“I want this man in our care,” Solomon said firmly. “This is imperative.”
* * *
Marc was alone in the train compartment for the first time since he had boarded, the other passengers—a pair of animated Austrians—having disembarked the moment the carriage had halted, eager to get some holiday snapshots.
Outside the window, an identical coach blocked any other view. The train from Palermo had been stacked, one line of wagons arranged next to another, inside the belly of the ferryboat that was now crossing the Straights of Messina toward Naples.
Within the hour, Marc would be on the main line to Rome, traveling under the alias of Marcus Dale, a spotless Canadian snap cover that had never been used before.
The German identity Marc had used in Sicily was gone, ashes in a corner of the unfinished apartment complex. Destroying it had been the last thing he did after coming to rest there. His escape from Etna had been touch and go, but an empty seat on a tourist coach had been enough to get him away in the confusion. Cleaned up as best he could, Marc recovered the daypack with his laptop and the rest of the gear, and bolted. And now he was on the move again, he had no clear picture of what to do next.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to have gone. Marc’s plan was in tatters. He’d seen it playing out a whole different way. Finding Novakovich, getting the information he needed on the turncoat at MI6. Sneaking back into the UK, coming in from the cold with all he needed to clear his name and put the loss of Nomad to rest. He felt like an idiot, like he was cursed. With every day he was away, the chances of him ever coming home were receding into the distance.
This is how they’re going to get me, he thought. They’ll keep the pressure on and keep coming, cut off every escape route until I have nowhere left to run.
His options were narrowing, and if he knew that, then the people who wanted him dead knew it too. The moment was coming—and it would be very soon—where Marc would have to risk his liberty on one last gamble, or run for his life and never stop.
He scowled at the thought and looked down at the screen. The computer seemed to take forever to boot up, and he drummed his fingertips on the edge of the keyboard. It was running slow, and he wondered if the cause was the volume of data his counter-crypto software had gathered from Novakovich’s hard drive.
His attempts to make a “ghost” copy of the drive—to essentially clone the whole thing—had been doomed to failure. Perhaps, if time hadn’t been against him, if he’d had access to the kit back at the OpTeam data lab at Vauxhall Cross, there might have been something he could have retrieved.
But whatever secrets the broker had been protecting were lost, traded away for the lives of Kate and her family. Instead, all he had were layers of redundant data, the remnants of buffer files and digital tags left behind by the movements of the actual encoded information. Less sensitive than Novakovich’s precious files, this data was the equivalent of the wake left behind by the passing of a ship, or the footprints of a long-gone animal. Just vague indicators as to where the electronic communications had gone, devoid of any useful content.
He recognized some of the code fragments. They corresponded with encryption patterns used by the secure email servers at MI6. On their own, these were nothing but circumstantial evidence, phantoms of proof that wouldn’t hold up in any court of law. But they were enough for him, confirmation of what he now believed was true.
Information had been delivered from an unknown source inside British Intelligence to Combine assets elsewhere in the world, and Dima Novakovich had been paid handsomely to be the middleman. At least, up until the point when it was cheaper to buy his silence with lead instead of gold. But without evidence of what intelligence had been sold and more importantly, who had leaked it, Marc was nowhere. At best, he had enough to throw suspicion on the deaths of the Nomad team and force MI6 into a mole hunt. It was not enough to absolve him of any guilt, and turning it in now would only give the Combine’s source the opportunity to cut and run. By the time anyone managed to reconstruct the origins of the communications and track down which user had sent them, the person responsible for Sam’s death would be gone.
Marc watched the columns of abstract numbers and letters drift down the screen in a digital waterfall. This would only work if he could do it himself. If it was possible to gain access to a secure MI6 server and drill down into the communications records … Then even if the Combine source had used blinds or shell processes, it was possible Marc could reconstruct at least part of the emails to see what Novakovich had so carefully protected.
But it was a pointless exercise to even consider it. Wary of the regular covert cyber-attacks from Chinese and North Korean hacker-ops units, the network for the British intelligence ministries was entirely stand-alone, isolated from the global internet to prevent intrusion. Short of finding a way to reprogram one of the deep net’s impossibly complex orbital satellite relays from the ground, the only other method to connect would require Marc to physically be in the same room with a secure MI6 terminal. And to do that, he would have to gain entry to a building filled with people who would all be on the lookout for him, some of whom might want him dead.
His gut tightened as an audacious and utterly insane thought came together. Marc actually let out a nervous laugh at the idea of it. The train would be in Rome by late afternoon. He would have to work quickly.
One last gamble, he thought. All or nothing.
FIFTEEN
Callum Torrance crossed the lobby of the St. Regis, his jaw set and his pace quick. One of the hotel’s porters stepped out of his way with a curt scusi but Torrance ignored him. He didn’t really see staff in the way that he saw other people; they were movable appliances that brought him what he needed when he needed it, and that tended to be the start and finish of his interactions with them. Unless they had done something to piss him off; then, they became very visible, if only so he understood where to direct his sense of entitlement.
He looked around to orient himself and found the reception, scanning the atrium as he walked. Like anyone who had come up through the ranks in Hollywood, he had developed the ability to sift a room for faces and dismiss anyone who wasn’t in the business, or at least in the orbit of what he considered important. He registered that there was no one he knew sitting in the lobby, and, more importantly, there was no one who looked like paparazzi. The last thing the shoot needed right now was more negative publicity.
Callum’s gaze dwelled briefly on a light-haired guy, dressed in an unimpressive suit. He was absorbed in a laptop, but he didn’t have a camera, so Callum had forgotten his face in the time it took to walk to the front desk.
He picked a receptionist and talked at her. “What the hell is so important that I have to come down here?” He demanded. “Can’t you people send a messenger?” He pulled at the collar of his shirt and grimaced. Rome’s sultry evening heat made him sweaty and irritable.
“Mister Torrance,” the receptionist said smoothly, “please accept our apologies.” She knew exactly who he was. Callum’s studio paid a sizeable stipend to the St. Regis to hold rooms for their top people during the European shooting schedule. “Sir, the message was from a Mister Black? He expressed a desire for discretion.” She offered him a note.
Callum’s face drained of color. It would not be an exaggeration to say that Harlan Black was one of the more turbulent film directors Torrance’s studio had ever worked with. His last film had brought home a truckload of award gold, but he was a perfectionist and the erotic period drama they were filming out at Cinecittà was already falling into serious budget overruns.
Black’s message was exactly what he had been dreading. Filming suspended, it said. Creative differences. Car coming for you. Callum could hear the sound of his plans for the evening disintegrating around him like peals of breaking glass, and he shot a look at the Patek Philippe on his wrist. Tonight was when they were supposed to get the last night shots in the can.
“Where’s the car?”
he said, in a dead voice.
The receptionist gestured with a perfectly manicured hand. “Your driver is waiting outside, Mister Torrance.” He stalked away. “Have a nice day,” she said to his back, never once showing any sign of registering his rudeness.
Blinking at the low sun, Callum climbed into the town car, cursing under his breath.
* * *
Looking across the top of his screen, Marc waited until he saw the car move off. The clock was running.
He stood, tucking the laptop under one arm, and extended the carry handle on the new Pullman case he had purchased at the railway station. In a moment, he was across the hall and approaching the elevators, mentally ticking off the time.
The density of Rome’s evening traffic and the distance to the Cinecittà studios outside town meant that Callum Torrance’s journey would last somewhere between twenty-five and thirty minutes. Add another ten or twenty to that for the producer to get out to the back lot … Marc estimated that it would be forty minutes before Torrance would discover that he’d been sent on a fool’s errand. It was Marc who had called the front desk pretending to be Harlan Black’s assistant, dictating the false message, Marc who had called Cinecittà’s usual car service and told them that Torrance wanted a pickup at his hotel.
He waited until he had one of the elegant wrought-iron elevators to himself, and tapped the button for the executive suites. As he rose, Marc flipped open the laptop, quickly connecting the computer to a cable which ended in a blank smartcard. A progress bar filled as the laptop transferred data to a programmable radio-frequency ID chip in the card. The chip was the same as those embedded in the smartcards used by the St. Regis as room keys. It had been easy for Marc to use a wi-fi reader to pinpoint the key card in Torrance’s pocket. In a fraction of a second, MI6-issue ripping software sent a radio “ping” to the key, spoofing it into thinking it was talking to the door mechanism. The key responded with the lock code, the laptop copied it, and now Marc had unfettered access to Torrance’s hotel room.
He exited smartly, passing down the corridor to the Ambassador Suite. The ersatz key worked perfectly and he entered, closing the door quietly. Inside, Marc sagged back against the door and took several deep breaths. The linen shirt beneath the sandy-colored jacket he wore was suddenly sticking to his chest.
Leaving the case so it blocked the door, he stalked into the suite, drawing the Glock but keeping it out of sight. Marc had gambled on Torrance being here by himself, and it looked like he was right. The one other variable that could derail Marc’s plans was Torrance himself. If he changed his mind and came back to the hotel, if he used his cell phone to call the studio during the car journey …
Marc caught sight of a black rectangle of glass—Torrance’s iPhone—lying forgotten on the bedside table and smiled in relief. One less thing to worry about, he thought.
Satisfied the room was secure, Marc locked himself in and set to work. Recovering the Pullman case, he dumped it on the sofa in the living room and tore it open, checking his daypack and the rest of the contents before going through Torrance’s wardrobe. The producer was a little broader across the chest than Marc, but they were a close enough match that he could fit into one of the Armani suits hanging there.
He looked at his watch as he changed clothes. Fifteen minutes elapsed.
The suite was easily six times the size of the dingy little room where Marc had spent his first two days in Rome. The shabby hostel in a backstreet off the Satzione Termini was cheap, commonplace and the grim-faced old woman who ran it spoke no English and asked no questions. Living off supermarket pasta cooked on a tiny hot plate and biding his time, Marc’s plan had slowly come together.
To get access to an MI6 terminal meant getting into a building in Rome belonging to the British government, and that was a short list. OpTeam safe houses were out of the question, which left him with just one single—and highly secure—location; the British Embassy on the Via XX Settembre.
To find a way in, he backtracked. Torrance’s studio was a patron of European art, including the exhibition that was opening later this evening in the grounds of the Embassy, before an exclusive guest list of the city’s best and brightest. It didn’t take long for Marc to discover that Torrance’s latest film was in choppy waters, and a trawl of entertainment gossip websites provided the names of the players in the producer’s current drama. From there, it was just a question of building a convincing series of reasons for the man to be out of his hotel room.
If Marc Dane could hijack Callum Torrance’s life for the next hour or so, he could get to what he wanted.
It was his final roll of the dice. The last of the cash he had left had gone to pay for a passable suit and haircut that had allowed him to walk unchallenged into the lobby of the St. Regis, along with some NATO Meal-Ready-to-Eat packs from an army surplus store and a mix of materials from a gardening supplier.
He’d ditched the hostel that morning, skipping out to avoid the concierge, leaving a mess of paper cups, plastic spoons and a chemical odor lingering in the tiny, unventilated room. At the bottom of the Pullman case were a dozen polythene carrier bags, each wrapped into a clump the size of his fist.
Marc hacked the electronic lock of the suite’s digital safe with the same method he’d used on the door, helping himself to a wad of cash in dollars and euros, but most importantly locating Torrance’s all-important invitation.
Thirty minutes now. That was the zero line, the maximum Marc was willing to allow his carefully engineered break-in to last. He checked the contents of the Pullman one more time, stuffing his clothes inside, then left. Marc had left traces of himself all over the suite, and it went against the grain to leave without cleaning up. But if this went to plan, it wouldn’t matter.
The elevator deposited him in the hotel’s basement car park and Marc handed a valet a couple of notes and a ticket stub he’d found in the producer’s jacket.
The hefty tip was enough for the valet not to question the identity of the man claiming Torrance’s car. A moment later the concrete walls of the parking garage echoed to the snarl of a highly tuned engine, and a canary-yellow Ferrari 458 Spider rolled to a halt in front of Marc.
Despite the tension of the moment, and the very real danger he was in, it was all Marc could do not to cast his eyes over the sleek sports car and break into a grin. He slid in behind the wheel, throwing the Pullman into the passenger footwell. Taking a breath, he put the Spider into gear and eased it away from the curb. The car responded smoothly, propelling him on to the street with a mutter of revs.
In the hostel, Marc had memorized the route as he alternated between mixing small batches of chemicals and watching the door. Now, pressed against the leather upholstery of the Ferrari in a suit that was worth a year’s rent on his London flat, that moment seemed like it had happened in a different world.
I could take this and just go, Marc thought. Find my way to the motorway and put my foot down … The sudden presence of that temptation alarmed him. He was so tired, and he badly wanted to be free of all this.
He scowled, shaking those thoughts away. “Too late for that now,” he said aloud, catching sight of his own eyes in the rear-view mirror. “You had that chance, mate.”
* * *
The British Embassy had the kind of late Sixties modernist design that would have made it look at home in some dystopian science fiction movie. Poured gray concrete formed a rectangular outline that stood off the ground on thick pillars. Beneath it, shimmering pools fed by fountains glittered in the fading light and the grassy lawns surrounding them were populated by a temporary installation of lights and statues. In ranks that went back and forth across the embassy plaza, stages had been set up to display paintings and other works to the milling attendees.
Torrance’s invite got Marc through the gate and allowed him to take the Spider into the embassy’s small parking lot, shrouded by a line of trees from the main building.
At the last moment, just before he had tu
rned up the drive, a black sports utility vehicle had filled the rear-view, emerging from the tailing traffic like a tank cresting a hilltop. Had the vehicle been following him all the way from the hotel? He didn’t think so. The SUV passed in a grumble of engine noise and he exhaled. There were enough real threats to watch for without inviting more.
Leaving the Spider parked nose-out and unlocked, Marc slipped out, moving low and quick between the other parked cars, making preparations for the next phase of his solo mission. Again, he peered at the Cabot dive watch on his wrist. “Twenty minutes?” he asked the air. “Hope that’s enough.”
A metal detector at the entrance let him enter without complaint. The Glock was in the car where he had left it, and Marc felt vulnerable without the pistol on him. He hadn’t been without a weapon to hand since fleeing London.
The cream of Rome’s rich list were already at the gathering, indulging themselves. Marc moved through knots of chatting, laughing people, most speaking in animated Italian and a few in more sedate English. A server with a tray of elegantly prepared fish canapés passed him, and with a start, Marc realized that he was hungry. Taking a glass of wine to blend in, he trailed after the waiter and helped himself to a few bites.
He paused before a complex piece of modern art and used it to cover his examination of the plaza. Security was everywhere. He recognized the regulation cut of jacket and trousers that characterized the diplomatic protection detail. Were they on alert because of him? It was likely. It would only be a matter of time before one of them got a good look at his face, and then his thin cover would be blown. But no one would want to create a scene here, of course. Not tonight, with civilians everywhere and the British reputation on the line. They would come discreetly, with threats that were quiet but no less serious.
Embassy staff weren’t the only muscle here, either. Marc spotted groups of personal bodyguards orbiting close to their principals.
One of the security officers, a severe woman in a black pantsuit, turned in his direction and studied him for a little longer than he was comfortable with. Marc moved away, quicker than he should, without watching where he was going. He bumped into one of the bodyguards he had seen earlier, gaining a cold-eyed glare in return. The man had the build of a wrestler, and he seemed as if the expensive jacket he wore was only barely keeping him confined. The inky blue nubs of tattoos poked up over the collar of his shirt. Marc knew the icons of the bratva when he saw them.
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