LETHAL SCORE

by Mannock, Mark

  That was it—the question I should have asked when Elena and I were by the river.

  “No,” I said sheepishly. “She just said they moved in the same social circles.”

  “Hmph,” mumbled the General. “There are other sides to this. There are also some interesting aspects to Ascardi’s business dealings,” he continued.

  Greatrex and I both waited for more.

  “Antonio Ascardi’s business, the Ascardi Media Group, has two head offices, one in London, the other in Milan.”

  The General had our attention.

  “He also has three homes: the Scottish castle you have already visited, a very expensive London townhouse in Belgravia, and a palatial home just off the Grand Canal in Venice.”

  “Lucky man,” said Greatrex.

  “A couple of points here,” continued our former commanding officer. “Ascardi has been spending more and more time in Italy. Yesterday he moved his main man, Norbert Fontana, to work out of the media group’s Milan office.”

  “Nothing unusual in that,” I observed.

  “The unusual thing is that Ascardi has not been seen a lot in the Milan office lately. The people there have been told he is spending more time at his Venice home.”

  “I’m guessing someone that rich can spend as much time at home as they like,” noted Greatrex. “He would have people like Fontana to run the business for him.”

  “Now, here’s the strangest thing,” observed the General. “Our man on the ground in Venice is saying Ascardi has been spending increasing amounts of time away from his house there.”

  I thought for a moment. “He’s been absent from the tour on several occasions. We’ve been told he’s off dealing with business matters. It didn’t seem unusual at the time for such a successful entrepreneur to be spending his time that way, but in hindsight …”

  “If Ascardi is not at one of his offices, nor spending much time where he had led people to believe he is …” began Greatrex.

  “Then where the hell is he spending his time?” I finished the question for him.

  “That’s the question that needs answering,” said the General. “But there is one more bit of information that you two need to know.”

  We waited.

  “Our group has a person very well placed in the Ascardi Media Group in Milan. She has observed an unusual practice in that office. At first she didn’t think it important, but taking current events into consideration, it may be. The Ascardi Group deals with two shipping companies in Milan. Despite most of their work being in the digital domain, they move products all around the world; Ascardi Media would be good customers.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  “They also use a much smaller business to ship goods from Milan to Venice. Two things struck our person as unusual about this. The first is that this smaller company specializes in the shipping of ultra-high-spec equipment, the kind needing to be handled with extreme care.”

  “Why would Ascardi be shipping high-spec equipment to Venice?” asked Greatrex.

  “We don’t know,” replied the General. Our person can’t get a look at any of the manifests or the destinations.”

  “You’d assume it would be his house,” I thought out loud.

  “You would, but it would pay to be sure.” The General always erred on the side of caution.

  “Can your person find out any more?”

  “As I’ve said to you gentlemen before, the group I am part of observes and provides information. We can support governmental decisions, but our people are not operatives and they are not rogues. They are just people with a conscience.”

  Greatrex and I looked at each other on the screen, just like a couple of rogues.

  “This shipping firm is called Tech-Safe. Its ownership is concealed behind a number of trusts and shell companies across the world. Eventually, we tracked our way to the source. Two of the names listed on the board of the controlling company were of particular interest. The first was Norbert Fontana. The second was one …” the General paused, like he didn’t want to say what he was about to say.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “Elena Beria.”

  “Shit,” said Greatrex.

  I said nothing.

  After we hung up, Jack Greatrex and I just stared at each other on our screens. “That’s a game changer,” he said. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m meant to be traveling on an afternoon train to Venice,” I said. As I spoke, I was already thumbing through the map book I’d had with me in the car. “I really don’t have to be there for a couple more days, so I think I’m going to change my plans.”

  “Milan?” he asked.

  “Milan,” I said. “I need to get a look at those manifests and find out where in Venice that equipment is being sent to. I don’t know why it’s important, but I feel that it is.” I glanced at the map on my lap. “I can get off the Venice train in Verona and catch another train to Milan from there.”

  Greatrex gave me the look. “Let me get this right,” he said. “You’re probably being pursued by the German police for murder, you’re definitely under investigation by British and French authorities, not to mention Europol for murder and terrorism. There’s also every chance the person who is really behind those deaths is after you as well, only not to arrest you but to kill you. All of this, and you decide that you, Nicholas Sharp, the man with the tech brain of a pineapple is going to go to Milan and break into an international shipping company that specializes in high-end technology.”

  “It doesn’t sound so good when you say it out loud,” I replied.

  “I’ll call you later tonight when I arrive in Milan,” he said.

  “I can’t let you—”

  The line went dead. I knew I couldn’t stop him either.

  Chapter 20

  A ten-minute walk down the Maximillianstrafe followed by a brief wait at the Innsbruck Hbf Station, and I was on my way. I caught the train to Italy because I was way too exhausted to drive. I also wanted more time to think. Events were speeding up, and my pursuers were closing in. I felt like a lone soldier lost on a battlefield; any wrong step could trigger a mine.

  Settling into my first-class seat, I stared out the window. The sky was clearing, and there were scattered patches of blue. The weather seemed to lighten my pensive mood. The journey would take us through the Brenner Pass, reputedly one of the most scenic rail journeys in Europe, particularly in winter. As the journey progressed, I decided the reputation was well earned. Thick layers of white snow covered the countryside as the train cut its way through the hills. Deep valley floors smattered with small villages and undulating farms came and went. The bright white sentinels that were the Austrian Alps towered all around, protecting the peaceful naivety of the chocolate-box view from the outside world. As we continued to climb through this fairyland, my immediate stress began to dissipate. Bring on the inner child.

  I even allowed myself the luxury of ordering a glass of pinot grigio to ease my burden. A female attendant who was doing her very best to look and act like Amy Winehouse delivered it in a particularly nonchalant manner.

  I had purchased my ticket all the way through to Venice, though I planned to get off at Verona. On the off chance that anyone was following me, I wanted to keep them guessing.

  The afternoon rolled on. I taunted myself with the thought of another pinot. When I finally decided to have one, the bar attendant was nowhere to be seen. Maybe Amy was off doing a gig.

  I even dozed a little. When I woke up and checked my watch, there were still a good couple of hours to go. Despite the comfort, my legs felt stiff and cramped. One of the great things about European trains is that you can walk their length while they are still moving. This wasn’t always easy with the train swaying from side to side, but at least I got some exercise. I got up and walked.

  I first noticed him in the door’s reflection at the end of the first carriage. The figure was climbing out of his seat at the far end of the carriage and
slowly making his way toward me. It shouldn’t really have been an issue, except that for some reason the figure looked vaguely familiar. I took the opportunity of opening the door to turn sideways and glance back at him. As I did so, he turned to look out a window. He seemed relaxed, not like a man on a mission. Again, he looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  I walked as quickly as a moving train would let me to the end of the next carriage and glanced around once more. The man behind me had just entered the carriage I was about to leave. He still looked unhurried and relaxed.

  I continued my walk to the end of the next carriage and passed through that door. This time I didn’t glance around; I’d have revealed my suspicion that he wasn’t simply looking for a steward.

  The following carriage opened to a long corridor on the left and sparsely occupied compartments on the right. Halfway down the carriage the compartments made way for a long, unfurnished section with a wooden deck for freight. Here, the Amy Winehouse attendant sat next to her trolley on a makeshift seat, listening to music on her headphones as she gazed out the window. So much for first-class service.

  This was an opportunity. I quickly slipped open the door, moved inside, and closed it behind me, too quickly for my pursuer to see. Amy looked up, surprised a paying passenger had invaded her refuge.

  “Oh, hi, can I get you something?” she asked awkwardly. Her English was good but the Italian accent apparent.

  I tried to look as though I was deciding what to order. As I did so I stepped back against the wall, concealing myself as much as possible from the corridor. I counted seven seconds until I saw the man who had been behind me walk past. He appeared not to notice either Amy or me but was now moving with more purpose. For the first time I got a good look at him. He had short blond hair, wore a gray suit, and moved as though he was fit. Familiar, but I still couldn’t place him.

  As I watched the figure disappear into the next carriage, I noticed Amy frowning and edging herself away from me along the seat. Perhaps I’d taken too long to order. “I’ll have a long white coffee, thanks,” I said. Now was not the time for pinot.

  “I’ll bring it straight up to you,” she said. “I know where you are sitting.” Before I could feel too flattered, I realized there weren’t many people in first class. She’d probably know where we were all sitting.

  “Great, thanks,” I responded. I opened the compartment door to leave. I think she was a little happy to be rid of me.

  I went back to my seat. There was no point in changing location. If the man was looking for me, he could find me anywhere on the train. Besides, despite my concerns about being pursued, I wanted my coffee. Something in my gut told me I wasn’t being paranoid, although after the events of the last few days I had every right to be. This situation, however, did leave me with a problem and the usual number of annoying questions. Who was this person? What did he want? And more to the point, who had sent him? A lot of people seemed to be interested in my activities at the moment. Then there was the biggest question of all: how can I lose him so I can get off the train at Verona undetected?

  For the first time in two days I turned on my cellphone. It would be common knowledge that I was heading for Venice. In fact, that was a perception I wanted to encourage. I put a call through to Greatrex. No answer. He was probably in transit, but if he picked up soon enough, he could help. I left him a detailed message.

  Now I had to figure out if I was in imminent danger. Screw it—I was almost past caring.

  A couple of minutes later, Amy Winehouse showed up with my coffee. She looked a little chastened, like she’d been caught playing truant. I paid, thanked her, took the coffee, and sipped it. It was cold and bland, but I still drank it. I was just beginning to think that I’d imagined the whole “being pursued on a train” thing when I heard those ominous words: “Hello, Mr. Sharp.”

  I looked up. The tall blond man causing my paranoia was standing in the aisle looking down on me.

  “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked. The heavy Northern European accent and the intensity of his tone added menace to his outwardly innocent words.

  I said nothing but waved a casual hand toward the seat on the other side of the table in front of me. For a moment I regretted my choice of seat. Maybe I’d seen too many movies where the thug pointed a gun under the table at the righteous man sitting opposite him. Maybe.

  “You know my name,” I said. Nicholas Sharp, astute observer.

  “Yes, Mr. Sharp. You’ve obviously realized I’m here to keep an eye on you. In such a restricted environment, I expected that you may catch on. Anyway, I thought, why keep up the pretense? I am Thomas De Vries. I believe you know my brother, Jasper.”

  That explained the familiarity. The man sitting in front of me had the same Northern European features as his brother—the blond hair, the cold blue eyes, the square jaw. Basically, he was Jasper De Vries of Europol, model 2.0.

  “Are you in the same line of work as your brother?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” he responded. “We both work for Europol.”

  I glanced under the table. No gun.

  “Well, on the positive side, being from Europol means that you’re not here to kill me,” I said. Although I did recall the threat from the lips of Capitaine Barre from the Direction Régionale de Police.

  “No, I am not here to kill you, Mr. Sharp,” Thomas De Vries assured me.

  “I’m thinking that you’re not here to arrest me either,” I said. “If you were, you would have arrived with a few extra friends and arrested me at the station in Innsbruck before we got on the train.”

  He just nodded.

  “Then what are you really doing here, Mr. Thomas De Vries of Europol?” I tried not to let my relief show.

  “As I said, I am here to simply observe you, Mr. Sharp, and to ensure that you don’t attempt to leave Europe or …”

  “Or?” I mimicked.

  “Or get yourself into any more trouble.” With that, De Vries 2.0 sat back on his seat, looking annoyingly smug.

  “What do you mean by trouble?” I knew exactly what trouble meant, but I was trying to see how much he knew.

  “Every time you disappear off the grid, reports of nefarious activities follow in your wake.”

  He was giving nothing away.

  “My brother, Jasper, has asked me to ensure that you arrive safely in Venice for your next show … and whatever else awaits you,” he added.

  I was beginning to wonder if European law enforcement officers were all trained in the art of the “veiled threat.” I seemed to be getting my share of them.

  It was time to end the conversation. “Well, thank you for at least putting an end to the charade of tailing me,” I said. “You know very well that I’m heading to Venice for our next show, so why don’t you pop on back to your seat and we can catch up in the city of gondolas.” I thought I sounded suitably detached and unimpressed.

  “As you wish.” With that, Thomas De Vries, brother of Jasper De Vries, promptly stood up and strode down the aisle to his original seat. No new friends today.

  I sat there evaluating the change in circumstance. I was now very glad I’d bought a ticket to Venice. I knew that would have been the first thing the Europol man would have checked out. As I heard myself talking to De Vries, it also occurred to me that I was becoming a convincing liar. Oh well—you learn the skills you need in life.

  My problem was that it was going to be very hard to shake this man. He was obviously smart and professional. Europol does not employ fools. It was vital that he not get off the train with me at Verona. I didn’t care if he later worked out where I’d alighted; I just couldn’t have him follow me. But every tactic I thought of seemed ludicrous. He’d see through them all. Then I had an idea: with no alternatives, why not embrace the ludicrous? Be obvious, use the obvious as a distraction. So, I began to implement ludicrous idea number 33A from the amateur spy playbook.

  Having made my palms sweaty by holding them aga
inst the train’s heating vent, I clutched my stomach and began to groan. Then I wiped the sweat over my forehead and cheeks. I got out of my seat and turned toward De Vries. “I’m off to the bathroom,” I announced. Using a little amateur method acting, I contracted my stomach muscles and inhaled heavily in slow breaths, almost convincing myself that I was sick. I could nearly feel the fictitious bile in my throat. “I must have eaten something bad back at the station.”

  De Vries looked skeptical, as any professional should.

  I slouched to the men’s room at the end of the carriage. De Vries followed me for a way. After a little fake vomiting and superbly underperformed groaning, just enough to be heard through the door, I reappeared ten minutes later. He was still waiting. I nodded at him as I pushed past and returned to my seat. Act One over.

  Act Two. According to the train’s schedule we would soon be coming into Rovereto. When I estimated we were five minutes out, I warmed my hands again, wiped the sweat back on my face, and made my way back to the bathroom. I turned to De Vries and shrugged as I went. Again he followed, but not quite so closely. I waited in the bathroom while the train stopped and took off again a few minutes later. When I came out, De Vries loomed outside the bathroom door. This was not a man who trusted easily.

  Again, he followed me back to my seat.

  The second part of Act Two was to follow the same process ten minutes later. I really poured the sweat on for that one. This time De Vries didn’t even get up. All I received was a curt nod as I returned to my seat.

  I waited a while longer, wriggling in my seat, clutching my stomach in distress, and perfecting the understated groan. My performance functioned as the perfect distraction as I transferred anything I really needed out of my bag under the seat and into my pockets, using the one hand I kept hidden from my observer’s view. The map showed we were fifteen minutes out from Verona.

  It was time for the final act. I got up and repeated the previous process. De Vries followed me down the aisle, but at a distance; he didn’t seem as focused this time. Fifteen minutes is a long time to stand in the corridor outside the men’s bathroom on a train, especially when people were beginning to stand at the exit getting ready to leave. I hoped that if De Vries was there, he’d grow bored and return to his seat. After all, he knew I was ill. I sat on the toilet until the train lurched to one side, which always seemed to happen when a high-speed train braked. I gambled on De Vries being back in his seat and distracted by the sudden jolt. In one movement I opened the bathroom door and slipped into the now crowded corridor by the carriage exit. I closed the bathroom door behind me. There was no cry of alarm.