired-looking Inspector Mifsud extended the other.
“Good to see you, my friend,” he said.
* * *
The paramedics gave Nico a once-over and bandaged his hand befo
re he and Mifsud resumed their briefing. Someone had brought in hot coffee and food. After wolfing down a couple of sandwiches—he didn’t even ask what was in them—and refilling his coffee twice, Nico joined the inspector at the back of the command center, away from the hustle of the team members who were coming and going.
“How did you find me?” Nico asked. Once Mifsud had confirmed that he’d received the text that the plan was about to go down, Nico had no choice but to give it over to him and to God. There had been nowhere the police could have hidden a surveillance car at the pier, and he recalled that once on the highway, the driver had checked his mirrors repeatedly. They couldn’t possibly have been followed to the warehouse.
“Ever heard of a GPS dart system?” Mifsud asked.
Nico shook his head. There was no way whoever had picked him up and taken him to the warehouse wouldn’t have swept the car for attached tracking devices. But obviously something had worked, or he wouldn’t be sitting here, shaken but miraculously alive.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Mifsud said. “And you’re right. In a way.” He tilted the coffeepot toward Nico, who shook his head. The fatigue and adrenaline had mixed to form a weird buzz in his ears. The last thing he needed was more caffeine.
“Fairly recently, US highway patrol units began using a system that uses compressed air to launch a tracking device from the bumper of a police car. The tracker sticks to the vehicle they’re following, then the police can back off from a potentially dangerous high-speed chase without losing the subject.”
Nico had never heard of it, but he still couldn’t fathom how any car could have gotten close enough to them to shoot the GPS without being noticed. There had definitely been no vehicle following them when they exited the highway onto the road that ran along the warehouse district.