She smiled widely in return. “Good day, Signore Licio,” she responded. “Thank goodness the rain has stopped.” She looked to the sky, then to Licio.
Licio smiled, waving his umbrella. “Rain does not bother me. But it’s always a wonderful day when I can see a beautiful woman such as yourself.”
Antoinette Collini laughed aloud. “You are still a flirt, Signore Licio,” she responded emphatically, waving him off.
Across the narrow street, a slender man with a long white raincoat draped about him hastily tossed aside his cigarette. He watched as Licio approached his apartment. He naturally recognized Licio from a recent photo his boss had provided him. Satisfied it was him and not a decoy, the man withdrew back into an alley he had selected for its vantage point and his ability to use a restaurants overflowing dumpster for cover. He now maneuvered behind the dumpster’s contents of rotting foods angling for a better view. He settled on one that wouldn’t require his new suit to get dirty. Just as he was sure the area was clear he heard some men arguing about the dinner menu, looking behind him he now noticed a propped open door that led to the back of the restaurants kitchen. Easier for the cook to sneak a smoke thought the man. It wasn’t open when he last scouted the area. It was too late for him to move now. Having already been in-place for 30 minutes, ever since the 8am phone call thrust him into action. The man withdrew a 9mm from his coats pocket, expertly screwing on a bulbous silencer, glancing from side-to-side as he did. Not exactly the gun used for a distance shot but he would have to make do on such short notice.
Suddenly he heard footsteps from behind. He turned swiftly, his gun leading the way, only to notice what appeared to be the restaurants cook, as he lit a cigarette. Apparently he did not notice the man. After several seconds, the cook suddenly turned, for a moment startled someone else was in the alley at this time of day. The man smiled at him as he brought his 9mm to bear, firing two quick shots, hitting the cook in the head and the torso, the bullets propelling the body back up against the alley wall where he slid down to its base, dead. The man mockingly saluted the dead cook with his gun. Wrong time, wrong place, my man, he thought. Satisfied, he returned to his dumpster perch just in time to see Licio as he nodded to the woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of his building, him reaching for the doors handle. The man took careful aim as he readied to shoot. But Licio stopped two meters short of the door as if he forgot something or wanted to say something to the woman. Licio now presented a full frontal shot to him, gift-wrapped. This is too easy he said to himself. He was about to squeeze the trigger when a cat suddenly jumped out at him from the dumpster, causing his first shot to go wide of Licio, impacting off the buildings first floor masonry but breaking the glass panel just above it.
Licio looked puzzled. What caused the glass to suddenly break? He said aloud, now looking around him, wondering if some child had tossed a stone. Before he had time to react, Antoinette, who only moments before was sweeping the sidewalk, forcefully pushed him to the ground, assuming a protective position on top of her charge, expertly extracting a Beretta from under her skirt, pointing it towards the alley.
Licio hadn’t realized that his “friends” had placed an around the clock protection detail on him many years before. This after the first set of threats had arrived from a Jerusalem Post Office Box — one of them a letter bomb — some with details threatening to disclose his background — others to kill him. But he was too valuable a resource for too many people — both good and bad. That, and he knew where the proverbial bodies were buried. Lots of them.
Licio surely wasn’t aware Antoinette was his assigned “minder,” placed there by someone in power from the Polizia di Stato or State Police. Of course he had been polite to her for several years, always seeing her around the apartment building assuming she worked for the landlord. But not in this manner. A bodyguard? His bodyguard?
Years of constant training had sharpened Antoinette’s reaction time. She quickly construed the cause of the glass breaking. A minute earlier she thought she heard the soft one—two pop of a firecracker or possibly a muzzled gunshot, no doubt the close confines of the alley only intensified the echo. This only sharpened her senses. The man was evidently using a cheap throw away suppressor was her first instinct — possibly a Serbian model. A top of the line German suppressor would not have been heard from across the street. All of her years of formal training in the Italian State Police looked to finally be paying off. Within seconds she had scanned possible shooting positions before settling on the man in the alley, watching in horror as he prepared for a second shot. Antoinette had to act quickly, squeezing off five shots in quick secession, each whizzing by the shooter and ricocheting off the alleys walls, none hitting her target. But that wasn’t her goal for the moment, preferring to throw the shooter off balance more than anything.
The shooter had ducked just in time before he reached up and over the trash laden dumpster, firing two shots blindly in response, one going just wide of Antoinette, the second impacting off the sidewalk and ricocheting up and into Licio’s stomach.
The shooter, seeing his sense of surprise now lost, turned to flee. Opportunity presented itself with him using the passing pedestrians as possible cover. Swiftly removing his coat, he casually dropped it to the sidewalk, trying to blend in with those about him.
With the shooter basically in the open, Antoinette squeezed off two additional shots just above the man’s head, barely avoiding the pedestrians who summarily dropped to the ground. She had hoped the warning shots would be enough to stop the man in his tracks. The man paused for all of a split second, but upon seeing Antoinette’s position on top of Licio, decided his best chance was to flee, now running through the crowd as they scattered for cover or dropped to the ground. Antoinette, not realizing Licio was hit, ordered him to stay put as she rose up and assumed her range firing position. She could see the shooter was making a beeline straight for the corner, hoping to round it and quickly get out of range. She balanced her Berretta with two hands, getting a bead on the man’s pace before expertly squeezing off a one-two, double-tap, hitting the shooter in the right arm with both shots, him dropping his weapon to the ground in response. The shooter held his injured arm as he looked back at her, her weapon still raised. He smiled at her before choosing to run once more. Antoinette shook her head as she quickly squeezed off two additional shots, both hitting him in the abdomen, the bullets force pushing him up against the wall of a flower shop before he slid down as if he were a sack of potatoes, his body half slumping against the base of the wall and the sidewalk.
Satisfied the shooter was indeed dead, Antoinette turned her attention to Licio. She struggled to help him to his feet, Licio leaning against her. He coughed a few times as he clutched his stomach. Antoinette now viewed blood pouring between his fingers. A puddle of blood on the sidewalk marked the spot where he had been shot. She quickly took off her headscarf, applying pressure to his wound. She calmed herself by taking several deep breaths, then, maintaining pressure on the wound, she pulled the back of his shirt up. Immediately she could tell that Licio would be dead within the hour due to the bullet evidently nicking his liver or kidney before exiting. From her basic paramedic training, she quickly deduced evidence of significant intra-abdominal injury, especially vascular trauma organ perfusion. He would be lucky if he made it to the hospital. His pride looked more hurt then the effects of his bullet wound. She patted his cheek with her free hand. “Let’s lay you back down on the sidewalk,” she said softly, gently easing him back down.
“I always fall for the pretty ones,” Licio said, smiling at Antoinette, ending with a flirtatious wink.
Antoinette smiled back at him. “You realize what’s happening, right?” she said.
Licio nodded. “A flesh wound,” he said looking down at the bloody scarf. “I was shot much worse in the war.” He started to cough again, blood now exiting his mouth.
“Your time is close my friend.” she said, now cradling his head. Antoinette
knew all about Licio’s torrid history. His time spent with Hitler and Mussolini. She also knew he had many important friends in high places. Who else besides a high-ranking Government official would warrant a personal bodyguard? However, she was also aware of his many enemies, enemies who wanted information of a particular nature — financial information to be precise. Rumors persisted that he knew of numerous “black” accounts left over from WWII. Money hidden away in Switzerland. Secret deals with the Vatican. Even a deal with Hitler.
Antoinette rubbed his check, smiling at him as he looked up at her. “Is there anything you want to tell me?” she said. Antoinette realized the difficult position Licio had placed her in. A lot of people, especially those politicians whom he held sway over would love to be in her position.
Licio nodded. “I’ve lived a horrible life,” he began. “But I don’t know if I can say the things I must say, especially in the company of a beautiful woman who can shoot a bull’s eye at 50 meters.” He then motioned down the street where a small crowd was gathering around the shooters body.
Antoinette smiled once again, looking younger than Licio had first judged. Moreover, the matronly dress did not do her figure any justice. He first noticed this when she holstered her weapon under her skirt, noting her shapely legs.
“You have a lot of enemies don’t you?” Antoinette inquired as she looked about, hoping someone had called an ambulance.
Licio laughed aloud before erupting into another coughing fit, the blood flowing more freely. “Enemies?” he responded in a low tone. He slowly managed to turn his head first left then right making sure none of his neighbors was within earshot. “Should I start with those beginning with the letter A and proceed?”
Antoinette looked embarrassed. Her face turned red. “I didn’t mean……,” she stammered.
“It’s not your fault, my dear,” Licio said in a slow deliberate tone. “Who would think of a ninety something year old man as a threat?” he paused several seconds in order to catch his breath before continuing. “That’s what you are thinking, right?”
She nodded once more.
“Yes,” he said. “I have many who may want to see me in the ground earlier then I am ready to go. And I’m not ready damn it. I have one last mission to carry out.”
Antoinette nodded in understanding, putting out her hand for him to hold, him squeezing it tight knowing the end was near.
“Lean down to me,” said Licio, a wicked smile on his face, blood curling down one side of his lips.
Antoinette leaned in close. Licio spoke into her ear. After several minutes she let go of Lucio’s hand as he slid away in death. The great Licio Gelitoni was now dead. Some would say the most powerful man, not only in Europe, but the world. Only no one really knew who he was. He operated from behind the curtain, allowing others to take the credit – or in some cases the blame. Many, including a certain Pope from South America, owed their positions of power to him. But he was the man who pulled the proverbial strings. He ordered someone to kill and the order was carried out; no questions asked. His death would be cause for a collective sigh of relief from those whom he put in high office, for their debts would be cancelled. Licio Gelitoni had no second in command to take his place. He operated as a one-man hierarchy.
Antoinette couldn’t believe what the old man had just relayed to her. In effect, what would be his last will and testament. Or his last wish? She looked around. Was it possible someone had overheard what Licio had said to her? Not a chance, that was paranoia speaking; no one was even close to her. But she performed as instructed by Licio, removing a finger drive from his coat pocket. He said everything of importance was on it. He also instructed her not to share it with her superiors but to provide it to the one person he trusted. But why did he entrust this to her? Why did he say to not share his secret with anyone? Or would she soon become the hunted?
She could hear the whirl of the ambulance as it pulled up. Several seconds went by before its two attendants in long white medical coats relieved her of Licio’s hand.
Signora, we must take him now, said the taller of the two.
She needed to clear her head. What Licio had just entrusted to her, or more appropriately, burdened her, left her with more power than she could fathom. She now rose to walk away from Licio, holding her badge aloft for everyone to see, the crowd respectively clearing a path for her. She then walked over to where the shooters body lay. As she approached, Antoinette could see the body was face down, still partially slumped against the wall. Upon closer inspection she noticed a tattoo in black bold lettering on his right hand: Sub Deus. Her Latin was still a bit fogy since her Catholic grade school days but this was a common term the teaching Sisters would use; it meant Under God. She wondered what terror group was using Sub Deus as its calling card?
Her sixth sense told her something wasn’t right. Her long departed mother used to say it was the gypsy side of the family speaking to her. Antoinette hoped it was her state police training and not the notions of some fortune-telling relative. She quickly stood up and looked back at the ambulance attendants as they struggled to position Licio’s body on the gurney, looking amateurish as Licio’s arms kept dropping out to their respective sides. As they wheeled him up to the ambulance, they then struggled with its rear door, something an attendant would normally have been left open in anticipation of the body. The attendants cursed each other for the oversight, before opening the doors, pushing the gurney into the back portion of the ambulance. With a clear sightline to the attendants, Antoinette then noticed something strange about the attendants dress: their shoes. Both attendants wore gray Gucci loafers. Gucci loafers on their salary? She thought. Something wasn’t right.
One of the attendants nervously glanced in Antoinette’s direction as he hurriedly closed its back door, struggling to lock it.
Antoinette started walking to the ambulance wanting a closer look at the attendant’s identification. Wait a minute,” she yelled to them as she approached. “Police,” she said boldly, holding her badge aloft.
The attendant closest to Antoinette casually removed his long white coat tossing it aside, revealing an expensive hand tailored gray suit beneath, suddenly extracting an Uzi from within his suit coat, pointing it at Antoinette.
“We desire no trouble with the police,” he said. “We just want the body and what’s on his person.”
Antoinette could see she was outgunned. The last thing Rome needed was a bloodbath with civilian casualties. She nodded to the man, and then pointed down the street for him to pass freely.
The man nodded in return as he motioned to his tattooed hand, the words, Sub Deus, or Under God, emblazoned in bold black lettering across its back. He then performed a gracious bow. “Grazie, bambolina,” he said. Thank-you, pretty doll.
Antoinette fumed at his arrogance, watching as they drove away. “I’ll catch you bastards,” she screamed. “One way or another, I will catch you.”
CHAPTER 50
CHICAGO TRIBUNE, CHICAGO, IL
Only the meaningless chatter of the cleaning crew could be overheard, busy dusting and vacuuming the offices of the writing staff, empty desks signaling their departure long before. On the main newsroom floor, eleven oversized round clocks with roman numerals reported times in various countries, the largest one in the center representing Chicago time: 4:30 am. The paper was already in the process of being delivered to its vendors or tossed onto driveways of homes whose owners, at least the lucky ones, were still a few hours away from waking to a new day.
In the middle of the newsroom sat Nora Robinson, the glow of her laptop screen eerily illuminating her face on the mostly dark office floor. A simple knock on her door the night before had sent Nora in motion. Expecting the pizza she had ordered only to be rewarded with a large envelope that had been anonymously dropped on her doormat.
Its contents were enough to motivate her to come into the office at such an ungodly hour. Many of the folders contents were emblazoned with either the Vatican c
rest or a Nazi Swastika across the top of each page. Her Italian and German were a bit rusty from lack of use, but she quickly managed to get the meaning of some of the documents.
Nora Robinson sat at her desk staring at a background article she was preparing for the Republican parties favored candidate for President of the United States; the Senator of Illinois, James Myers. Six years ago he had come out of nowhere to win his states election for Senator, or to buy it, depending on who you talked to — spending close to $43 Million of his family’s money to reach this point. Not that they couldn’t afford it, with an estimated $2 billion dollars in real estate and banking holdings. She continued to read the dossier on him as she absentmindedly reached for her coffee, now cold, sipping its contents for a caffeine buzz only, its taste long gone.
She compared the claims of the documents that were dropped at her door to the research she was had already completed. Something didn’t smell right.
At only 40 years of age, she already achieved the dream of every reporter—a Pulitzer Prize. She had written an article on the Talbot presidency and its resulting scandal where they provided lucrative leases in National Parks for Oil companies and received generous kickbacks. Didn’t win her many friends on the Washington DC beat, but it did provide her with a long list of new sources to tap into for the future. She was a rising star at the paper and with it came complete autonomy from her boss. He allowed her to choose her own stories. She even had her own expense account and her own photographer. Not that she didn’t deserve it. Her hard-hitting articles were attributed to the papers 20% increase in circulation.
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