But she wasn’t there to luxuriate.
She found Renate and Rolf breakfasting on the terrace under a milky sky.
Laura joined them and poured herself some coffee.
“If you’re interested,” Renate said, “Paolo’s making omelets.”
“Coffee’s fine for now. I wanted to ask about communications. If you’re right, mine aren’t secure.”
“You were having your calls forwarded through three cell numbers,” she replied. She nodded to Rolf, who reached into a pocket, pulled out a phone, and handed it to her. “We use five, and encrypted VOI links.”
“Thank you.” She examined the phone. “Is it safe for me to call Richard Bird?”
“I wouldn’t recommend it. There’s no guarantee of security at his end.”
Laura glanced at the house. “What time did Scott leave?”
“Six this morning. He didn’t want me to wake you.”
“Why?”
“I think he’s … how do you say … conflicted.”
Laura took a breath. “It’s understandable. He just risked his career for me. That must be why he was so quiet last night. He’s got to be worrying … if I’m caught, even if I’m finally cleared of charges, if I ever let it slip that he helped me, his life will be ruined.”
“I don’t think that’s the only thing he’s conflicted about.”
“What do you mean?”
“For such a smart woman, you’re a bit blind.”
Paolo appeared from the house carrying omelet-laden plates.
“Something for you, signorina?” he asked Laura.
She answered him in Italian. “No, thank you, Paolo. Maybe I’ll have some toast a bit later.”
“Va bene.”
She turned back to Renate. “Are you just giving me a hideout here, or do you have something more in mind?”
“We didn’t go to all this trouble just to walk away.”
“In that case, we need to find Conrad Nelthorp before the feds do. Your people could help.”
“We can’t involve our full unit directly. That would require too much explaining. Rolf is here as a volunteer. Paolo works for AISE, the Italian intelligence agency. He was posted in the Balkans, but they lent him to us because they owe Rolf a favor.”
“So this isn’t a U.N. operation at all.”
“Let’s just say the SG told me he wouldn’t stand in our way, but he will deny all knowledge if anything goes wrong.”
“What if everything goes right?”
“He’ll still deny.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“We have certain facilities. We’re monitoring Interpol. I’ve programmed an alarm in my phone that will tell us if Nelthorp is located. But the FBI will be notified at the same time. With our limited manpower, it will be impossible to get out in front unless we can find him before the police do.”
“Have there been any leads at all?” Laura asked. “Any alerts? Any tripwires?”
“Nothing.”
“He can’t be traveling under his own name.”
“That’s right, and that’s a problem.”
Laura was thoughtful. “Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dominic Lanza. You told him where I was staying. You arranged for Scott to walk me straight into that room. You knew we would be safe. You know more about him than you’re letting on.”
“You’re very perceptive. The U.N. has a file on Mr. Lanza. Twice in the past forty years he has supplied information to the Italian police that helped them break up illegal mining operations that were being run by criminal gangs. Gangs that were using child labor.”
“Rival criminal gangs? Like the Mazzaras.”
“The first time, yes. But not the second time. He’d learned that children were being exploited in an underground mine in the Madonie Mountains and he took the information personally to the commandant of the Carabinieri in Palermo. When I called him a few days ago, he already knew he’d been implicated in a baby-laundering investigation. Remember … his cousin had called him in February. I could tell from his reaction that he wouldn’t harm you—that he just wanted to set you straight.”
“Okay. That all fits. But my point is that he also admitted he was behind the auto parts shipments.”
“He did?”
“Yes. And that Nelthorp was his partner in that business. So, now that he knows Nelthorp was also involved in the baby trade—”
“—he might tell us if he had another identity.”
“Right.”
“Even if he does, it won’t help us if Nelthorp’s carrying an EU passport and he’s still in the Schengen area. That would give him access to twenty-six countries without border inspection.”
“He’d still have to produce a passport to rent a room,” Rolf pointed out.
“That would take days to check.”
“If he has a passport in any name,” Laura said, “it will be American.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He told me English was all he needed in Europe. I don’t think he’s fluent in any another language.”
“It’s worth a try.” As if on an unspoken signal, Renate and Rolf both stood up, left their omelets, and went into the house.
Moments later, Paolo joined Laura, carrying his own omelet. He scanned the unfinished food on the table. He looked aggrieved. “No respect for good food,” he muttered in Italian.
Laura watched him eat for a few minutes. Then, keeping it going in Italian, she said, “Renate says you’re here because your agency owes Rolf a favor.”
He shrugged. “Or because he loves Italian cooking.” There was a slight edge in his voice.
“What did he do for them?”
Long silence, then: “Them, and me.” He took a few more bites of his omelet. “We were security. At the World Figure Skating Championships. I was there with the Italian team; Rolf was in charge of the squad from Finland. One of the Italian skaters was the favorite for the women’s singles title. The SIS found out some Russians were planning to attack her. Rolf came to warn me.”
“That sounds like—”
“—that thing with those two American skaters, back in the nineties. Yes, but this was worse. There were three Russian agents. They were going to break her legs. Rolf stopped them.”
“How?”
“He made them disappear.”
“Alone?”
“I went as backup, but he took care of it.”
“I’ve never heard about this.”
“Our governments kept it quiet.”
He returned to his breakfast.
Soon after, Rolf and Renate were back.
“William Stockton,” Renate announced calmly. “We think he’s probably in Switzerland. A United States citizen named William John Stockton landed at Charles de Gaulle eight days ago. He arrived on a flight from Tunis and connected for Zurich on the same day.”
“Tunis?”
“My guess is he—or, more likely, the Mazzaras—have contacts there. People on the payroll. Immigration officials and police who would protect him. When he disappeared after you were attacked in Catania, he knew the Italian police would be looking for him. He probably drove to Palermo and reported what happened to the Mazzaras, and they put him on a ferry. Two lines run direct sailings from Palermo to Tunis.”
“If the Mazzaras let him live,” Rolf growled, “it can only mean one thing. They think he’s still useful to them.”
“Probably to set up a new operation. He’s the one with the network of recruiters. The ones who steal the babies from the camps.”
“You said Zurich,” Laura said. “Is that all we know?”
“I’m running a check on the hotels there. But we’re facing the problem I mentioned. Switzerland isn’t in the EU but it’s part of the Schengen zone. Nelthorp could be in any one of those twenty-six countries by now.”
“I don’t think he is.”
“Explain.”
“I think
he’s in Geneva. The first time I met with him, he talked a lot about Trieste. But at one point he told me how much he loved Geneva. He babbled about it like a tourist. He said there was one place that brews some kind of amazing white chocolate coffee … his words. He said it was called Precision.”
“What was?” Renate asked. “The place, or the coffee?”
“He didn’t say. But it shouldn’t take much to find out if there’s a restaurant named Precision, or one with a menu that lists white chocolate coffee under that name. Try TripAdvisor.”
Renate worked her phone. “It’s a restaurant, on Rue David-Dufour.”
“Have you got anyone placed near there you can trust?”
“Gaetano’s in Rome. It’s an hour’s flight.”
“Not exactly a job for a priest,” Paolo said, speaking up for the first time.
“It is for this one.”
“He won’t be able to sit in the restaurant all day,” Laura said. “So he’ll need to find somewhere nearby where he can keep watch. If there’s no sign of Nelthorp after a few days, it probably means I’m wrong.”
“He’ll do it.”
* * *
It took two days.
Two long days for Laura, who was beginning to chafe at the inaction.
Renate had returned to New York. Just before dinner on the second day, she phoned Rolf from her office at the U.N. When the call came in, Paolo was banging around in the kitchen, and Laura and Rolf were playing cards by the pool.
Rolf put her on speaker.
“He’s there. Gaetano spotted him at Precision yesterday and followed him back to his room. He’s staying at a B&B on Boulevard Carl-Vogt. But there’s a problem. He’s getting ready to move.”
“Do we know where?”
“It looks like Genoa. Gaetano followed him to the Cornavin train station. When he went to a ticket machine, Gaetano took the one next to him and pretended to buy a ticket while he kept an eye on Nelthorp’s screen.”
“How many trains per day leave that station for Genoa?”
“None. His ticket will take him to Milan. He’ll change trains there.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“Gaetano is flying from Geneva to Genoa. He’ll be waiting when Nelthorp gets off the train.”
“How will he know what train he’s on?”
“We have … certain software. Gaetano gave me the serial number of the machine he used and the time when the ticket was issued. I’m tracking the bar code on Nelthorp’s ticket. As soon as he boards his connection in Milan, we will know.”
Laura said, “I should be there.”
Rolf straightened. “Be where?”
Renate answered for her. “Genoa. She’s right, Rolf. Every day increases the risk that Europol will find Nelthorp. We need to move on this. Laura?”
“Yes?”
“I need a head-and-shoulders photograph of you. Passport style, blank backdrop. Digital is fine. Send it to me and I’ll get you a U.N. laissez-passer.”
“But how can she travel?” Rolf asked. “With the FBI watching every—”
“You’ll have to go private. I can arrange a jet out of Kendall Airport. Leave that with me.”
“Renate—”
“Just a minute. I’m thinking. We’ll need to get the pilot to file a flight plan for Genoa, with a stop at Teterboro, New Jersey. It’s the nearest noncommercial airport to my office. I’ll meet the plane there with the laissez-passer for Laura. Laura, send me your clothing sizes, including shoes. You’ll need a suitable wardrobe.”
“Will do.”
“No one will question a senior official of the United Nations carrying a red passport, especially when she arrives on a private jet. I’ll make sure Gaetano is there to meet the flight.”
“You’re serious?” Rolf again.
“Yes, I am. Gaetano is willing, but he isn’t trained. He’ll need Laura.”
“Nelthorp knows what she looks like.”
“That’s not going to matter,” Laura said quietly.
Rolf looked into a pair of cold, dark eyes, and he understood. “I’m also trained.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Laura replied.
“Okay. You both go,” Renate said.
“What about Paolo?” Rolf asked.
“Close up the house and bring him with you. I’ll pick him up at Teterboro. The Italian delegation’s security team is short staffed and his supervisor asked to borrow him back. And, Rolf?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t brief him on this operation. We don’t know how much information he’s feeding back to his people.”
“You’re worried about the SG.”
“Yes. We need to protect him, and you know how the politics can be around this place.”
Laura interposed: “Renate, this identity you’re giving me … what’s my backstory?”
“You speak fluent Italian, so you’ll be Italian. I’ll give you a full briefing at Teterboro.”
“Okay, but I want her first name to be Anna.”
“Why?”
“My biological grandmother’s name was Anna. She was killed in 1945.”
Renate knew better than to argue. “Agreed. Anything else?”
“Yes. We’ll need to make one extra stop. Before Genoa.”
34
When the Gulfstream G450 made its long banking turn past Etna, the volcano was still spewing sulfur and living up to its reputation as the mountain that never sleeps. They landed just after dawn and taxied to the predesignated spot on the apron. The jet’s engines spooled down.
Watching at a window, Laura saw the familiar lights of the main terminal at Fontanarossa Airport. Crawling toward them, almost invisible against that polychromatic backdrop, she could just make out the strobing blue lights of an emergency vehicle. The copilot appeared from the cockpit and opened the main door. The jet’s hydraulic steps automatically deployed, reaching the ground just as the vehicle pulled to a stop.
Laura recognized the gray paint with yellow markings. It was one of the Guardia’s SUVs.
She was on edge.
She was about to find out if Marco Sinatra was the man she had judged him to be.
When Renate had come aboard at Teterboro, she had recited the instructions she’d given to Laura’s unsuspecting friend. “I said he’d be needed for a couple of days, so pack an overnight bag and meet the flight out on the tarmac. I instructed him to tell ATC that high-level U.N. personnel were aboard and would not be disembarking, so they were to designate an isolated parking spot on the apron. I told him to bring a trusted Immigration officer out to the plane to clear the passengers, but that he was to board first so he could be briefed. Only after that was the Immigration officer to board the aircraft.”
“How did he react?”
“No problem. The head of our field support office in Vienna is a friend of the Guardia’s commanding general. The general had already called Marco, so he was expecting my call.”
“But he doesn’t know who he’s meeting.”
“That’s right. It’s up to you now.”
Marco was mounting the steps. He was in full uniform.
Now or never.…
Laura got up from her seat. She stood nervously in the middle of the aisle, facing the entrance.
Marco removed his hat, shook hands with the copilot, and stepped into the cabin.
Laura watched his eyes as he absorbed the startling sight before him—the young woman he had once known as CBP Agent Sarah Lockhart, now a fugitive from American justice, attired in a designer pant suit, elegant heels, and power makeup.
His eyes filled.
He took three long steps and enveloped her in his arms.
“Carissima! Carissima Sarah!”
It was going to be okay.
Rolf appeared from the aft cabin. She made a quick introduction, using Rolf’s real name, and then pushed Marco onto a divan. “I need to explain.”
“No, you don’t. I never believed it. Just tell
me what name you’re using so I don’t make a mistake, and I’ll get Ignacio aboard to clear you. You can tell me the rest on the flight.” He paused and gave a quizzical look. “By the way, where are we going?”
“Genoa.”
“Good. I was based there once. I know the city.”
He checked their passports—Laura’s red laissez-passer and Rolf’s blue one, also in a false name—and memorized the details.
And so it was done. The Immigration officer came aboard and quickly cleared the two United Nations VIPs, Baronessa Anna Alessandra D’Angelo and her bodyguard, Mielo Benedict Jarvi, along with their chartered jet’s American flight crew. He disembarked and drove the Guardia patrol vehicle back to the terminal.
After they were in the air, Laura sat with Marco. The first thing she told him was her name.
“Not Sarah? I love that name! Not … what was this passport? Anna D’Angelo? Not Sarah, but Anna. Not Anna, but Laura? Laura Pace?” He pronounced her surname the Italian way: “Pah-che? Pah-che means ‘peace’! But there is no peace in Sarah’s life!”
“And no peace in Laura’s.”
He hugged her again.
“I have something you should see,” he said. “Perhaps a small piece of the puzzle.” He fiddled with his phone and then passed it to her. A video was set to play. “That was taken by a CCTV camera just after seven o’clock on the night Consul Nicosia was killed. The camera is mounted on the building across the street from the entrance to the consulate building.” On the screen, a van pulled up, obscuring the view of the main door. It looked as if two men exited the van’s side door and entered the building. The camera only caught a fleeting shot of them from behind. The van drove away. Then the film appeared to jump. “Now it’s 7:26. Watch the door.” Two men appeared from inside the building. The van reappeared, but an instant before it blocked the view, the film zoomed in and froze, framing the men’s faces. One of them had a wide strip of medical tape across his nose.
“The one with the tape—he’s the goon who pulled me into the van.”
“That’s what Inspector Gallo said—she was the female officer who was facing you when you met with Nelthorp. We think the man on the right was probably the driver.”
Killing Pace Page 19