The threat was: Gold; Imminent. The target was a major public figure. And the location was worldwide.
Jane had work to do.
She was just about to open the email tab when her phone rang. It was Langley. The Deputy Director.
What?
She picked up the receiver.
‘Linden? How did you know I was in?’
‘It was a stab in the dark - no pun intended. I guess the streetlights are still on where you are?’
Jane looked unnecessarily to the window. It was still as dark as night. Even though dawn was on its way, it was being stalled by a thick duvet of cloud.
‘Yes. It must be dark with you too? Shouldn’t you be at home?’
‘Ordinarily I’d be dead to the world. A couple of beers short of a hangover after the Redskins match.’
‘Did they win?’
‘Nope. But that didn’t stop a couple of us celebrating anyway.’
The Deputy Director, Linden Rickenbacker, had that wonderful East Coast accent; soft and lyrical, but strong. He always sounded intelligent and thoughtful.
That’s because he was.
Enough.
‘Have there been any ricin attacks yet in your neck of the woods?’ She asked.
‘I’m sorry to say, yes. West Coast. California and Washington State. Five cases. We have no idea what the size of the problem is, yet. The FBI are expecting a deluge. It’s all over the news. People are going crazy here.’
Likewise.
But she guessed that’s probably not why he phoned. There was something else.
‘But that’s not why you phoned?’
‘No. We have intel pointing to a possible assassination attempt on our VP.’
Jane didn’t reply immediately. The Vice President was visiting the UK later today to discuss the President’s abandonment of the 1987 INF Nuclear Weapons Treaty with the Prime Minister. Was the DD’s intelligence and The Service’s threat assessment one of the same thing?
It’s possible?
‘The VP’s coming here today.’
‘Correct.’
‘Does your intelligence point to an attack on foreign soil?’
‘Not explicitly. Nor does it necessarily point to the VP. But the indications are strong.’
‘We have a Gold; Imminent; major public figure, threat from MI5. It could be one of the same?’
The Deputy Director didn’t reply straight away.
‘That’s odd,’ he said after a couple of seconds.
‘It is. But why do you say that?’ Jane asked.
‘Isn’t it just a bit too obvious? Both of us getting the same intel at the same time.’
Jane’s concentration was momentarily broken. Claire had come into the office carrying a mug of coffee. Jane smiled and nodded her approval.
‘Wait, Linden, please.’ Jane took the phone away from her face.
‘Thanks, Claire. Can you get the whole team together as soon as they are in, please? And then come and get me?’
Claire placed the mug on Jane’s desk.
‘Sure.’ And then she was off.
Jane re-engaged Linden.
‘Since the ferry attack, and after the brief hiatus, everything seems to have been a bit of a rush. The ricin letters seem loosely organised and haphazard. And you can’t pull off a successful attack on a senior political target without a great deal of planning.’
‘No. And the VP’s visit is pretty impromptu. The President only announced his plan to drop the treaty three days ago. There can’t have been enough time to plan anything?’
‘What are they playing at?’
‘I don’t know, Jane. I really don’t.’
Villa San Francesco, Serrastretta, Calabria, Italy
Sam’s plan was straightforward and not without risk. Assuming Giorgio went ahead with the wedding, and she was reasonably sure that would happen no matter what he’d said last night, she would stay away from the chapel during the service and see if she could find something incriminating in Andrea Placido’s study. If nothing came from that, and supposing she hadn’t been smothered by a couple of Italian thugs and thrown in the cellar, she’d confront Giorgio’s father. Face to face. Have it out.
Light the blue touch paper …
It was, as were most of her plans, ambitious and designed without a great deal of rigour. But she reckoned that the last thing Andrea Placido would want to do on his son’s wedding day was make a huge scene. So she’d ask a few questions, like, ‘Why did you sell Viktor Molnár a villa for one euro? And what have you asked for in return?’, and, ‘What do you know about four Eritrean terrorists entering Italy from Tunis via Gioia Tauro, a container port you run, albeit illicitly?’.
That should be enough to get a reaction … and for her to get thrown off the premises. Or worse.
The ceremony was planned for 11.00 am; about an hour and a half’s time. She’d not seen either Gareth or Giorgio at breakfast - they were clearly late risers - and so she’d taken herself outside into the beautiful grounds that were being gently bathed in late autumn, Italian sunshine.
The preparations for the wedding had taken on a whole new dimension since last night. Florists and caterers mingled with family and newly arriving guests. Suits were the order of the day and some of the wives/girlfriends looked gorgeous in their pastel dresses and matching hats. The marquee, which she hadn’t been able to appreciate in the dark last night, was something out of the early pages of Hello magazine. She didn’t know if she were breaking protocol as she wandered in and around the marquee, popping into the other smaller tents and poking around the cocktail bar and ice cream stand at the swimming pool - ‘soaking up the indulgence’. Sam thought there were a lot of flowers inside the house. Outside there was a nursery’s worth.
The marquee poles were wrapped in gold and pine-green ribbon and further decorated with hanging baskets of yellow and cream. Each table (Sam had counted: there was seating for 180 guests) had its own floral table centre, heavy solid silver cutlery, and white porcelain china. In remembrance of her mum she lifted a plate and checked the label: Villeroy & Boch; gold and green rimmed with a small bowl of fruit motif in the centre of each plate. Perfect for an autumn reception.
At one end of the marquee was a dance floor, a ‘top-table’, which was even more lavishly decorated than those in the not quite so expensive seats, and a five-tiered wedding cake that must have taken a shortening of pastry chefs to bake. Sam wasn’t sure if that was the right collective noun, but it work for her.
She stopped by one of the tables and picked up a programme. The white card was tastefully decorated, the letters proclaiming the marriage of Giorgio Placido to Sofia Pacelli embossed in gold. Inside was in Italian; much of what she scanned was a guess. There was a page dedicated to a nine-course menu - the word pasta required no translation, a programme of events, and, at the back, a list of … she ran her eyes over three pages … 177 names. She found hers: Miss Green, in English.
How?
Reprinting the programmes overnight with her name included must have cost a shed-load of cash and given the printers palpitations. Unless they were psychic?
She put the programme on the table and straightened her back. Her stomach was niggling, she guessed after the fall from the branch in Villa Feradina. And the make-do stitching in her leg was pulling with an associated pain. But at least her face was no longer telling her off. The bruising wasn’t completely gone so she did look a little like she’d come off the set of Halloween. But, thankfully, the pain was negligible providing she didn’t poke it.
In daylight the outside of house looked as fabulous as the inside; red and purple bougainvillea contrasting with the white render. It was a fairy tale setting, made more colourful by the guests who were continuing to arrive. The last wedding Sam had attended was Uncle Pete’s daughter’s. She and her fiancé were married in the local registry office and they all celebrated with a slap up meal at the local Toby Carvery. Sam fondly remembered the oversized Yorkshire puddings.
Money wasn’t an issue here. This wedding was almost certainly being unobligingly financed by Calabria’s shopkeepers, and most of Italy’s addicts. Uncle Pete’s kid and her bloke paid for their meagre reception on his mechanic’s and her teaching assistant’s salary.
Chalk and cheese.
Off to one side, close to the house, was a long, white-cloth covered table. It was attended by a couple of attractive female baristas. They were all in black and white with blouses that could do with a button fastened. They all had great teeth and were all armed with a smile as wide as their ears. And they were serving coffee and pastries, which, having finished breakfast a couple of hours ago, seemed to Sam like a remarkably good idea.
There was a small queue, which she joined. The guests were typically Italian, tanned and immaculately dressed, with pleat-edges and trouser creases that would cut your hand. She was taller than most of them, both the men and the women. They were of a mould ...
… except one.
At the end of the long table was a paler, tall man wearing an expensive cream suit complemented by tan and cream brogues; peeking out from the suit’s top pocket was a pink and white polka dot silk hanky. He wore a girl-pink shirt, with the collar cut back and double cuffs that stuck out of the suit’s sleeves by just the right amount. She couldn’t make out the cufflinks from this distance. To finish off, he wore a red, green and cream paisley tie. If he hadn’t been attending a lavish wedding in Calabria he would not have looked out of place at a classy restaurant in Havana, or wandering down the boardwalk along Ocean Drive.
Sam reckoned he was northern European; possibly British. He had Sting’s angular features and wispy, blonde hair. She reckoned he was six-two and was a slight, maybe 80 kilogrammes. And early forties.
Rich, well dressed and attractive.
All in all, a bit of a catch. She glanced down at her recent red dress purchase and removed a speck of imaginary dust from just above her left boob - and she ran her tongue over her teeth.
Stop it.
Not wholly for childbearing reasons, she couldn’t keep her eyes off … Charlie. That was a good name for him, if he were English. Charlie Faversham.
He was … different.
What was it?
He was confident, for sure; it oozed out of him as he stood by the pastries - completely at ease with the opulence of his surroundings.
Particular?
Yes.
It was the way he was going about choosing whether or not to take a small, delicate pain au chocolat, or a cream-filled puff pastry delight that was decorated with a tantalising touch of red conserve - which was screaming to be licked. Coffee in one hand, he used his other to point delicately at his choices.
Very particular.
He wasn’t picking up each pastry and checking it, but he was studying them, head on one side. To Sam, it looked like quite a complex decision-making process.
Then he said something to himself, and smiled … another worldly, sardonic smile? As though he’d selected a villain from a police line-up. He chose the puff pastry, lifting it to his mouth before stopping short of taking a bite. The movement was almost theatrical.
He’d noticed something.
What?
Next to the array of cakes were a stack of small plates, a line of cake forks and napkins. He moved to his left a touch so that he was standing directly in front of the cutlery. He looked quizzically at the forks, and then his bottom lip protruded slightly.
Sam’s view was momentarily blocked by an Italian couple. She was so entranced by Charlie she’d stepped out of line so she could watch the scene unfold.
He’d put his coffee down and, with his now free hand, was moving the handles of a couple of forks so that they were perfectly in line. He stood back and checked his handy work. No, that wasn’t good enough. He moved another. But then his whole world was sent into a spiral as another guest helped himself to a plate and a fork, knocking a couple of others out of place. Sam sensed Charlie’s body tense as the forks were nudged by the man. He grimaced, shook his head in small movements, snatched his coffee and briskly walked off.
‘Signora, del caffè?’
Sam’s concentration was broken. She smiled at the young woman with the cleavage, who was holding a silver coffee pot.
‘Sì, grazie’.
As she waited for it to be poured, she checked on Charlie. He was now standing by a dinner table. He had the programme in his hand and was reading it intently.
Sam helped herself to a pain au chocolat and quickly pulled herself away from the forks for fear that she might spend the next half an hour finishing the job Charlie had started.
Enough.
The pain au chocolat was gone in a single mouthful and, with coffee in hand, she made her way across a short piece of lawn, between a gap in a flower bed and onto the gravel path that surrounded the house. Her new black flatties, which were already rubbing, scrunched on the small pebbles all the way to the last window of the bottom floor.
The man’s study.
Sam nonchalantly stared out across the spectacle that was the wedding, sipping her coffee. And just as nonchalantly she turned her head towards the study window.
What the …?
The study was busy. And it wasn’t a nice busy.
Giorgio and his father were having a very animated conversation across the massive desk that dominated the room. The windows were well insulated - she couldn’t hear a word - but it was clear Giorgio’s father was not happy. There was pointing and banging on the table. Giorgio was shaking his head, he turned, and then turned back again. He said something that looked like a shout, and that stopped his father in his tracks.
His father regained his composure, stood to full height and then …
‘Sam, Sam!’
It was Gareth’s voice off to her right, getting louder as he galloped towards her.
And to his right, looking on?
Charlie. With an open wedding programme in hand. And an intense expression.
She dismissed him.
‘What?’
Gareth was on her now, slightly out of breath.
‘Giorgio’s in with his dad. The door’s slightly ajar. There’s a helluva argument. I’m really worried. You’ve got to come!’
Gareth had taken Sam’s hand and was dragging her towards the doors in the centre of the house. Sam spilt her coffee, it missed her dress but splashed her shoes.
Shit.
The pair of them dodged Charlie, who had his mouth open in a scowl as if he were about to say something, but they had passed him before he had chance.
Sam was now jogging to keep up with Gareth.
Left and left again. Into the house. It flashed by. Wooden parquet flooring, with a red woollen runner. A semi-circular walnut table with its diameter lying flat against the wall - adorned with silver picture frames. A beautiful impressionist painting. It looked old; could well be early last century. Original. Expensive.
Then the study door. Which was, as Gareth had promised, slightly ajar.
Two men screaming. An old and a young voice. It was another language to Sam.
Gareth poked his head round the door; a lover anxious for his love.
This wasn’t her fight. Sam felt like a carrot in a fruit salad.
His head was back out now; red faced.
‘He’s just slapped him! His dad’s gone mad! I’m going in!’ A shout delivered as a whisper.
Sam tried to stop him, but it was half-hearted. The cavalry had charged. Tunics and lances. It was probably for the best. He was in, the door still half-closed.
It was her turn to listen. She moved to the gap, but didn’t enter the fray.
‘Chi è questo?’ The older voice.
‘Il mio amante, Gareth, lui è Inglese.’ The younger voice.
‘Tu! … Te l'avevo detto!’ Older, again - a shout.
Then quiet – the stillness laced with anticipation. Anger and desperation seeped out through the gap between the door and frame.
There was shuffling, a drawer opening, and then absolute silence. Broken by ...
‘No, padre!’ A scream. Giorgio - despair now, not anger.
Nothing.
Sam felt the tension. Sensed the heartbeats.
‘Per favore, per favore, padre!’ The plea was almost impossible to hear. Giorgio’s words mixing with tears.
She’d had enough. An adult was needed in the room.
Sam pushed the door wide open with her foot just as Giorgio’s father pulled the trigger of the M9A3 Beretta. This noise of the 9mm round leaving the grey barrel was deadened by a silver silencer; but the noise was still as loud as someone dropping a tray of rocks onto the wooden floor. Sam had always thought that ‘silencer’ definitely broke the trades’ description act.
Gareth’s body, which was half-turning away from the shot, arched backwards as the round hit him in the rib cage, the back of his suit jacket flicking high as the exiting bullet tore a hole through the material. His feet briefly lifted off the ground before his body collapsed to the floor. Both she and Giorgio screamed at the same time. Giorgio’s was a high-pitched wail of unknown origin; Sam’s an extended, ‘Nooo!’.
She was about to rush forward into the melee to do something that had yet to form as an idea in her brain, when she was stopped abruptly by a grabbing hand.
Caught off balance, she turned her head.
You!?
It was Charlie. He had hold of her arm and was pulling her away from the door.
‘You don’t want to go in there, Sam. It’s not your business, is it?’
What? Who the …?
She looked back to the room. Gareth was a crumpled suit on the floor. Giorgio had his head in his hands, caught between screaming out his grief and dropping to his knees.
Andrea Placido was stood pistol in hand. His red face scrunched in anger, his eyes betraying his guilt.
A second later Sam was now a metre from the study door and being dragged back towards the exit to the garden.
But they didn’t make it that far. Charlie opened a new door on the left. He launched her into the room, but held her arm tight - she lost her footing and was about to fall when he stopped her from toppling over. She caught a glance at those immaculate pink cuffs - emerging from the cream suit. Cufflinks. Gold with enamel inlay. A multi-petalled white flower, with a yellow centre. Almost too small to make out.
On the Back Foot to Hell Page 29