by Mark Leggatt
He pulled an old Blackberry from his pocket. A hundred bucks for this piece of crap. Ten hours on the pay card. That would be more than enough. He crossed the street, glancing up at the apartment. It don’t matter if I’m seen. They’ll get to know me pretty soon.
Hurrying across the street, he stood before the door. No warrant. No lawyer. Everything that happens now would be deniable. He rapped on the door then pulled the Blackberry from his pocket and fired up the Snooper app. Not quite.
After a few moments the old lady’s head appeared around the door, nervously holding a brush close to her stained apron.
Montrose flipped open his ID and flashed it in front of her face. “Police.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but Montrose shoved open the door. “What was that? I can come in and have a look around? Thanks very much. Well, I think that’s what you said. My Italian ain’t that good.”
Facing him was a long, spacious corridor. Sunlight streamed down from a cupola high in the roof and splashed across a marble floor, inlaid with a Roman mosaic. The walls were lined with ancient statues. Is this shit real? They should be in a museum. At the end of the corridor, an ornately carved double door lay ajar. He stepped forward, his rubber-soled shoes squeaking on the marble.
The room was shaded and cool. Beside an empty, blackened fireplace, carved with Bacchanalian figures, sat a stooping, grey-haired man whose sallow skin heightened his aquiline features. He sat perfectly still, save a gnarled hand dotted with liver spots which trembled where it rested on a silver-topped cane. He was dressed in a sober, dark suit that had fitted when he was in his sixties, but now hung loose on his frame. He fixed his grey eyes on Montrose for a moment. “And you are?”
“Montrose.” He flipped out his badge. “Interpol.”
The old man let out a small wheezing laugh. “Interpol? God save us from civil servants.”
Yeah. I’ll save the CIA surprise for later. Our house calls are a little more dramatic. Montrose gazed around the room, trying to fix the old man’s accent. Not Italian. Middle European. Swiss or German. The walls were lined with heavy wooden bookcases. Framed photos adorned a dark oak bureau. But there was none of a young man and the others seem to have been hastily rearranged. You were expecting a visit. Nice try, old fella. “So, what’s your name?”
“That is not your concern. State your business.”
Go for it. See how he reacts. “Your son.” He saw a tremor in the old man’s hand though the face gave nothing away. Cool customer. Any other father might have shown some concern. Not this guy. What was going down wasn’t news to him. “Your son was seen in the immediate vicinity of a fatal drugs bust last night.”
The old man scoffed. “Immediate vicinity? Drugs bust? You sound like a cheap cop show. I heard of the incident at the hotel. That area is full of marvelous restaurants. There are many reasons why my son would be there.”
Bad move. Now I know he was there. “A drug dealer is dead. Another is clinging to life.”
“I take it you are enquiring as to whether my son has anything to do with this?”
“You got it, Sherlock.”
“My son is a successful businessman and would never be involved in something so sordid. I assume you’re scrabbling around for information. Otherwise the police would be here and not some Interpol office boy, desperately looking for clues.”
“Yeah, whatever. Where is he?”
“I couldn’t say. He leads his own life.”
“I’ll find him.” Montrose slipped off his jacket and holding it across his arm, palmed the Blackberry behind the frame of a photograph. “So what’s your business then? Fancy art, ancient Roman statues?” He nodded towards the old man’s dark blue overcoat as it hung on the arm of the chair, exposing the red silk lining, “And fancy clothes, too. Where does all this come from?” He pulled a wooden chair from the side of the room, dragging the feet across the floor, and sat in front of the fireplace.
The old man smirked. “Life has been good to me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet. Running heroin can be very lucrative. And the accent? You’ve got the nose, but you’re as Roman as sauerkraut.”
“I am a Swiss citizen. And that is the end of this conversation.”
He heard the creak of a hinge. Two men stood in the doorway. One moved towards the fireplace while the other covered the door. Good move. One to protect the old man and one for the exit. They wore loosely cut Armani suits. It was impossible to see if they were armed.
“Well, Mr. Grey Suit and Mr. Black Suit have arrived. Fashion show over, is it?” These ain’t thugs. They’re relaxed. Professional. “Don’t tell me, time for me to leave with my head held high and my feet held higher?”
The old man pointed the tip of his cane at the door. “Correct. You will leave now, Mr. Montrose.”
“Yeah, sure. But like Inspector Colombo used to say, one last thing. What’s an ordinary businessman like you got to do with these goons?”
Grey Suit walked directly towards Montrose, placed his hands on each arm of his chair and leaned in until their faces almost touched.
Montrose caught the smell of expensive cologne then edged his face even closer. “You fancy me, big boy?”
The voice was low and calm. “You’ll leave now, or I’ll snap your neck like a fucking twig.”
A Brit? Probably ex-special forces. And they don’t come cheap. “I bet you say that to all the boys. But first, you’ll have to stop the man-love and get out of my way.”
Grey Suit smiled and stood back.
Montrose picked up his jacket. “I’ve enjoyed our time together.” He nodded towards Grey Suit. “Just one tip, sweetheart. Your mouthwash ain’t cutting it.”
He pushed the doors further aside and strolled into the corridor. At the end he could see his reflection in the polished front door, and the outline of the goons behind him. He scanned the artwork lining the corridor. Give me something I can use. To the left of an armless statue of Juno stood a small brass horse. That would do some damage. If they get too close. He pulled open the door and glanced around.
“Hey, dickhead,” said Grey Suit, “you forgot something.” He threw the Blackberry down the corridor.
Montrose ducked. The Blackberry skimmed past his scalp and bounced on the sidewalk.
Ferguson stood framed in the doorway.
Spinks shot him a look from behind his desk. “Have you found him?”
“No, sir . . .”
‘Then what the fuck do you want?”
Ferguson advanced slowly, holding a buff folder in front of him. “I have Montrose’s file, sir. There’s a lot missing.”
“Missing?”
“It’s highly classified. Way above my security level, sir.” Ferguson placed the thin folder on the desk.
“Paper?” Spinks picked up the folder and emptied the contents onto the desk. “Two sheets? Is that all there is?”
“The whole file was marked ‘Not To Be Transmitted’. That’s all I could get from Personnel in Langley. They really didn’t want to give it to me. All it’s saying is that he was caught looking at flight databases.”
“Did they say why?”
“His sister. Seems she had some boyfriend with a private jet, who took her on trips south of the border. Then she disappeared.”
“So? Happens all the time. She’s probably shacked up in some hacienda with a rich Cheech, living the high life.”
“Sir, Montrose was searching all the private jet flights to South America.”
Spinks looked up. “South America? All of them?”
“It seems certain classified information was, uh, not as secure as it should have been. Montrose is a tech, he knew how to get around the firewall.”
“You’re saying his sister goes missing and Montrose was using a secure CIA database to find her? Is he crazy? The FBI take care of missing persons.”
“No, sir. She wasn’t missing. They found her body in Mexico, near the docks at Ensenada, sixty miles from the border. She�
�d been trying to hitch back home. No passport, no papers, no purse. Just an old cigarette lighter. Her UCLA tattoo and blond hair meant the Mexicans called the border cops.”
“Yeah? Too bad.”
“That’s why Montrose was snooping around for flights. The report says he was trying to track the boyfriend who took her there.”
“That’s a long shot. Maybe got nothing to do with him.”
“She’s not the first, sir. It seems the guy has a rep. The report says it’s probable she was forced into drug dependency and prostitution. Talks about porn movies in Mexico. Not, uh, the big budget kind. Looks like she was trying to get back to the US when she died.”
Spinks shrugged and held out his arms. “You know what? It’s a goddam’ shame. She shouldn’t have been so stupid. But with what I’ve got in front of me right now, I couldn’t give a fuck.” He jabbed a fat finger down on the paper. “I want to find out what’s missing here and why Langley put up the shutters. We have to evaluate the risk. Get me a call to the Director. With
full encryption. Let’s see what this asshole Montrose really knows.”
CHAPTER 7
Threading his way past the customers of the coffee shop, Montrose took a seat under an awning. He turned a metal chair to face the house. The door opened.
A stretch Mercedes pulled up at the curb and the old man edged down the steps. The goons watched from the doorway of the house, waiting until the old man was in the car, then closed the door.
On his own? Where the hell is he going? He thumbed the iPhone. It don’t matter. This is gonna take time. And manpower. I’d better call out the troops. They can shake that place down and find out who the hell that guy was in the hotel. The old man knows. But he ain’t telling. His son? Or the British goon. No, got to be the son. Unless he keeps photos of his security guards alongside his wife. That’s just weird. Whoever Blondie is, he’s about to become very popular. And the Boss can stop giving me shit about a mystery man. Blondie will have to turn up some time. And I’ll be right here when he does.
“Boss? It’s Montrose.”
“Where the hell are you?”
“Via Nableone. I got an address. Where the mystery man took a taxi after the shooting.” He thought he heard a sharp intake of breath at the other end. Yeah, I’m good.
“Montrose, I told you to . . . I want you to listen to me very carefully.”
“Hey, I know where Blondie lives, don’t I get a hug?”
“You have no idea . . . Listen to me, or I will instruct the Italian police to take you off the streets. Do you understand?”
What the hell was up with him? “Yeah. I’m all ears.”
“I want you to report to the CIA office in Rome. Go straight to Director Spinks. He’s waiting for you. Talk to no one else. Go now.”
No way. “Boss, this is our gig. We’ve busted a . . .”
“Have you any idea what’s at stake here? Let me paint you a picture of where your drugs deal fits in. Rome is playing host to a major trade conference. The Secretary of State is on the way from Washington and the press is running a story on how an American agent is shooting people in hotels.”
“Aw, that’s just a crock of . . .”
“You think so? The foreign press are going to have a field day. Let me make this clear. You will talk to no one else. Not any mystery man, local cops or hotel porters. If you want to keep your job and stay out of an Italian jail, you keep your mouth shut and get your ass over to the CIA office. Right now!”
Montrose squeezed the phone so hard he heard the plastic squeak. Fuck you. He cut the call and closed his eyes, taking slow, deep breaths, resisting the temptation to throw the phone across the street. Trade conference? And the Secretary of State? Jeez, follow the money, that’s what they say. And it goes all the way back to the good old US of A. God knows what we’re selling, but businessmen will get their bonus and new BMWs, and Mr. White Collar can afford the latest Chevy. And if I have to take a step back while a shitload of poison hits the streets of Europe, it’s SEP. Someone else’s problem. He closed his eyes and rubbed the muscles in his neck. So, the Boss had heard about the visit to the hotel. Bet that cheered him up. Now Spinks wants me off the streets and as far away as possible. Shit, if they want me, they can come and find me.
He looked up and saw the old man sitting motionless in the back of the limo. What’s he waiting for? He brought up the camera on the iPhone. One for the record. Before Spinks shuts me down.
An airport taxi pulled up beside him, blocking his view. The rear door swung open and a pair of stockinged legs with killer heels clicked onto the sidewalk, and an expensively dressed woman in a clinging business suit emerged.
She stood facing him and smoothed down her short skirt. “Mr. Montrose. What are you doing with that phone? I do hope that photo isn’t going to appear on the internet.”
He looked down at the phone pointing towards her crotch. “Jeez, does everybody in this town know me?” Probably one of Spinks’ little ladies. He had a fondness for empty heads and full blouses. Pretty fast work, though. And I’ll bet she’s got a van full of CIA goons at each end of the street with handcuffs and leg restraints. What, they think I’m less likely to punch a chick?
“So, who might you be? And what the hell do you want?”
She sauntered over and sat down at his table. “I want you to buy me a coffee.”
The taxi remained idling at the curb, blocking his view. Spinks’ goons will be closing in while they think I’m staring at her tits. But I want that old bastard’s face. If the Boss won’t tell me, the system will.
“Out of my way.” The metal legs of the table squealed on the stone as he stood.
She grabbed his arm and gently pulled him back, pushing her thumb into his clenched fist. “Relax, Connor. The gentleman in the limo isn’t going anywhere. For the moment.”
“Yeah? Thanks for letting me know.” She’s smooth, got to give her that. And she has a hand in her pocket. 9mm or stun gun? “So, how about that coffee. Latte?”
“Espresso. Nobody in Italy drinks latte after breakfast. Except tourists. Your first time in Rome, Connor?”
“You got me bang to rights. How’s my friend, Mr. Spinks?”
She smiled and shook a perfectly manicured finger at him, then began tapping on her cell phone. “I don’t work for Spinks. And before you ask, I’m not at liberty to tell you who I work for, but there are things you need to know. Firstly, I’m Gabrielle.” She looked up and ran the tip of her tongue along the edge of her bright red lips. “You can call me Gabby.”
The bitter coffee coated his tongue and stuck to his palate. Montrose signaled to the waiter for a glass of water.
“You’ve really pissed off some serious people.” Gabrielle smiled and checked her phone. “Time to give you the bigger picture.” She crossed her legs, allowing Montrose a glimpse of her stocking tops before she straightened her skirt.
“You mean the trade deal? I’m guessing the Pakistanis are involved, otherwise why would everyone be so pissed about a couple of dealers? They’ve got connections, right?” Just spit it out, sweetheart. The striptease ain’t doing it for me. Not right now, anyway. “I heard all about it. I stop shooting drug dealers and some Joe in Idaho can make his mortgage payments. That’s not my style.” He took a sip from the cup. “So, what are we selling? Drones armed with missiles that can take out a farmer from five thousand feet who doesn’t worship the same god?”
She tilted her head to one side, and was about to speak when her phone beeped. “I think it’s buying, rather than selling, and it’s not . . .”
“Yeah? What have the Pakistanis got that we want, other than a million acres of opium poppies?”
She looked up quizzically, but her phone beeped again. She checked the screen. “If I was a fortune teller, I’d say you were about to get an invitation from someone who will whisk you away.”
“That’ll be Spinks. Bet he’s already booked my flight on Langley Airways. I’ll be lucky if I g
et a seat.”
“I take it Mr. Spinks is not your best friend?”
“I haven’t got enough middle fingers to tell you what I think of Spinks.”
She tossed her hair back and laughed, and stroked her neck as she spoke. “Well, your visitor will not be tall, dark or handsome. Rather, he’ll be ancient, wizened and Teutonic, if I’m not mistaken.” She straightened one of her legs then wiggled the toe of her high heel, pointing towards the stretch Mercedes. “Someone wants a word.”
Montrose caught the bright red sole of her shoe. She’s wearing Louboutins. This chick ain’t on government pay. So who’s pulling her strings? He looked up at the Mercedes.
The tinted rear window lowered and the old man fixed his gaze on Montrose then beckoned him over to the limo.
“You’d better go.” Gabrielle dropped the phone into her purse. She placed a ten euro bill on to the table. “I’ll get this, you can make it up to me by buying dinner.”
“What the hell does he want?” Montrose got to his feet.
“I suggest you go and find out.” She stood close and smoothed down his coat, picking a few threads from his collar. “Got to look your best. And be a good boy. You can save the bad boy for me.” She patted his butt. “Off you go.”
His eyes locked with hers. Save the bad . . . yeah, later. He glanced up and down the road as he crossed over towards the limo. No one stepped out of a doorway. No vehicles moved into position. Montrose stood before the open door of the limo and looked in. No goons?
The old man sat low in the seat, his frail figure enveloped in the deep leather, his hands atop the cane between his knees. “Mr. Montrose, I believe I owe you an explanation.”
A thick glass window separated them from the driver. Montrose stepped inside, and the door closed. The silence struck him. “So, you’ve been checking up on me.”
The old man lifted his cane and rapped on the privacy window. The limo pulled off smoothly into the street. “Let me say, I admire you, Mr. Montrose.”