On the Back Foot to Hell

by Roland Ladley

  Frank called Sam’s line again.

  The second policeman was rushing to the house; he had drawn his pistol as well. Seconds later they were both round the back of the chalet.

  It rang. And rang. The ringtone got louder. And louder still.

  Uh?

  ‘Thanks, Frank.’

  He turned sharply, almost falling off his chair.

  ‘What? How?’

  Sam looked hot. And a bit sweaty.

  ‘You called me. I got out of the place. And then ran wide, down to the village, and then back down the main street.’

  She sat down. The waiter spotted her straight away. He headed over.

  ‘Chocolat chaud, s’il-vous-plait.’ She turned back to Frank. ‘We should get out of here.’

  ‘Sure. I’m ready when you are. Did you get anything?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I managed two rooms. I had to break the window of the one with the open shutter. That took me ages. It was a bedroom. Next to it was a study of sorts. There were some photos and stuff, and then you called. So I took a quick video of the place and got out. I won’t know what we have until we look over the video. We may have something, maybe not.’

  The waiter arrived with the hot chocolate. Sam paid him straight away.

  As she took a sip from her cup, Frank looked at her. She was still wearing the jacket she’d worn up the mountain. It was charred on her left shoulder. Her beanie was placed at an odd angle and her now damp auburn curls, darkened due to sweat, stuck out from the hat haphazardly. One or two strands were glued to her forehead. She also had red patches of skin from the fire but, unlike him, it made her cheeks glow. He knew she wasn’t well inside, but externally she looked in great shape, if a little beaten up. She wore a distance stare - of someone who was with you, but also somewhere else. He daren’t ask her where that was.

  She caught him looking at her.

  ‘What?’

  I want to make things right. Make you feel better.

  ‘Nothing. Just … nothing.’

  She took a final swig of her hot chocolate.

  ‘Come on. We’ve got a video to look at - and a municipal police force to evade.’

  She stood before he had chance to reply.

  From that point to the Gotthard Bahnhof he was always three steps behind her.

  Chapter 19

  ‘The Glacier Express’, between Zermatt and Täsch, Switzerland

  Sam stared out of the window of the train. Green, brown, off-white and grey trundled past. The train, a 20 minute journey and the only way in and out of ‘car-free’ Zermatt unless you took a taxi - or helicopter - snaked its way through the steep valley of pines and scree and narrow pastures. The sun was playing hide and seek behind tall mountains and towering trees which seemed to brush the train as it sped past. Without the sun’s radiance the recent snow was pale grey. Close to the train it was speckled with the black and dark brown of grime and dirt. It was a miserable outlook. Cold and closed. Restricting and regretful.

  The video from Forester’s chalet (she could call him that, just not the other ‘F’ word) had been a washout. The bedroom gave no clues at all. The study was immaculately tidy, as she would have expected. The walls were all painted white. Everything else, the furniture, the floor, doors, door frames, were all a classy, matured pine. There was a computer screen and keyboard on top of a glass-covered, ornately-carved pine desk; an expensive office chair and a full-length mirror. In one corner was a wood burner, possibly filled with fake coal and gas-fired. The only non-functional accoutrement was a large, wonderfully-detailed painting of the Matterhorn, the mountain piercing a cloudless blue sky; unlike today. She’d managed a glance up the valley as they’d circled the chalet first thing. The apex of the mountain had been smuggled away by thick cloud.

  The video told them nothing they didn’t already know. Forester was very rich. And very tidy.

  And he wasn’t at home.

  He was probably still with his Mafia friends? Or perhaps he was visiting another equatorial drug dealer; eliciting cash or plotting and planning his next conspiracy?

  What a waste of time. They’d been lured and ambushed, and almost killed. And, with a smallest of opportunities - a couple of minutes in the monster’s lair, Sam had managed to glean nothing of import. And she was shattered. What little sleep she’d had recently had been cram-packed full of things she didn’t want to think about. She was firing on a single cylinder. Her energy bath was running dry.

  Anxiety and lethargy stalked her like a jilted ex.

  They should have spoken to Jane, that’s what they should have done. Got the Embassy involved. With help of the Swiss police they’d have been able to organise a full search of the property.

  Probably.

  Possibly.

  In a week’s time.

  Next month sometime.

  More greens and browns; and greys and off-whites. The scenery wasn’t changing. It was still a tunnel of misery.

  They had no choice but to come off the mountain. They’d have to obey Jane’s original request. Pick up the Range Rover and head back to Rome. Sam had no idea what SIS was up to under the banner of ‘an operation’ Jane had mentioned, but she couldn’t see what her involvement might be. If Jane was in such desperate need to see her they could have spoken via secure video on Frank’s phone.

  She hadn’t the energy for it. She hadn’t the energy for anything.

  She caught Frank’s reflection in the window. He was sitting opposite her, a table between them. They’d had a brief chat about the video as soon as they’d sat down. Like her, he couldn’t pick anything from it. However he had insisted they forward it to Carla to run it through Cynthia’s image sharpening programme and ask her to have another look at it on a large screen. Once the email had been sent, Frank had sat back in his chair and almost immediately fallen asleep. His head was leant back, his Adam’s apple doing its own Matterhorn impression, and his mouth currently open for business.

  She imperceptibly moved her head and altered the focus of her eyes so that she lost Frank in the glass and was presented with the greens and the browns of the passing valley.

  She didn’t know what she felt about Frank. She thought maybe he had a soft spot for her? If that were the case it was too bad. It could never be reciprocated. Never? He was neither man nor woman enough for her. It wasn’t that she was attracted by physically big people, she just needed someone who would take charge every so often - allow her ... no, tell her … to shut up, sit down and switch off. Frank wouldn’t do that.

  He was too kind. Too nice.

  Even dissecting her feelings made her innards shrivel. Self-loathing wasn’t an unfamiliar sensation, but, just now, it was more powerful than those it was competing with. Anxiety was a close second, followed by an unnatural fear of failing. Failing to find Forester. Failing to meet him again. To have a confrontation. For one of them to come away elated; the other defeated. Either outcome would do for her. At least then she wouldn’t have to skulk about the place forever worried he might be watching.

  Waiting.

  Toying.

  She closed her eyes. The dull, rushing colours turned to black. The lyrical clatter-clatter of the train rolling along the track burrowed into her.

  Her anxiety grew. She became more and more tense. Her heart rate quickened. Her hands clasped together and she felt her short nails pressing into the flesh on the opposite hands. She was beginning to panic.

  What had her last therapist told her?

  Think nice thoughts. Bright, bold colours.

  Her happy, positive image.

  A beach. The first light of dawn. Her VW camper, Bertie. The sliding side door pulled back. The low, but warming sun drenching the furniture inside the van. A seabird. The splash of low-energy waves rippling along the shore …

  Frank’s phone broke the illusion. It took him a few seconds to wake, find his mobile deep in a pocket, and answer.

  The whole slow waking thing was another reason why he didn
’t stir anything in her other than the closest of friendships. It was frustrating - which she knew was her problem. And it didn’t push any of her endearing buttons.

  ‘Hi, Jane.’

  Sam only got one side of the conversation.

  ‘No, we’re in Switzerland. Just coming away from Zermatt.’

  There was a long pause from Frank whilst his face forged a serious look.

  ‘You better speak to Sam.’ He passed the phone across the table.

  She put it to her ear, but didn’t say anything. A steady ping that told her she was on a secure line was an irritation. Words were going to be difficult.

  ‘Sam?’

  She grunted in return.

  ‘You should almost be in Rome by now. Why are you still in Switzerland?’ Jane was frustrated.

  Ping.

  Sam looked out of the window. The valley was widening out. They’d be in Täsch in a couple of minutes. The sun was brightening the hillside off to her left. The rest of the valley was still a pallet of muted colours.

  ‘Sam!’

  She took a deep breath.

  Ping.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I asked you to get back here. We, that is the US with our intelligence support, have got an anti-Mafia op going down in the next 24 hours. They need everything you have on Feradina villa. And they need it now!’

  Ping.

  The last thing Sam needed now was a bollocking. Yes, she deserved one. She would have felt the same as Jane if she were in her position. More so. But Jane didn’t have all the facts. And Jane wasn’t Sam. She wasn’t being stalked by the devil.

  ‘We had a lead.’ Sam’s tone was flat. Unremarkable.

  ‘What lead?’

  Her response was short; a couple of sentences to explain the burning chalet and, although she knew she’d get another bollocking, to talk through her entry into Forester’s chalet - and the video.

  Ping.

  Jane was initially stuck for words. Her reply was soft, but not conciliatory.

  ‘If you had come to me this morning we may have been able to get the Swiss police on side and maybe they’d have done a better job?’

  Sam knew that was the textbook answer. But she also believed that Jane was wrong.

  ‘The Swiss wouldn’t have cooperated. Not without a referendum. And there’s no SIS in the country apart from us. You would have done the same as me.’

  Jane hesitated.

  Ping.

  ‘And …’, Sam continued, ‘... I have already produced a detailed 3-D map of Andrea Placido’s villa. It’s on Cynthia. Eithan will know where to find it. I can talk through any ambiguities on the phone. Who’s going in? The Unit? Avoiding any connection with AISE until the job is done?’

  ‘The Unit’ was the colloquial term for Delta Force, the US Army’s special mission organisation. It operated very much like SAS, but there was often more civilian cross-over. Sam had personal experience of them. They’d pulled her off a flat roof of a satellite control station in Venezuela just over a year ago. That was after they strafed the whole place with a thousand, half-inch rounds. She was lucky not to end up looking like the local Swiss cheese.

  ‘We don’t know yet. But, yes. The Americans want to bring this thing to a conclusion and are doing as you suggest. It’s “need to know”, so, well, you know, just you. Anyway. I need you to come back here. If nothing else we can pool resources.’

  Sam stared out of the window again. The train was slowing. The snow hadn’t made it this far down the valley. Now it was just greens and browns and greys.

  Could she leave Switzerland without knowing that Forester wasn’t in the country? Would she really be of any use in Rome alongside Jane? Was Jane calling her back just so she could keep an eye on her?

  Frank’s phone buzzed in her hand. She glanced at the screen. It was an email from Carla. The title was: Look at this.

  ‘Jane - do you know we have all of the Swiss-bloke’s details? Carla found his surname, birth certificate, where he went to school … and other stuff. We’re so close to getting him.’

  Sam had another quick glance at the phone. It was a pointless gesture. Nothing had changed. There was still an unopened email from Carla. And it was still titled: Look at this.

  ‘That’s all good stuff, Sam. But it’s the Mafia who are making this happen. You put us on to this. You know. Once they’re broken the attacks will stop.’

  I really want to look at this email.

  She glanced at Frank. He was looking at her impassively. Sam pointed to the phone and mouthed, ‘Email from Carla.’

  He perked up a bit.

  ‘OK, Jane. Got it. We’ll head back now. Got to go.’

  Sam pressed the red telephone icon. The line went dead.

  Jane didn’t get it. Forester was everything. Yes, the ‘Ndràngheta might be coordinating the attacks, but the intellectual property was with Forester. He was the centre of the wheel. He couldn’t be allowed to walk free.

  Feeling just slightly more alive, she tapped Frank’s phone and opened the email. It read:

  Frank/Sam. Better vid attached. Doesn’t help much but look at 21.5 secs. What is the paper/photo under the glass of the desk? Cynthia has done all she can. We’re working on it now.

  ‘Look here, Frank.’

  Sam put the phone on the table so they could both see it, and pressed play.

  Carla was right. The video was much sharper, but just as dull. That was until about 18 seconds: Sam’s slowmo of the desk. Forward-right of the keyboard, under the glass which covered the whole of the desktop, was a rectangular piece of paper - in portrait. It looked like an invitation, or a business card, turned on its end. The top of the card was a headshot of man?; underneath was some writing. Sam thought she recognised letters and numbers. The angle of the card and the resolution was making it difficult. She paused the clip.

  Without asking, Frank picked up the phone. He brought it to his face at eye level and then laid the phone almost flat.

  He’s changing the perspective. Clever.

  Keeping the phone almost horizontal he twisted it left and right and then passed it back to Sam at the same oblique angle.

  She looked at it, hunching her shoulders so her eyeline and the screen were one. She raised the far end, so the phone came to the vertical. And then lowered it again. It was definitely a man. Balding. Slightly tinted glasses. A red and yellow top, of unknown description.

  I have no idea.

  She had no idea who it was.

  ‘Sorry.’ She said to Frank as she passed the handset back.

  He took it and prodded and pressed the screen.

  A few seconds later he handed it back to Sam.

  The screen showed the blue and white of a Twitter profile page. The profile picture was the same man as the oblique one on Forester’s desk. But on Twitter the resolution was much better; much clearer. And instantly recognisable.

  ‘Why the bloody hell has Forester got a card on his desk with the Dalai Lama’s mugshot on it?’ Sam asked.

  Frank had his eyes closed. It was a thinking Frank.

  He opened them.

  ‘I don’t know. But I can tell you something. Along with the Pope, the Dalai Lama’s Twitter account has gone ballistic over the past month. He now has over 240 million followers, that’s up from a baseline of 20 million just six weeks ago.’

  Sam thought for a second.

  ‘Are you on Twitter?’ She asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Frank replied. ‘Although you can’t find me unless you really look for me.’

  ‘Go on.’ Sam knew he wanted to share his secret.’

  ‘My profile name is @GaryGygaxRocks.’

  Sam shook her head in bewilderment.

  ‘He’s one of the founders of Dungeons and Dragons.’ He smiled sheepishly. ‘I play a bit.’

  ‘A bit?’

  ‘Well, anyway. This may or may not be important, but I was looking over some social media research a couple of days ago. Since NT got out of control
, all major public figures, politicians etc, have lost massive numbers of followers on Twitter, Instagram and Facebook. People don’t trust them, so they don’t follow them. Now, it seems, people are getting their direction from celebrities they feel they can trust. People who seem to empathise with them. Who they resonate with. The Pope and the Dalai Lama are currently in vogue.’

  ‘Are the followers worldwide?’

  ‘I think so. Certainly the Dalai Lama’s attraction doesn’t appear to be limited by ideology; it seems to be based on global reach and trust.’

  ‘Does he travel?’ Sam was piecing together something she really didn’t want to contemplate.

  ‘Dunno.’ Frank put his hand out, asking for his phone. She gave it him back. He tapped and pressed. ‘Appears so.’ He passed the phone back to Sam.

  The page open was His Holiness The 14th Dalai Lama of Tibet’s web page. There was a photo of him planting a tree somewhere in India.

  Sam scrolled down. And a bit more. She stopped.

  Shit.

  There it was. Yelling at her.

  She looked up at Frank.

  ‘I don’t think Forester has left Switzerland.’

  British Embassy, Via Venti Settembre, Rome, Italy

  Jane and Eithan were huddled around Stewart’s desk. They were looking over a paper copy of a draft US instruction titled Operation CAPONE. It had been couriered to the Embassy half an hour ago from the CIA’s Rome office. Whilst the US could guarantee their national e-security between Rome, Washington and Fort Bragg, they couldn’t trust their links with SIS. Not when the operation was as sensitive as this.

  The paper was short on detail. With SIS help the CIA had identified 15 HVTs in Calabria and Sicily, and six locations. A number of the targets and locations had been under GCHQ scrutiny over the last five days and the collective view was if the operation managed to capture and arrest at least 10 of the HVTs and destroy the six locations, then the ‘Ndràngheta would be deemed ineffective. Those arrested would be extradited immediately, which was a euphemism for sticking a bag over their heads, throwing them in the back of a Black Hawk and dropping them on one of the US Navy’s Sixth Fleet’s Arleigh Burke Class Destroyers in the Med. Further immediate interrogation might well identify some additional HVTs. Phase Two of the op was a second wave of arrests asap after the first.