Inside his home compound, Frederik felt protected, safe. He could not stay cooped up, however, nor could his family, and leaving the home became a minor military operation. A small motorcade made every trip, with bodyguards in the lead and rear vehicles. It was tedious, Frederik thought somewhat pretentious, but Peters would brook no arguments. Frederik also thought, it was as well his business interests around the world were making good profits, he was certainly spending those profits now, at a great rate of knots. Fortunately, providing security for key personnel, was tax deductible.
The arrangements did not go un-noticed. Bramboni moved two men and a woman into Stockholm, to permanently monitor the Sorensen home compound, and report on their comings and goings. He was searching for a chink in their protective armour, and his crew on the ground were experts at ambush and assassination. They rented a house further along the street and up the hill from the Sorensen compound, which had a view of the entrance. So far, no opportunity had presented itself.
“The house itself is not visible from any vantage point, the perimeter walls hide it, and you could not sneak in. The grounds are covered with cameras and alarms, and there is razor wire around the whole compound. There are guards in the grounds.”
“Could we blow up their car? Run into it, with a car filled with explosives?”
Matteo posed the question to Niccolo Abello, who looked at him quizzically. “And just who, exactly, did you have in mind, to drive this car?”
“Yes, well, never mind. It was just an idea. We will find a way. How about shooting up their convoy as they leave the house?”
“That may be possible, but there is no guarantee of success, and don’t forget, their cars are fortified. For all we know, they may be bulletproof. And the Swedish police are minutes away. We would have the whole police force on us before we could make an escape. I don’t think there is much point getting more people killed, to avenge Giovanni.”
Bramboni was irritated, and frustrated. Getting revenge was taking too long. He wanted to get on with it. A ray of light was shone two days later, when one of his spies, Angelo Corbacci, telephoned from Stockholm with the beginnings of an idea.
“Mr. Bramboni, that man Peters, the one you want killed, I have noticed something. Almost every afternoon, at around two o’clock, he walks around the grounds, inspecting the fences and gate, and looking at the cameras. He passes the front gate, you can see his head above the gate as he walks past. Sometimes he stops and looks up the street.”
“Yes, Angelo, so, what are you saying?”
“I am about four hundred metres away, in the house further up the hill from their compound, watching through the big telescope. I took a photo, with the camera with the long lens, and it is definitely Peters. He is exactly like the photograph you sent me. If you had someone good enough, you might get a shot at him. It’s long range, at least three hundred and fifty, maybe four hundred meters. It would take a bloody good shooter, but it might be possible.”
“Hmm. Thank you Angelo. Good work. You keep watching, and you write down the times, and dates, every time he shows up. Send to my computer, that photo you took.”
Matteo hung up the phone, and thought about what he had just been told. Yes, it just might be possible. It sounded like a difficult shot, perhaps four hundred metres? It would have to be taken quickly, as Peters passed by the gate. There would only be time for one shot, and the shooter would need to get out of the place immediately, before the police descended. It was difficult, but not impossible. It would be worth a try. If he could eliminate Peters, it would be much simpler, getting at the Sorensens. Peters was their brains when it came to defence.
He had to find a suitable shooter. There was no one in the brotherhood that good, over that distance. Most of his soldiers used hand guns, at close quarters. Bramboni phoned his brothers with the problem. Domenico Balboni made a suggestion.
“There just could be someone, Matteo, and he lives right here in Palermo. You might remember him, he won a silver medal at the Olympics, Luca Bennedetto. He is Italy’s best shot. He almost got the gold, fluffed his last shot, sneezed as he fired, got an inner in the final round, but his opponent hit the bull. Italy finished up with silver. Shall I talk to him?”
“You do that Dominic. Offer him one hundred thousand U.S. dollars for the kill. Tell him we will keep him safe.”
37
Luca Bennedetto was about to eat his evening meal after supervising his seven year old son, Antonio, washing his hands. He had just sat at the table as his wife, Sylvia, brought out the steaming plate of pasta, when a knock came to the front door. He hurried to see who had interrupted his dinner, slightly annoyed. It was probably one of those pesky charity workers wanting money. There was barely enough these days to feed his own small family, let alone give it away. Five minutes later, he returned to the table, silent.
“What is it?”
“I will tell you after dinner. It is important, but only you shall hear it.”
Sylvia was intrigued. Normally she and her husband spoke freely in front of Antonio, so for Luca to want to keep it between them, it must have been important. As soon as the meal was completed, and Antonio settled in front of his favourite programme, she pulled her husband into their bedroom.
“Okay, what was that all about?”
“Sylvia. That man, I think he must be Mafia. They want to pay me to kill a man. Shoot him. They offered me one hundred thousand U.S. dollars to do it.”
“They want what? Have you kill a man? Why you?”
“Because they know I can shoot. Among shooters in Italy, I am famous, you know that. I am the only one who has won an Olympic medal for shooting. This would not be an easy shot, he told me, several hundred yards or more, that is why they want me.”
Sylvia was horrified. “Kill someone? They want you to kill a man! That is murder.”
“Yes. My immediate reaction was to say no. I will not be a murderer. He said to think about it, and that he would be back tomorrow.”
“There is nothing to think about. The very idea, you a murderer, it is horrible. Who is this man they want you to kill?”
“He did not say, except that he is a very bad man, who has done bad things, and they want him dead. Let’s forget it happened.”
When Luca arrived home from work the next afternoon, he was met at the door by his wife.
“Where is Antonio? He went out to meet you coming home. Why is he not with you?”
“I have not seen him. Usually he waits at the bottom of the hill for me. I will go and look for him.”
He turned heel, and headed back down the hill he had just climbed. There was no one around when he got to the bottom, and no sign of his son. This was unusual. Antonio was a good boy, and he knew better than to go off, just before dinner time. His father walked around the area for several minutes, calling out ‘Antonio’ loudly, but there was no sign of his son. He was about to go back up the hill to check the house, when a large black sedan pulled in alongside him, and slowed to match his walking steps. Curious, he looked into the car, then froze in horror.
The man who had knocked on his door the night before, was seated in the back seat, and next to him, squirming, but firmly gripped in the man’s arm, was Antonio. His face was terrified. Luca lunged at the car door, but it was locked. The driver’s window lowered a few inches, and the driver snarled at him through the slit, “call the cops, and he is dead.”
The car sped off.
Luca was badly shaken. For a few moments, in shock, he couldn’t walk. Then he realised what it was about. Antonio had been kidnapped, as a way to force him to do their bidding, to shoot a man. He staggered home like a drunk man, his face white. When Sylvia saw his face, she rushed to him.
“My God, what has happened to you? Where is Antonio? What happened?”
After he had told his wife, Sylvia said, “Luca, you must go the police. They will
try and get Antonio back for us.”
Luca stared at her.
“No! No police! Didn’t you hear what I just said? If I go to the police, Antonio dies. They will kill him, I have no doubt. Sylvia, we are dealing with the Mafia. The Mafia! These are not ordinary criminals. They will not hesitate to kill our son, if I do not do what they tell me.”
“What can we do? Will they harm Antonio?”
“I don’t believe so, so long as I do as they tell me. I don’t have a choice. I am going to have to do as they ask”.
The next morning, the black sedan pulled up in front of his home, and Luca walked out, carrying a heavy wooden case. He laid it carefully on the floor of the car boot, then climbed into the rear seat. Sylvia watched from the doorway, silent, tears streaming down her face.
“What have you done with my son.”
“Who? Young Antonio? Oh, he is fine. And he will stay fine, just as long as you do as we say. Then you can have him back, all in one piece, and we will give you one hundred thousand dollars. All you have to do, is fire one shot. Just one. And make sure it hits its target.”
Luca lapsed into a sullen silence. He hadn’t been able to eat or sleep, the combined pressure of the threat to his son, and being forced to attempt to murder a man he didn’t even know, weighing heavily, and his head pounded. He was driven to a small airfield, where a large helicopter stood waiting, and the driver pointed him to board. After a short flight, the chopper landed at a much larger airfield. A small jet plane stood waiting, its engines already idling. It took off as soon as he was seated. Several hours later, although he had no idea where he was, Luca was in Sweden.
The plane landed at a private runway, where it was met by another black sedan. Luca was driven for about an hour, and eventually, the car arrived at a house, located on the side of a hill, overlooking a small valley. He was ushered inside.
“Okay Luca, this is it. Have a look through that, and tell me what you see.”
The man pointed to a telescope, mounted on a tripod, and directed through a window into the valley below. Obediently, Luca squatted next to the scope, and peered through the eyepiece. The telescope had been focused on what appeared to be a masonry wall, with a wide heavy gate, set facing the road entrance.
“Tell me what you see.”
Luca looked at the speaker, the same man who had first knocked on his door.
“A wall with a big gate in it.”
“That is your target. A man will walk behind that gate, and you will see his head. That is the man you are to shoot.”
Luca trembled. “Who is he, this man?”
“That is not important. He is a very bad man, who has done very bad things, for which he must be punished. He has killed many people. Now it is his turn. You are to make sure you do not miss.”
“But I cannot be sure. How far away is that wall?”
“How far do you think?”
“It must be hundreds of yards. If I am to be accurate, I must know the distance, to set my sights correctly.”
“Yes, we figured that. Look what I have for you.”
Domenico Balboni produced a surveyor’s range finder, which he placed on a table next to the window.
“Do you know how to use this thing?”
Luca was familiar with the equipment, he had used a similar one many times at the range to get accurate distance readings. He nodded.
“Get to it, then.”
Luca set the range finder on its stand, and looked at the settings.
“Three hundred and sixty yards.”
“Can you be sure of hitting your target at that range?”
“Hmm. It is a very long shot. It should be possible. There are variations that could affect the shot, the main one is wind. A strong wind gust can deflect a bullet by inches over that distance, even with my high velocity target rifle. If there is no wind, or little wind, it should be accurate.”
“Well, Luca, you had better be accurate. Your son’s life depends on your being accurate.”
Luca trembled at the threat.
“Why are you doing this to my son. He is a child. He is innocent. If you want to kill someone if I miss, kill me. Just return Antonio to his mother.”
“Well, Luca, we shall see. Maybe we will kill both of you, if you miss. You just be sure not to miss.”
“What is going to happen after I take the shot?”
“It’s all planned, you don’t have to worry. There will be a reaction down there, they will call the police, and probably the cops will get here pretty quickly, but we will be out of here, and on our way, back to Sicily, long before then. Our car is waiting, and we will be gone as soon as you fire. If your shot hits the target, not only will you have your precious Antonio back, but I have a little bag here, packed with American dollars, one hundred thousand of them, and that is yours to take home.”
It was blood money, dirty money, and Luca thought at first he would refuse to take it, then he thought that, perhaps, if he did refuse, he might be in more trouble with this horrible man. He would wait and see what happened.
“When do I get to shoot?”
“It is now almost midday. I expect this man to appear walking past the gate, at about two o’clock. He will be walking, not stopping, a moving target. You must be ready for him, and take him out before he gets out of sight. You will only have a second or two, so you must be ready to fire when he appears. Do you understand me?”
Luca nodded dumbly. He was about to become a murderer, if his shot went true. If not, Antonio could be killed. He turned to his wooden case which had been carried in for him, removed the target rifle from its plastic shroud, and began assembling the barrel to the stock. When the weapon was fully assembled, he drew a chair up to the window, and settled himself into position, the rifle resting on its cradle across the window frame, the barrel pointing down the hill. The rifle was fitted with a long ‘scope, and Luca peered through this, and slightly adjusted the range. He would have liked to have at least one practice shot to test his settings, but that was impossible. The gate showed up sharply in his sights.
Alongside him, and slightly behind, Balboni also settled in a chair. A digital camera, fitted with a long telephoto lens, stood on a tripod in front of his chair, directed down the valley. He, too, fiddled with the focus, and adjusted the camera settings to take video. They both settled down to wait.
38
Professor Wong, peering over the shoulder of Georgio Scarletti at the slide he was examining under the powerful microscope, made a clucking noise. To his naked eye, the slight smudge in the centre of the slide meant nothing, but he knew it was important, and he could sense the excitement in the young virologist, as he looked through the eyepiece of the ‘scope.
“What are we looking at, Georgio. Is it good?”
“Oh, yes, professor, better than good. It is exactly what we hoped for. The virus has replicated itself hundreds of times in just a few hours. If it does this in outside conditions, as it has done in the test tubes, I have no doubt we have cracked it. I tried to simulate what the virus might expect to encounter, outside. I varied the temperature in the tubes, some warmer, some colder, and also the water quality. I used clean water in some, but in others, fairly putrid water as you might expect in swamp conditions. It didn’t seem to make much difference to the virus. It did a little better in the dirty water, but even in clean water, it still went berserk.”
The laboratory had been experimenting with a slight variation to the virus they had already isolated, to try to achieve a higher rate of replication. Georgio was tasked with carrying out a variety of tests on this new strain, and he was now examining the results.
“So, it should be relatively simple to generate a sizeable quantity of the virus?”
“I can’t see why not. The only other thing, is to check it’s life cycle. So far, it keeps replicating, so there is no eviden
ce it will quickly die. I feel sure this will last a very long time. We should carry out some tests, to find out what is going to kill the virus, and whether it will come up against such things in outside conditions, but judging from the way it responded to the dirty water, I will be surprised if there is any naturally occurring chemical that will damage it.”
Wong nodded in agreement. Yes, his laboratory had indeed cracked it. Mr. Sorensen had asked for a way curb population growth, and there it was, in front of his eyes, on that glass slide under Georgio’s microscope.
Wong had toyed with a name for the virus that would undoubtably go down in history, as one of the greatest discoveries of all time. A virus that would stop life from beginning, in order to save the world from its own destruction. Future text books would no doubt divide history into pre-virus, and post virus, eras. It needed a proper name, and it would not be improper to name it after himself, after all, it was he who had masterminded the research that had lead to its development. The Wong Virus. Yes, that had a ring to it. Or maybe not. He had been ribbed over his name before, it sounded too much like the English “wrong”. Perhaps, the Lee Miu Wong virus, to give his full name to it, might be better, or was that a little too long?
For now, they referred to it as PBV, an acronym for Prevent Birth Virus. A formal name could come later. He would discuss it with Mr. Sorensen. Perhaps he might want it named after himself, the Sorensen virus, but Wong did not think that was likely. Mr. Sorensen did not promote himself, he liked to be in the background. Wong would offer some suggestions, and leave it up to Mr. Sorensen to make the decision, after all, it was his idea, and his money, that made it all happen.
Besides, there was the downside to the virus. A world without as many babies would be a different world to the present one, perhaps a sadder world, albeit a healthier one.
He would telephone Mr. Sorensen, and give him the good news. They should be ready to deploy the virus for testing within weeks. Within a year or so, the evidence should be in, and then they could look at the world and get started.
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