The Milan Contract

by Stephen Franks

  “Why would you do this?”

  “I need the money. I’m leaving Milan. Away from you, away from the police force, away from the shit I have to put up with every day. It’s my ticket out of here.”

  “No one ever truly gets away. The shit always catches up with you in the end.”

  “Not for me. Now, do you want me to make the arrangements or not?”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred thousand. Upfront. And that isn’t negotiable.”

  “Go screw yourself. A hundred thousand. Everything’s negotiable.”

  “Not this time it isn’t,” the policeman said, rising once more.

  “Sit down, you faggot – we’re still talking here.”

  Something had changed. Zeffirelli wasn’t sure and the policeman knew it. He also knew Zeffirelli well enough to know he wouldn’t resist buying what he had to sell.

  79

  Habersaathstrasse, Berlin, Germany

  Babcock held open the door of his claret-coloured Daimler. “It’s no trouble, really. Come on, hop in,” he said amiably. “I’ll take you to the airport, on the way we can drop in on Major Fischer.”

  “How did you know? About Josef being a Stasi informer?” asked Conza, turning to the colonel.

  “I wasn’t sure. Bit of a stab in the dark, really. It may not be true of course.”

  Babcock interjected.

  “I think Ralf’s reaction spoke a thousand words, don’t you?”

  “You may be right. But if Ralf wasn’t willing to tell us, why would he point us at the ex-Stasi major? I strongly suspect he’ll give us a definitive answer, one way or the other.”

  “Because the truth won’t be coming out of his mouth, that’s why Colonel. He personally told us nothing.”

  “In which case, there’s division inside the BND.”

  “How do you know that?” said Conza trying to keep up.

  “Because he wanted to tell us something he’d been told not to,” Babcock replied.

  “So we’ve got an ally?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, Raffy. But at least we know Ralf won’t place obstacles in our way. He was trying to tell us as much, I’m sure.”

  “Mr Babcock, do you know this Major Fischer?” asked Conza as they joined the traffic at the end of the road.

  “No, never met the chap, but Ralf says he likes Asbach, so he’s all right in my book. We’ll have to pick up a bottle at the supermarket. Lovely stuff, German brandy, made with grape skins.”

  The colonel sat forward.

  “And you also want to hear what he has to say. Am I right?”

  Babcock looked hard at the colonel’s reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  “There’s much that I can’t tell you, Colonel. You know how it works. Suffice to say that Stolz and Schuman are very large blips on MI6’s radar right now.”

  “And you want to know if there’s been any sort of security breach. Am I right?”

  “Let’s just say, I need to know who was behind Stolz’s murder and just as importantly, why he was killed.”

  “We know it was arranged by Alexander Kurti,” offered Conza.

  “So I understand. I’m ashamed to say we’ve used Kurti in the past. Only once mind. But he did take the Queen’s shilling for a job.”

  “Can you tell me about it?” asked the colonel.

  Conza suddenly felt invisible.

  “It was after the massacres in Bosnia. We were hunting down some of the senior perpetrators. They escaped south, into the hills. We used Kurti. He knew the territory, had a lot of contacts in Yugoslavia.”

  “Did it work? Did you get them?”

  “Every single one. All dead, of course. He’s a killing machine. They call him the Afghan Hound, you know.”

  “What other countries has he worked for?”

  “Russia, obviously. One or two other ex-Soviets. And Uncle Sam.”

  “What did he do for the United States? Ah, of course. Afghanistan again,” the colonel said, quickly.

  “He still does the odd job for them over there.”

  Conza heard himself say, “Jesus.”

  “It’s a screwed-up world, Raffy. Your colonel knows. Sometimes we can’t tell the good guys from the bad guys.”

  “Who’s protecting Kurti? Is it our own government?”

  “Colonel, if you don’t mind.” Babcock pulled over into a supermarket carpark.

  “Raffy, don’t get wrapped around the axle on this. It’s not as simple as you think. The problem is that Kurti’s very existence is an embarrassment to a great number of people. Taxpayers have been funding his antics for an awfully long time. That’s not something one or two politicians want us to read about on a Sunday morning.”

  “But who’s putting pressure on the Italian Finance Minister this time? Do you know?”

  “It’s not us, I can tell you that. Using Kurti was a mistake, one our organisation would like to see buried. He’s one of the last hangovers from the dark days. Kurti’s was the era of the iron curtain, Bay of Pigs, state-sponsored assassinations. Expediency was the watchword back then. Along with expendability.”

  “So why don’t you just kill him? Britain is certainly capable of it,” Conza said, glancing at Babcock’s tie.

  “Everything’s changed, Raffy. Britain’s not the same. We don’t go around killing those we don’t like anymore. Accountability and proportionality. That’s the new European order. Kurti’s protected by the system.”

  “Then put the bastard on trial. We’ve got enough evidence to try him five times over. Make him face the system.”

  “You think the politicians who once paid him to do their dirty work, want him standing in the dock, spilling the beans?”

  ‘They know every trick in the book,’ Conza heard Harry Chase say. He felt empty.

  “Cheer up, Raffy. Kurti and his type, they’re running out of allies. All his protectors are dying of old age.”

  “So we let Kurti die of old age with them. Is that it?”

  The colonel intervened.

  “You said MI6 wants him buried?”

  “It would be nice. We’re just biding our time. Waiting for the right moment. When his shields abandon him.”

  Conza was incensed.

  “But that’s madness. I watched that bastard plot the death of not only Lukas Stolz, but a child and his father. He has no humanity. He’s evil and I will not watch him walk away as if nothing happened. He destroys lives.”

  Conza pushed the car door open and got out. He was sitting on a bench when he felt the colonel’s hand on his shoulder.

  “Don’t blame Babcock. He doesn’t like it any more than we do. I think he’s trying to help.”

  The colonel pushed an envelope onto Conza’s knees.

  “He gave this to me. Says the Germans would have a fit if they knew. Take a look.”

  Conza pulled out a black and white photograph. Five people in evening suits, walking down broad steps. In the centre of shot, a short, stocky man was pointing and laughing.

  “Is that Josef Schuman? And that’s Kurti right behind him. My God, Colonel, they know each other.”

  Conza turned the photograph over. “When was this taken?”

  “Babcock says two years ago. He wants to help us. As much as he can, anyway.”

  “But our own government has told you to back off. What the hell do we do?”

  The colonel was staring past Conza, remembering something painful.

  “I was always going to pursue him, Raffy, I just didn’t want to take you down with me. I still don’t.”

  The memory faded and he held Conza’s gaze.

  “You’re at the start of your career, Raffy. This will be the end of mine.”

  Conza leant forward and managed a smile.

  “Careers are overrated, Colonel. Brocelli told me.”

  “If you follow me down that road, there will be repercussions. You really understand that don’t you?”

  “I’ll teach history. I hear th
ey’re crying out for good teachers in prison.”

  “Getting locked up would be one of the better outcomes, Raffy. You know what I’m saying?”

  “No one lives for ever, Colonel.”

  “That’s easy to say sitting on a bench in the sun. But so be it. I’ll talk to Babcock. You and I will come up with a plan when we return to Milan. Now come on, I saw him with a bottle of Asbach. Let’s go meet the Stasi major.”

  80

  Central Police Headquarters, Milan, Italy

  The flight from Berlin didn’t land until early evening, so Conza was surprised to see Brocelli still at his desk, reading the sports section of a local newspaper. He barely raised an eyebrow when Conza knocked on his door, and without being invited, sat down.

  ‘There’s a bloody good police officer in there.’

  “Good result out at the barn last night. The colonel told me.”

  ‘He’s not what you think. What everyone thinks.’

  “You found Fanucci, I hear?”

  ‘You’d do well to talk to him someday. Get past his defences.’

  “Only one of his henchmen though.”

  Brocelli turned the page.

  “You really don’t like me do you, Captain?”

  Slowly, his eyes lifted.

  “You’re wrong again, Lieutenant. I actually couldn’t give a toss about you, one way or the other.”

  Conza smiled and wondered at what point in his life Brocelli had decided to be such an asshole.

  “OK, well let’s assume you don’t like me. What I’m about to say is not going to change that. In fact, I think it’s going to make it worse.”

  Brocelli grunted, but Conza caught a flicker of a grin.

  “The point is, you’re not good at following rules are you?”

  Brocelli slammed his fist onto the desk, making the newspaper rise at the corner.

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Lieutenant, but I don’t answer to you. If you’ve got a problem, take it to the commissioner.”

  Conza had jumped when Brocelli’s hand crashed into the desk.

  “You misunderstand me, Captain Brocelli. I’m actually counting on the fact that you don’t follow the rules. I need you to have not followed the rules.”

  Brocelli stood up, chest puffed out, cheeks reddening. He hitched his trousers above the bulge of his ample waist. Dots of white spittle illuminating the corners of his mouth.

  “Before you blow your top, just hear me out. You don’t use the police computer system. You use your own laptop. I get it, and quite frankly, I don’t care. It’s not my problem. But you had access to Stolz’s USB stick, and I’m guessing you couldn’t resist taking a peek at what was on it. I wish I had. Am I right?”

  Brocelli sat down again and picked up his paper.

  “Fuck off, Conza.”

  Sighing heavily, Conza got up to leave. ‘I tried.’

  “Do you know why you think people like me don’t like you?”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Because you want them not to like you. It makes you feel less guilty about not liking them.”

  Conza was stunned, but Brocelli hadn’t finished.

  “We’re not so different you and I, just ten more kilos around your waist and twenty-five more years of pushing shit uphill and before you know it, you too will stop following the rules.”

  The damning synopsis irritated Conza far more than he thought possible. Brocelli reached into his desk and unceremoniously tossed him Stolz’s key fob.

  “It won’t do you any good, it’s password-protected.”

  “Jesus, Brocelli. You kept it. You’ve had it all along.”

  “Never got the chance to put it back.”

  Conza stood there, not sure what to say or whether to thank him. He settled on exoneration.

  “You’re a star, Captain Brocelli. Rest assured; I will take full responsibility for this. If anyone asks, tell them I took it and if there’s any comeback, it’s on my head, I promise you.”

  “There you go again, Conza. You still don’t get it do you? Despite all your brains and university education. You’ve missed the point; I really couldn’t give a fuck.”

  81

  Saturday

  ‘The Manor House’, Hatchmere, Cheshire, England

  On Saturday morning, Max arrived in the dark and quickly retraced the path to the stable. He wanted to focus on the estate’s activities in the period two hours either side of dawn. As the sun rose above the valley side, he made notes and took a few pictures. He made a sketch showing the gatehouse, main building, cameras, and floodlights. He also noted the position of a large oak tree overhanging the wall running down the side of the house.

  The guards operated from a makeshift control room in the garage adjoined to the side of the main building. They hadn’t set up in the gatehouse; too far removed from the asset they were paid to protect. They knew what they were doing. ‘Professional British soldiers, maybe paras, marines or SAS,’ Max concluded.

  He identified three men, at least one of whom was always on patrol in the grounds. Changeover times were imprecise, but roughly equated to four hours on, eight hours off. For the first time since he’d left Milan, he wished Puz was with him.

  He concluded there would be no ground sensors; patrol routes were irregular, and it would have been too difficult to keep switching them on and off as a soldier passed through a particular area. The floodlights remained on until sunrise at around five-thirty, and he decided it would be almost impossible to move around the grounds unseen while they were working.

  He decided he would enter the grounds just before six. Half an hour after daybreak on Sunday morning.

  He returned to the hotel, ate breakfast and went back to his room, making sure that the ‘Do Not Disturb’ tag was securely fixed to the door handle.

  He stripped and cleaned the Heckler & Koch Mk 23 semi-automatic pistol and fitted the silencer. He filled each of four magazines with ten rounds and laid out his clothes on the armchair. He loaded the pistol and placed the remaining three magazines in a pouch on his utility belt. He checked his torch was working and tugged at the sheath. Finally, he returned the small compass to the recess in the handle of his commando knife, which he sharpened on a sheet of wet sandpaper before placing it under his pillow.

  He was ready. Max could sleep.

  82

  Guardia di Finanza Headquarters, Milan, Italy

  Conza was at his desk before six. He’d already confirmed Brocelli’s proclamation that Stolz’s fob was password-protected. But for the third time, he slid it into a USB port. The now familiar invitation to enter the password popped up, along with the words that continued to depress him: ‘WARNING – ONLY TWO ATTEMPTS REMAINING’.

  “Damn Brocelli.”

  “Sorry about that. Stupid really.”

  The voice caught Conza by surprise.

  “Captain Brocelli. What are you doing at Finanza?”

  “I called Moretti, he told me you’d be here.”

  Conza looked at his watch.

  “I bet that cheered him up.”

  Brocelli seemed different. His voice was less angry and he was out of uniform. Conza couldn’t believe the difference the change of clothes made. He suddenly appeared ‘more normal’.

  Brocelli placed a folder on Conza’s desk; a Europol criminal record file. Without thinking, Conza began reading it.

  “We recovered Fanucci and Puz’s bodies from the barn. Unfortunately, this guy wasn’t with them. His name is Maksim Yahontov, known as Max. Ex-Russian special forces, trained sniper and small arms instructor. Highly skilled with a knife – wrote the book on killing silently. Kicked out of the army for a reason that isn’t recorded. Rumours are he slit the throat of a high-ranking officer at a party.”

  Conza took a new notepad from the box.

  “Often goes by the name of Milo Berentov, but he’s used other identities. Known to the police in Ravenna, where he was charged but not convicted of kidnapping a
child. Although the ransom was paid, the girl’s remains were discovered three weeks later. She’d starved to death.”

  Brocelli was staring at Yahontov’s profile.

  “We know he was in Russia last May, but probably returned to Italy under a different name. We’re going back through immigration records to see what passport he used this time.”

  “Kadin said he was evil. I mean, not just bad, evil,” Conza said, still thinking of the little girl.

  Brocelli suddenly looked very old and tired. He spoke as if trying to capture a thought that was evading him.

  “Kadin is right. I’ve met this animal. A more cruel and evil man has never walked this earth.”

  ‘We all have a story to tell and his is more tragic than most.’

  “How do you know him?”

  “I was on the kidnap investigation team. We arrested him quite soon after Violetta Donnini was snatched. One of Yahontov’s gang lost their bottle and turned himself in. Didn’t want to be involved in the murder of a child, I guess.”

  “So she died soon after she was kidnapped?”

  “No, they kept her alive to begin with, but Yahontov made it clear that whatever happened, the girl had to be killed. She’d seen their faces, you see.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Eight.”

  “What happened?”

  “This guy turned up at the police station in Ravenna. Confessed to taking her from a park. Gave us the address where Yahontov and his buddy were holding her. His buddy was Stefan Puz, by the way.”

  “But the girl wasn’t there?”

  “No, just Puz and Yahontov. They laughed at us. At me. I lost my temper. They loved it.”

  “What had they done with her?”

  “Tied her up and hid her in a storm drain a few kilometres away. Pumped her full of drugs and dumped her as soon as they realised the other gang member had gone missing. They guessed he was going to turn them in.”

  “But you must have found forensics at the farmhouse?”

  “Piles. We could prove Violetta had been there. We even found her headband. There was more than enough to charge them.”