“Mama?” the son called out.
He took a step toward Tahira and then spotted the rifle.
“What the—”
The Roc slammed the door closed behind him and lunged forward with his knife drawn. But Signora Rossi’s son was not an elderly grandmother. He sensed the attack and instinctively turned with his arms raised in a defensive position. His left arm blocked the knife, and he grabbed the collar of the Roc’s shirt with his right hand.
The Roc fell into him, knocking the younger man backward onto the floor, near Tahira’s feet. She fell to her knees and pointed the Glock directly at his face. He reacted with a stunned look, frozen. In that mini-second, the Roc swept his knife downward, plunged it into the man’s chest, and began jamming it in and out.
“The pillow!” the Roc exclaimed.
Tahira grabbed it and pushed it onto the son’s face to mute his cries. After several seconds, Signora Rossi’s son stopped moving.
Tahira tried to stand, but she felt weak. She vomited.
Hee-haw, hee-haw. It was the police siren outside. As Tahira used the discarded towel on the floor to wipe her mouth, the Roc reached into the dead man’s front pant pocket but found nothing. He checked the dead man’s other pocket and removed a key fob. Porsche insignia.
“She said he drove a sports car,” Tahira said, her face bright red and glistening with sweat.
The Roc handed her the keys. “You must go outside,” he said. She stood and swept her hand through her short hair. She could still taste the vomit in her mouth as she stepped into the hallway.
Tahira emerged from the building, intent on making a scene.
“This man is an idiot!” she hollered in Italian. “Everyone knows there is no parking here, but he always does this. I will move his car!”
“Who are you?” a police officer standing next to the squad car asked.
“I live in the apartment next to Signora Rossi. She’s always trying to arrange for her son to meet me. She got so worked up now, she fainted. He’s with her. He gave me his keys.” She dangled them in front of the two officers and lowered her voice. “I believe she is faking it. Being dramatic to make her son pay attention to her.”
Both officers were running their eyes across Tahira’s body.
“I’ll move it,” she said, unlocking the Cayman S model with its electronic fob. The officer nearest her hurried to open the sports car’s door for her, smiling as she slipped behind its wheel.
“Italian mothers,” he said to her. “They’re all the same, you know. But usually they choose someone ugly. This man is an idiot if he ignores you.”
She smiled suggestively and pulled away slowly, checking the mirror. They fell in behind her in their squad car. When she reached a side street, she lowered the Porsche’s window and waved at them as they continued driving forward while she turned onto the street to her right.
“Grazie!” she called.
Within minutes she had parked the Porsche on the street at the entrance of the same public lot where the Roc had left the rented van. She left the keys on the floorboard, out of sight.
When she returned to the apartment, the Roc was gone. He had pushed the son’s body next to his mother’s and covered it with another blanket.
Tahira placed the portable computer in her backpack, stepped into the hallway, locked the apartment door, and went into the toilet at the end of the hallway. She washed her face and cupped water in her hands to rinse her mouth. She looked into a mirror above the sink and felt guilty. Signora Rossi was not a Jew. Not the enemy. Neither was her son. Nor were they like the Iranian traitor who had cooperated with the Americans and Jews.
When Tahira reached the street, she sucked in a deep cleansing breath and steadied herself. She called her father on a disposable phone.
“Are you intending to fix dinner tonight?” he asked when he answered.
“Yes, Papa,” she replied. “I will.”
It was code.
Sixteen
The Bellagio taxi driver talked continuously from the moment the Roc entered his cab.
“You can rent my taxi for the entire day,” the driver offered as he drove them outside the city limits around the edge of Lake Como on a narrow, picturesque road. “There is much to see, and I am familiar with all of the best locations. Restaurants, historical sites, where the rich live, and the nightlife too.” He glanced in the rearview mirror at the Roc in the back seat. “What do you say, my friend? Would you like me to turn off the meter and charge you a flat daily fee?”
“I am meeting a friend who has a car.”
“Do I know this friend of yours? There are not so many of us who live here that we are strangers. What is his name?”
“He doesn’t live here,” the Roc replied. “Like me, he’s a tourist, but he is driving here to meet me.”
“Then you should consider hiring me to drive, so you don’t get lost and both of you can enjoy the beautiful sights.” He raised his hand and waved toward the scenery outside. “There is nothing here more beautiful than our lake, except for our women.” He touched his fingers to his lips and threw a kiss. “Bella donna! Did I tell you I know the best nightclubs? You will not get a better price.”
The blacktop snaked down the hillside to the water’s edge.
“Pull over here,” the Roc said.
“What? Sir, there is nothing here. This can’t be where you are meeting your friend.”
“I wish to walk for a while. I will telephone my friend, and he will meet me here.”
“But walking on the road is not safe. There are no stores. No bars, not even a bench to sit on if you become tired.”
“This is where I wish to stop,” the Roc said firmly.
The driver shrugged and stopped his cab on the roadway, since there was no verge for him to pull over on. He turned his head. “I hope your friend arrives soon,” he said. “If not, call me.” He handed a business card from the front seat.
“Grazie.”
The Roc watched the cab do a U-turn. He waved as the driver lowered his window while passing him. “Remember to call me. I will give you the best price.” When the taxi was out of sight, he walked a half mile farther along the road before slipping into the woods. He moved silently through the trees for another half mile, using the compass on his watch to guide him.
He and Tahira had hidden items under leaves and dead branches earlier after finding an ideal location courtesy of Google satellite images. He found the unmolested stash. First he took out a camouflaged ghillie suit and tins of black and green face grease. He draped the heavy suit over his muscular frame, applied the makeup, and holstered two Beretta 92 semiautomatic pistols—model M9A1, popular with US Marines fighting in Afghanistan—where he could reach them through slits. Another walk through the woods brought him to his hiding spot, on a slight rise above a single-lane road that broke from the highway. It was the only road in and out to the lakeside villa where Big Jules would be attending his niece’s wedding. He crawled to the base of a chestnut tree, keenly aware of men in black suits armed with automatic rifles walking on the road below him. Lying prone, he quietly smoothed leaves over his suit, making him impossible to detect. In fact, he blended into the scenery so efficiently that a parade of ants soon began marching inches from his face up across his right shoulder, carrying insect larvae back to their nest.
Now there was nothing to do but wait. And think. About Tahira. And wonder. Would she pull the trigger? Would she aim to kill? He tried to push all doubt from his thoughts.
After his wife and son were murdered, he had considered asking relatives to take custody of Tahira. At the time, he had found himself hating the sight of her. He’d deeply loved his wife. Been proud of their firstborn son. He’d also loved his daughter, but she had become a painful reminder of how much he had lost. There was another reason why he’d considered abandoning her. His heart could not take another loss. Better to cut all ties. Care about no one. But in the end, he’d chosen otherwise.
His hatred of the Jews had become more all-consuming with each passing day. His legacy had become ensuring that Tahira shared his hatred. It had been difficult at first; her youthful innocence naturally made her soft and kind. She was too much like her mother. Over time, he had broken her down, remade her more like him. The world was a cruel place. They could only trust each other. Their only purpose in living was to avenge the deaths of their slaughtered family. It had gotten more difficult as she aged. This is why he had taken her to America to kill the Iranian traitor. This is why he had brought her to Lake Como. She was at a tipping point. She had to choose now.
The Roc had once waited for thirty-six hours without moving from a sniper’s lair. He was a patient man. Only this time he was not armed with a rifle. Instead, it was a remote switch.
He thought again about his daughter. He had always assumed he would leave her an orphan. He had prepared her for that day, making her memorize the numbers of his bank accounts and how to retrieve his Bitcoin savings. He had no will, no legal document bearing his given name. He led the life of a ghost. She would have enough to live a comfortable life, whether she chose to follow his training or disgrace him by no longer seeking vengeance. It was difficult for him to visualize Tahira as an obedient wife to any man. What he had never considered was that she, rather than him, might be captured or killed.
A branch breaking. Someone was moving through the woods.
Another sound. A voice. Speaking in Hebrew.
The Roc had learned the language of his enemy, along with other commonly spoken tongues. He and Tahira had practiced together, speaking only French for one month, only English another, moving next to Russian. They had become fluent. The man speaking was reporting that everything was okay. A Jew security guard checking the forest before the wedding started.
From his position, the Roc could not see the intruder, but he knew from the loudness of his voice that he was coming closer. Too close. Slowly moving his hand, the Roc grasped the knife inside his camouflage suit.
The security guard reached the tree where the Roc was hiding and stopped, less than a foot away from his face. The odor of cigarette smoke. The guard was taking a break, completely unaware that an assassin was hidden under the leaves and brush within inches of his shoes. He dropped the cigarette butt on the ground. With the toe of his shoe, he smashed its glowing tip.
The Roc heard the sound of an approaching motorcade, but he dared not react as the vehicles hurried by on the road below him.
Seventeen
4:55 p.m.
Julian “Big Jules” Levi arrived after the other wedding guests had been screened and seated on the terrace outside Villa Como, a five-story neoclassical mansion built between 1808 and 1810 by a protégé of Napoleon Bonaparte. The villa was pied-dans-l’eau, “feet in the water,” its massive marble patio extending out from the shore over the lake.
The bride’s father and villa’s owner, Eitan Cohen, was waiting to embrace his famous brother-in-law.
“Shalom, my dear brother!” Big Jules happily exclaimed as he stepped from the Audi 8 armored car that had been flown in specifically for him.
Cohen beamed. “Adinah will be so excited when she sees you. I’ve been wanting to tell someone, but I haven’t said a word, not a word—isn’t that right?” He glanced at a thirtyish woman standing nearby whom he knew only as Esther. She was dressed in a tailored black tuxedo.
“Yes,” Esther said, “you have been the perfect host. As always.”
“And now the day, and you are here,” Cohen chirped.
“How could I miss my favorite niece’s wedding?” Big Jules asked. “God would never forgive me.”
“God? It would be my wife—your sister—who would never forgive you!” Cohen replied, smiling.
Esther fell in behind Big Jules as Cohen led them through the ground floor of the villa out onto the terrace, where a hundred invitees were waiting. A chuppah decorated with Juliet roses intermixed with white orchids had been built on the patio’s edge over the lake, taking advantage of a magnificent view. The light fragrance of lilac and sweet vanilla lingered in the afternoon air. A string quartet was playing. Cohen signaled the wedding coordinator to begin.
5:10 p.m.
Tahira Bashar was sitting at a sidewalk café less than a block from Signora Rossi’s apartment with her back to the eatery’s stone and glass facade. She had an unobstructed view of Villa Como across the lake.
“Another cappuccino?” a waiter asked, approaching.
“Yes, please.”
Her laptop screen was masked by a privacy filter that allowed only the user directly in front to see images. Being outside enabled her to make last-minute adjustments for windage if needed.
She watched the waiter leave, weaving through a dozen other tables before entering the café. He was handsome, although at least ten years older than her. She had never been with a man, and for a moment she imagined what the waiter would be like as a lover. Her eyes swept across the others around her. Tourists. She could tell by their conversations. English. French. Korean. She could identify the Americans by their slang, weight, loudness, and clothing. Her eyes settled on a young couple. The girl in khaki shorts, wool sweater, and hiking boots. Him in denim jeans, running shoes. Virginia Tech maroon hoodie. Backpacks next to their chairs. Tahira assumed they were in love, and wondered again what it would be like to have a boyfriend.
The waiter put a fresh cup on her table.
“You’re playing—what game?” he asked, looking at the joystick attached to her computer.
“What? Oh, Grand Theft Auto.”
“Have you tried Fortnite?”
“Killing zombies—is that what you do for entertainment?”
He smiled, revealing slightly crooked teeth. “Is stealing cars and running over pedestrians your thing?”
He left to serve a nearby customer, and she checked her computer screen. The magnified rifle scope showed a large figure being escorted between two ushers to a front-row seat. She increased the magnification to positively identify her prey but only confirmed that it was the head Jew after he’d already been seated.
Or had she unconsciously delayed taking a shot? Knowing that she would need him to be standing before firing, because then he would be a bigger target.
5:20 p.m.
“Look for blue lines,” Thomas Jefferson Kim said through the satellite phone being relayed over the car’s internal speaker. “Blue lines in Bellagio identify that the lot is for public parking. You should be approaching one with a stone retaining wall and sign that has an arrow pointing to Giardini di Villa Melzi.”
“I see it,” Brett Garrett answered as they slowed their rental Fiat 500 Abarth. He’d chosen the subcompact to blend in with other travelers.
“I don’t see the Roc’s white van,” Mayberry said.
“It’s there,” Kim replied. “Parked near that yellow toilette building that should be on your left as you enter the lot.”
“Glad to know you’re watching over us,” Mayberry replied, glancing through the Fiat’s dirty passenger window into the sky. Somewhere above them was one of Kim’s IEC satellites.
Kim had tracked the Roc and Tahira from Rome to Bellagio via the white rental van’s GPS—a surprising mistake on the assassin’s part. Obviously, he had assumed their false passports would be enough to cover their tracks from prying eyes.
“I see it,” Garrett announced as he entered the public parking lot and slipped into an empty space a few rows from the van.
“It doesn’t look like anyone’s inside,” Mayberry said.
Garrett reached behind the driver’s seat and pulled his Sig Sauer P226 pistol from a backpack.
“My Glock?” she said.
He looked at her crippled right hand.
“Give me my damn gun.”
He pulled it out of the same backpack. She held it in her left. “If we have to use these,” she said, “we’ll be the ones arrested. We don’t have any authority here, and the Roc and h
is daughter haven’t been charged with any crimes in the States.”
“If you’re getting cold feet, stay in the car.”
He opened the driver’s door and stepped out, intending to check out the van. She fumbled with her right hand to open the passenger door.
“Don’t shoot me by accident,” he said.
“It won’t be by accident.”
5:21 p.m.
The rabbi finished singing. The groom wrapped a champagne glass in a white linen cloth. Placed it on the marble patio floor.
Across Lake Como, Tahira watched from the café. She had studied YouTube videos of Jewish weddings to familiarize herself with the ceremonies. The traditional breaking of the glass. Once he stepped on it, the guests would rise from their chairs and cheer: Mazel tov!
Big Jules was sitting on the same row as his sister—the bride’s mother—and the bride’s father. She thought his nickname appropriate, and recalled her father’s lecture. The more body mass, the better the chances of hitting him. Still, Big Jules was sandwiched in by relatives.
“Shall I bring a check, signorina?” Tahira had not seen the waiter approaching her table.
“Yes,” she replied, not bothering to look at him.
“Are you killing many?” he asked.
“What?”
“Pedestrians. Your video game.”
“Go away,” she snapped.
A slight wisp of air grazed her cheek. Enough windage to ruin her shot? No, she decided. She would not recalibrate.
On Villa Como’s patio, the groom dropped his foot onto the glass.
“Mazel tov! Mazel tov!” The wedding guests erupted from their seats. Big Jules stood too.
It was now or never. She hesitated and then thought of her dead mother and brother.
Shakedown Page 10