“The Times dated…hold on…fifteenth July last year. The magazine was a Jane’s Defence Weekly from last month.”
“Anything interesting in the notepad?”
Conza told Chase about the conversation he’d had at Skyguard about ‘FC-Auto’ as well as the string of characters and numbers that Brocelli had found in Stolz’s wallet.
“Do you want me to read them out?”
There was hesitation in Chase’s reply.
“Listen, Raffy, I’m sure you’ve got better things to do than feed my curious, but sadly underused brain. Just tell me to bugger off if I’m trying your patience. I would understand. Really.”
“You have me all wrong, Harry. There are a thousand things that bother me about this case, but it’s usually poor old Georgio that has to put up with my theorising. Whether you believe me or not, it’s me who should be apologising. Right now I’m getting a fresh pair of eyes on this case and I’m not even paying for it.”
“Not yet, but there’s still time. Go on then, read it out.”
Conza read out the series of numbers and letters.
“Actually there was something else in Stolz’s case. His keys. They were on a key ring which doubled as a USB stick.”
“Now that’s more like it. What was on it?”
“We have no idea. I didn’t have an excuse to look at it at the time. And anyway, it’s too late now, the attaché case has gone, with the stick inside, so I guess we’ll never know.”
“Pity. Oh well, I’ll have to go back to pleas in mitigation for a living. Sorry again for being such a nosy bugger. I’ll report back once I’ve spoken to Jimmy.”
They promised to speak again at the weekend.
‘Unusual case,’ thought Harry as he poured himself another mug of tea. ‘Lucky sod!’
70
Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy
Sergeant Moretti and one of the new lieutenants escorted Kadin back to Milan for processing before driving him to the safe house.
In Genoa, the technicians quickly and expertly set up their equipment on the floor next to the television.
They identified the location of the signal transmitting from the barn just before six on Thursday evening.
They called Captain Brocelli.
71
Manchester Airport, England
At the taxi rank outside Terminal 1 of Manchester Airport, Max opened the door of a Lexus and handed a piece of paper to the driver. Despite his best efforts to engage him in small talk, his passenger didn’t utter a single word during the journey. The driver looked at him a few times in his rear-view mirror and decided he wasn’t the sort of guy he would fancy messing with.
Max didn’t notice. He was thinking about the job. Fanucci had made all the arrangements. When they reached the pizza and kebab takeaway in the Northern Quarter, he would be able to collect the weapons. The hotel in Manchester city centre was paid for, as was the rental car that would be delivered to him in the morning. Marco Fanucci was good at organising things. He gave him that.
But on the Hotel Napoli job, Fanucci had used an outsider, an amateur, and the kid had taken out the wrong target. Now he’d been told to do the job properly. Fanucci had been terrified, desperate to get the job done. Must’ve been that gorilla Alex who scared him. Alex was a very bad man, if his driver’s stories were to be believed.
Max had never seen Fanucci scared before, not that he cared. He shook his head in disgust. He would never say it, but if Fanucci had given him the Hotel Napoli job in the first place, they’d have all been paid by now and Fanucci wouldn’t be shitting his pants.
Max tried to call him, but Fanucci’s phone went straight to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. He didn’t need to. He knew what he had to do.
72
San Carlo, 60 km East of Milan, Italy
It was dusk and the barn cast long shadows over the oil drum and sandbag in the yard. A silver BMW sat on the forecourt.
Squatting low behind the car’s rear bumper, Brocelli turned his head to the side and listened. ‘Silence.’
The barn door was propped open, but the interior of the building was unlit. He peered into the darkness. ‘No movement.’
Crawling slowly around to the front of the car, Brocelli felt the bonnet. ‘Cold.’
He cocked his weapon and gave the signal.
The barn was hit by two teams of four from the south and west. The assault was efficient and well-executed, but as it turned out, unnecessary.
The tripod light didn’t work. ‘Battery’s flat,’ thought Brocelli as his eyes adjusted to the dim surroundings.
Two bodies. The first, a bald-headed man. He’d been shot at least three times in the face and neck. Two white teeth protruded through the grotesque mask of dark red, pink and grey. Next to him, a tall, ponytailed man holding a pistol, his chest riddled with automatic gunfire, his jacket a loose collection of thin jagged ribbons, his shirt a blotting-pad of red blooms.
Flies danced nervously above the exposed flesh and sucked at the thick rivers of blood that had congealed between the corpses. Brocelli lifted the man’s pistol with his foot. ‘Safety’s still on. He didn’t have time to react.’
Behind the pallets, he discovered a scattering of 9mm shell cases. ‘They were ambushed,’ he thought without sympathy.
The bodies were cold. Brocelli estimated they’d been dead for at least twelve hours.
He called it in but while he was describing the scene, he noticed something grey and white poking out from under the corner of a wooden pallet. Using a set of plastic tweezers, he picked up a creased and torn photograph of a well-dressed, grey-haired man crossing the road in front of the Hotel Napoli.
73
Friday
Flight AL-2394 to Berlin
Five days had passed since the killing of Lukas Stolz. Conza was sitting in first class. When the ‘fasten seat belts’ sign extinguished, the colonel pulled out a wad of photos from an envelope, laying them out on the pull-down table. The first few Conza recognised as enlargements of the pictures he’d taken in Genoa.
The colonel looked worried.
“Did you speak to Captain Brocelli this morning?”
“No sir, I went straight to the airport. I was going to catch up with him when we get back.”
“He’ll tell you this man is Marco Fanucci. Brocelli found him in the barn last night, along with one of his henchmen, Stefan Puz. They’d been shot.”
“Right. I see.”
“Puz was just a mercenary, but Fanucci was a middle-ranking player. Blackmail, corruption of politicians and others in powerful positions. Been known to work for high-end criminal gangs. Specialised in filming his victims in compromising positions.”
Conza could guess who would’ve carried out the technical work but didn’t interrupt.
The colonel pointed at another photograph and surprisingly, ordered Conza to stop writing.
“This chap, on the other hand, is a long way up the dark and sinister league table. Alexander Kurti, the ‘Afghan Hound’. We have a file on him as thick as the phone book, as do the secret service. You won’t ever get to see their file, so I’ll tell you what I know. First and foremost, Alexander Kurti does not get involved in assassinations on pond-dwellers like Salterton. He rubs shoulders with those who run state-funded operations. He’s dangerous, Raphael, very dangerous.”
Conza suddenly felt insignificant and oddly vulnerable.
“Do you remember the killing of Kirillov last year?” the colonel asked him.
Conza did. The head of an ex-Soviet state’s secret police was on trial for a catalogue of child sex offences. Astonishingly, while giving testimony, he went off script and confessed that for years, he’d been passing secrets to the west. He clearly believed his very public statements would force the hand of either the CIA or MI6. He was hoping they would have felt compelled to ride in and save his skin. Two days later, Kirillov was found strapped to a dentist’s chair in a parking lot. His hands ha
d been amputated and he’d been forced to drink nitric acid.
“Kirillov was Kurti’s work. When you showed me the photos yesterday, I recognised Kurti immediately. He’s not difficult to spot in a crowd. I called a colleague who knows all about him. He confirmed my suspicion that Kurti would never get embroiled in the killing of Salterton, it’s way below him.”
“So we need to find Kurti, as a priority?”
“Actually, no. Leave Kurti to me. As soon as I flagged up his name, the jungle drums started beating and I was left in no doubt that I had to back off.”
“He’s being shielded. Why?”
“I don’t know yet, but this isn’t good news, Raffy. If I told you from how high up the order came, you would understand why I’m having to tread carefully.”
“And I’m guessing you’re not going to tell me?”
“Correct. And before you start thinking about ranks closing and old boys’ networks, you need to understand that I’m only trying to protect you. When the time is right, I will tell you everything I know, but I’ve got to be damned sure I’m standing on solid ground before I move in that direction.”
Conza knew it was pointless to press further.
“For now, Raffy, have faith. Captain Brocelli has also been told, Kurti is not to be pursued.”
“Do you trust Brocelli, sir?”
“Trust? In what way?”
“I don’t know, but there’s an awful lot of stuff that’s happened on his watch. Media being tipped off. Evidence going missing. Zeffirelli finding out about Nyala and Sami Ricci.” Conza had an image of Brocelli typing on his laptop. “And he’s not good at following rules.”
“And you have evidence to support your misgivings, Lieutenant?”
“No sir. I haven’t. But I just thought –”
“Don’t ever come to me with half-baked conspiracy theories without proof, Lieutenant Conza. Especially when you’re levelling accusations against a serving officer. Do you understand?”
Conza didn’t need to say anything.
The colonel squeezed past him to use the bathroom. Despite thinking the colonel’s defence of the Captain was unjust, Conza pulled out a notepad and wrote ‘Brocelli – laptop?’
When the colonel returned, he looked at Conza with a weak smile.
“He’s not what you think, what everyone thinks. He doesn’t help himself, I know, but we all have a story to tell, Raffy, and Brocelli’s is more tragic than most. You would do well to talk to him, get past his defences. There’s a bloody good police officer in there. At least, there used to be.”
The matter was closed.
The colonel picked up another photograph from the pile. It was torn along one edge and smudged with grease.
“Brocelli discovered this in the barn. It hasn’t been properly analysed yet. The commissioner brought it straight to me.”
Conza picked it up.
“That’s Stolz.”
“Why are you so sure it’s not Salterton?”
“For one thing, he’s holding a German newspaper.” Conza pointed at a small rectangle of white poking out from under the man’s arm. “Don’t they look like the letters ‘Zei’?”
The colonel brought the photo close to his face.
“Maybe. It’s difficult to be certain.”
“Stolz ordered a Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung last Friday.”
“Keep going.”
“The Hotel Napoli sign is in the background and Stolz is wearing the same suit he was wearing when he was shot, even the tie is the same. I’m certain. This is a photograph of Lukas Stolz taken forty-eight hours before he was killed.”
Conza opened his notebook.
“There’s another thing. In the picture, he’s carrying a black attaché case, the same as the one I saw in the incident truck. We know Salterton left his luggage at the hotel and we have a photo of him boarding a train in Milan. His hands are empty, so we know he didn’t bring a briefcase with him.”
“All right, I think we can agree that the man in this picture is Stolz, and as it was found in the barn, we can assume it was used to brief the Bennani boy on his target. There’s just one problem.”
Conza braced himself.
“What if the person taking this photograph thinks they are taking a photograph of Salterton?”
Conza swore under his breath.
“Sir, I think we have to assume something. Otherwise we’re in danger of going round in circles. If you permit me, I’ll tell you what I think we’re dealing with.”
Conza took a deep breath and gathered the photographs together.
“One, this is a picture of Lukas Stolz. Two, if what you believe is correct, Kurti doesn’t involve himself with contracts taken out on people like Salterton, which means Stolz must have been the intended target. Three, Salterton believed the contract was taken out on him and ever since, Zeffirelli has been trying to find the killer, and the person who hired him. Four, Fanucci was either killed by Kurti because he screwed up, or Kurti was covering his tracks, or… we should leave ‘four’ for the moment.”
The colonel didn’t blink.
“Five, Kurti and Fanucci arranged Stolz’s murder on behalf of a high-paying client. Those are what I think are the facts.”
The colonel put his fingertips together as if in prayer and rested them on his lips.
“Let’s go back to ‘four’. Is it possible Zeffirelli killed Fanucci because he found out he was the person who arranged the killing?”
“Maybe, but I’m struggling with that one. Wouldn’t Fanucci have just told Zeffirelli to stop being paranoid? That Kadin killed the man Fanucci had told him to. That Salterton was never the target.”
“Captain Brocelli described the scene at the barn as an ambush. Perhaps Zeffirelli didn’t give Fanucci a chance to explain. But you’re right, until forensics come up with something from the barn, there’s nothing to tie Zeffirelli to Fanucci’s death.”
“Colonel, now we believe Stolz was the real target, we should look again at the theft of his belongings. It may be important.”
“You’re right, but the commissioner’s already on it.”
“So that just leaves Katherine Harper’s statement.”
“Which is why we’re heading to Berlin.”
Conza tidied the photographs into a neat pile.
“Raffy, how much do you know about Josef Schuman, and his family for that matter?”
“Not much. Only what Katherine told me. Although when I was a child, my father hosted a party attended by Josef Schuman. My father didn’t take to him.”
“I’ll tell you what I know. The man we’re going to meet in Berlin will hopefully fill us in on the rest.”
Conza started a new page.
“Before escaping East Berlin, Felix Schuman was a very wealthy man. He owned an armaments factory, which made a fortune during the war. At the time, Schuman Defence was a world leader in advanced weapon technology.”
“I didn’t know. Katherine mentioned a factory in Mitte. I wonder if she was talking about Schuman’s place?”
“Maybe. Their head office was in Mitte, I believe.”
“She said the Russians took all the machinery.”
“That sounds like the Schuman factory. It’s exactly what happened. Felix was made bankrupt overnight, although he walked into a job in the defence ministry. There wasn’t much he didn’t know about guns and missiles.”
“So he started spying for the British out of revenge. Anger at the Soviets for destroying his business?”
“No, no. It was much more than anger. The British promised to build him a new factory, machines and all, if he spied for them.”
“And did they? Build him a new factory, I mean?”
Conza was staring at the colonel who just smiled in return.
“Bloody hell! Skyguard.”
“Well, it wasn’t called Skyguard back then, but yes, they fulfilled their promise. He got his factory.”
“In England?”
“Yes
, but he opened a facility in Cologne quite soon after. The West Germans were keen to lure him back home, so they made a deal with the British. They funded half the project. Schuman Defence became the most successful post-war, Anglo-German company.”
“Which Felix ran from the head office in Warwick.”
“That’s right.”
“How did the Italians get involved?”
“The West Germans wanted the Italians in on the deal. They saw it as an important step in post-war reconciliation. It made sense.”
“But Josef Schuman went into politics?”
“Yes. He was on a very different mission to his father. After Frankfurt University, he returned to West Berlin. Got himself a seat at the high table on the council in no time. He must have been spotted as a high-flyer very early. He was instrumental in helping East Germans escape to the west. Then in the nineties, he gained fame for arranging for the wall to be dismantled. Became a poster-boy for the newly liberated East Berliners.”
“So he wasn’t interested in joining the family firm?”
“No, he had nothing to do with it until his father died in 1982. He didn’t have much choice then. His father left the whole thing to him.”
“That must have been quite a challenge. What was he? Thirty?”
“Twenty-nine. He left them to it. Appointed a board to run it all and went back to politics. He had little to do with the company for a long time. But his shareholding made him a sizeable fortune.”
Conza took a coffee from the passing trolley. The colonel declined.
“He moved through the political ranks really quickly,” Conza offered after making some calculations. “He attended the reception at our house in ’96.”
“The year he was made vice-chancellor,” the colonel replied. “He was kicked out of the party and his post in ’99.”
“Why?”
“No one knows, or rather no one’s telling. It’s one of the questions I hope to get an answer to today. The news at the time said it was just a normal cabinet reshuffle, and he was retiring from politics to spend more time with his family. Which would be more believable if he actually had one. Both his parents were dead, he was an only child and he never married. On top of which, it’s pretty unusual for a vice-chancellor to lose his job.”
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