“Good idea, and Sergeant Bosco is female. I’ll come along too. As I said, we don’t have too much excitement in Brenner. Mostly border issues.”
“Can everyone get changed into civvies please, sir?”
Sergeant Moretti toured the village before briefing his team. They were attentive, keen and respectful. ‘I’m definitely moving up here,’ he said to himself as they left the station in pairs.
Vesuvio’s was a small bar with a pastel-coloured fresco of a volcano painted on the wall behind the counter. Just eight tables, each flanked by three-seater vinyl-covered benches.
They were not difficult to spot; a man with a bandaged head and the other wearing a plaster cast on his arm. Three tables were occupied; Paolo de Costa and Leo Calpresi on one, a couple trying to look casual on another, and on the third, a lone young man drinking Coke. The lieutenant entered through the kitchen at the rear of the building and was moving towards Moretti as he entered through the front door.
As Moretti drew alongside their table, he grabbed de Costa’s arm, yanking him violently upward and sideways onto the floor. Corporal Lombardi launched himself over the back of the bench, landing heavily on de Costa’s narrow back.
Simultaneously, the couple on the opposite side of the aisle flung themselves sideways, pinning Leo Calpresi to the table. He tried to fight back, but the lieutenant grabbed him from behind, and was too strong. He forced Calpresi’s good arm up behind his shoulder blade, making him yelp in pain. Until they were sure all was safe, the police didn’t utter a sound.
Moretti slammed cuffs on de Costa making him shout in protest, and he swore when Corporal Lombardi removed the blade he had hidden up his sleeve. Sergeant Bosco held up Calpresi’s pistol like she’d won it at a fairground side-show.
From the moment Moretti entered the bar, the entire operation had taken less than six seconds.
95
Raphael Conza’s Apartment, Milan, Italy
His hangover was beginning to subside by twelve when the phone rang. It was Harry Chase.
“Raffy, you need to read the translation I’ve just emailed you. I’m not going to say anything now. Just call me when you’re done.”
◆◆◆
Forty minutes later, Conza called him back.
“I’m so sorry I involved you in all of this, Harry. It’s worse than I thought. I won’t mention you when it blows up. Thank you for doing it though. I can never repay you.”
“Raffy, what you have there, is dynamite. I don’t have to spell out the ramifications, do I? What on earth are you going to do with it?”
“The colonel said it should go to MI6. I don’t have any better ideas.”
“Do what your colonel tells you, Raffy. You need to get this off your hands as soon as you can.”
“Right. I know.”
“Stay safe, my friend. Let me know when it’s all over. We should talk.”
From his wallet, Conza retrieved a simple white card. The initials CB were printed on one side. He rang the number shown on the reverse. A man’s voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Charles, it’s Raphael Conza. We need to talk.”
96
Village of Bussero, about 20 km East of Milan, Italy
Like most Italian villages around midnight on a Monday, it was sleeping.
They drove past the small stone church for the third time. Nothing stirred and none of the windows were lit in any of the buildings that hugged the narrow, winding lane.
The safe house was at the end of a mud-lined track. No lights, no movement. An SUV was parked in the carport and he could see the outline of the single-storey house against the cloudless canvas of stars. On the roof, a three-metre-long whip-aerial swayed in the gentle breeze.
When they’d driven past the house for the fourth time, he ordered the driver to pull over as he picked up the Webley sub-machine pistol. He turned off the courtesy light, cocked the gun and opened the door. Leaning over the driver’s shoulder, he whispered, “Go up there and turn around at the junction. Kill your lights and drive back until you reach this point. Then wait until I signal.” He held up the pocket torch.
“When I flash, park at the end of the track, but leave your engine running – I won’t be long.”
He gently pushed the door closed until he heard it click shut. He crouched behind the hedge while the car moved off. Staying low, he shuffled forward until he heard the car drawing up behind him. From the rear of the houses came the mournful baying of a fox and in the hedgerow, something small scuttled through the dried twigs and parched leaves.
He moved forward again until the hedge fell back, and he could see the silhouette of the house. Cupping his hand over the torch, he flicked at the switch and for an instant, his fingers glowed pink. He heard the gentle crunch of car tyres rolling towards him.
Crossing the track, he stepped over a low fence marking the boundary of an orchard. Slowly and silently, he felt his way forward between the trees, until just a few metres of broken asphalt stood between him and the front door.
He pictured the layout as it had been described. The front door will be unlocked. In the hall, the first two doors on the right are bedrooms, the second one is where the boy sleeps. He brought the pistol up to his chest.
He stepped out of the trees and a great number of things seemed to happen all at once. The fizz of electricity as a circuit closed and the entire area was flooded in bright white light. The field that ran down the far side of the house spawned at least ten black-clad, helmeted figures holding rifles. A loudspeaker ordered him to “stand still” and “drop your weapon”. And behind him, two police cars, red and blue lights flashing, screeched to a halt either side of the maroon Alfa Romeo.
“Shit,” was all he could muster, as he let the gun slip from his fingers.
In silent resignation, he raised his arms. A few seconds later, he felt himself being pulled down from behind. Captain Brocelli drove a knee into the small of his back and snapped heavy cuffs onto his wrists.
“Giuliani Zeffirelli, you are under arrest for murder and conspiracy to …”
Zeffirelli spat on the captain’s shiny black boots and grinned. Brocelli grabbed his hair and yanked his head forward until their noses almost touched.
“By the way, you homophobic prick, Troy sends his love. He fucked you really good though, didn’t he?”
97
Tuesday
Central Police Headquarters, Milan, Italy
He hadn’t slept well, and his stomach was still gurgling when Captain Brocelli called him just after ten.
“Conza, where are you?”
“Just on my way to Finanza to comply with an order – a day late, you’ll be proud to hear. Why?”
“When you’re done there, come round to the station. I need to show you something.”
“I’m done, Brocelli. I’m on holiday and don’t want to know anymore.”
“When you’ve finished feeling sorry for yourself, get your arse down here. If it’s the last thing you do, you need to see what I’ve found.”
Conza was only at Finanza for a few minutes. In the colonel’s office, he placed a single, sparsely filled notebook on the desk along with a letter addressed to ‘Whoever It May Concern’. Next to it, he left his service revolver, badge and identity card.
◆◆◆
At the station, Brocelli was sitting in his office looking agitated.
“I hear you arrested Zeffirelli?”
“Screw him. Come with me.”
Brocelli led Conza down the corridor to a side office he had to unlock. The room was equipped with a television and playback facilities for films and CCTV. Brocelli pushed Conza in and locked the door.
“All Bennani’s equipment was brought back from Genoa last week.”
“Yes, I know. I ordered its recovery.”
“One of my techies was playing around with one of his boxes this morning and found something.”
“What?”
“The film o
f the barn wasn’t the only recording Issam Bennani left for us.”
“Show me.”
98
Cell 2, Central Police Headquarters, Milan, Italy
Zeffirelli was lying on the plastic-covered mattress when Brocelli entered, pulling the cell door closed behind him.
“What the fuck d’you want?”
Brocelli tossed a photograph onto his chest.
“Anyone you know?”
The picture was of a man lying head down on a flight of stairs. His face was turned towards the camera, dressing gown ruffed up around his waist. A pool of blood had formed on the two steps below his thigh. Zeffirelli tried to ignore it, but recognition got the better of him.
“What the hell,” he exclaimed, sitting up. “Who did this? Shit. You bastard. Who did this?”
“The same person who’s going to get you. The same person who set you up to kill Fanucci. You’re a talking corpse, Zeffirelli. Kurti always gets his man. Just thought you’d like to know.”
Brocelli held his breath. ‘I hope Conza’s right about this.’
“Kurti wouldn’t do this. You’re shitting me.” ‘You’re such a smartarse, Raffy.’
“Why would I lie? We’ve got enough to lock you up for three of your miserable lives. I’ve got nothing to gain. I just enjoy watching the chickens coming home to roost.”
Zeffirelli walked to the small window near the ceiling and rubbed his forehead.
“This is bullshit. Kurti doesn’t want me dead. He didn’t kill Salt. You think I’m stupid?”
“Hey, screw your head back on, you ignorant prick. Think. What reason did he give you for killing Fanucci? We’re in a cell without your lawyer, anything you say to me isn’t worth a crap and you know it. So tell me, I’m curious.”
“He didn’t want the competition. Fanucci took out a contract on Salt.”
Brocelli started to laugh.
“You really are a dumb twat, Zeffirelli. Fanucci’s game is blackmail and extortion. He’s very particular. He’s not a smuggler. Guns or people. It was Kurti who took out the contract. Fanucci just did some running around for him.”
“Why would Kurti want Pete dead?”
“That’s the really funny part, Zeffirelli. He didn’t. The contract was taken out on the guy who was shot. There was no mistake. It was nothing to do with you or your brother-in-law.”
“This is bullshit. I saw him. He looked just like Pete. He was in the same hotel. He was picked up by a black Merc. It all fitted. Pete knew he was the target.”
“That’s because your brother-in-law is paranoid. You know how his brother died in ’98?”
“A rival gang. There was a turf war. They blew his head off outside a restaurant.”
“Are you getting it yet, Zeffirelli?”
“Salterton sent you off to wipe out whoever he thought was trying to kill him. That annoyed Kurti, he’s not a man who likes loose ends. Ultimately, I think he wanted all of you dead, but settled for Fanucci in the short term. And you did his dirty work for him.”
Brocelli was laughing again.
“You’re lying, you bastard.”
Zeffirelli lunged forward, fists raised but the policeman was expecting it and sidestepped the blow before bringing his fist down on the back of his neck. Zeffirelli lay on the floor groaning.
“Thing is, you’re scared to death right now, because you know it’s true. Kurti’s going to finish you off. In jail, out of jail, who knows? But I wouldn’t give him longer than three weeks to find a way to reach you.”
“I want protection. It’s the law. You have to give me protection.”
Zeffirelli was trying to sit up, but Brocelli placed a foot on his chest.
“Why on earth would I help you, Zeffirelli? You’re scum.”
“I want my lawyer.”
“No worries, I’ll send him down here. But he won’t be able to help. The families won’t get involved with Kurti; we both know that. Take a look at the photograph. Your brother-in-law was wiped out when he was being protected by an army of guards. He must have told you about his pet soldiers?”
Brocelli lifted his foot allowing Zeffirelli to rub his neck.
“What do you want?”
“You get one go, Zeffirelli. If you turn me down or lie to me, I’ll make sure your location is leaked to every low-life in Italy. Do you hear me?”
“What the fuck do you want, you bastard?”
“I want to know how to contact Kurti.”
Zeffirelli snorted with contempt and shook his head.
“You think it’s that simple? To trace someone like Kurti through his mobile. You’re the dumb one.”
“We don’t want to trace him, so tell me anyway.”
“You don’t call Kurti. A man like him will change his phone every week, maybe every day. You call an answering service. It could be in Outer Mongolia for all I know. If he’s expecting your call or wants to talk to you, they connect you. Otherwise you’re left holding your dick.”
“So, I need the number of his answer service.”
“You can have it, my friend, it’s worthless. But first, I need it in writing that I get protection.”
“I walk in three seconds. Look at the photograph. There won’t be a second chance, Zeffirelli. One… Two…”
99
Wednesday
Campione d’Italia, Italy
Conza couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. But he’d never been so sad, or scared before, so he forgave himself. There was no turning back.
“Raphael. What a lovely surprise,” his mother said, offering her cheek as she pulled him inside.
“Are you OK? You look tired. Has something happened?”
“Everything’s fine, Mama. I just needed a break.” ‘To see you one last time. To say goodbye.’
“Come in, I was just making pasta. How’s Milan?”
They talked while she cooked. Conza took comfort from the fact she seemed settled. It made him happy. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he consoled himself as she launched into a tale about her neighbour’s dog.
In the afternoon, he took a boat over to Lugano and retraced the steps he’d taken with his friend Harry Chase, the day they sat atop Monte San Salvatore. ‘Three years ago, was it really only three years?’
Tourists bustled around the small chapel at the top of the hill, so he headed down the footpath signposted Via Ferrata. He reached a point where the brown, scraped earth divided. He took the less worn path and when it ended abruptly at the cliff edge, he turned left and scrambled back up the mountain through thickets of juniper bushes, until he reached the white-painted concrete shell of an abandoned building.
He sat on the broken outer wall to catch his breath. On the silver-flecked lake below, water taxis and pleasure boats left trails of white as they darted in and out of inlets and coves. His mobile phone signal showed five bars.
‘It’s now or never, Raffy.’ He tapped in the number.
“Salvador shipping. How may I help you?”
“I need to get a message to Alexander Kurti.”
“I’m sorry, sir –”
“Don’t bother telling me you’ve never heard of him. Just give him this message. Are you ready to write?”
Silence.
“Tell him to tell his boss, we’ve found the backdoor to Tilza. He can reach me on this number at ten, Paris time, tomorrow morning.”
“I’m sorry, sir –”
But Conza had already switched the phone off. ‘Mobile phones are like beacons,’ Conza heard Issam Bennani say to his son.
◆◆◆
In her chalet, Mrs Conza went into the bedroom to find her scissors, but something caught her eye. She gasped and clutched at her chest. On the wall above her bed there was a small Goya sketch of three fish, and a note, which read, ‘Just to fill a space. X’
100
Thursday
Geneva, Switzerland
Conza took a bus from his hotel to the Parc Mon Repos on the Avenue de France. H
e wandered past a two-storey villa set back from the path. The sign read, ‘Academy of International Humanitarian Law and Human Rights’. He turned his back on the building and headed east towards the shore. ‘I’m not dealing with people who practise humanity.’
At one minute before ten, he switched on the phone. Seventy-five seconds later, it lit up.
“Who am I speaking to?” The voice was harsh, with an East European accent.
“My name is Raphael Conza. Since Monday, I’m an ex-policeman. I worked on the Stolz murder.”
Conza’s heart was racing and his mouth had dried up. His legs felt heavy.
“What do you want, Conza?”
“To speak to Schuman. And please don’t insult me by asking ‘who?’”
“What for? If I know him, I’ll give him a message.”
“He has six hours from now to call me. If he fails, his world ends. I know everything and if I don’t hear from him, so will everyone else.”
“You sure you know what you’re dealing with, mister ex-policeman?”
“Five hours, fifty-nine minutes.”
Conza disconnected the call, turned off the phone and leant over the railings. Forty minutes until his next train. He felt sick.
101
Lyon, France
He tried to eat something in a bistro on the Rue d’Aubigny but could only stomach a couple of mouthfuls of salad. He sauntered back to the station at Part-Dieu and rechecked the timetable. His next train would leave in an hour.
He wandered back outside and found a quiet spot at the side of the glass-fronted building. He switched on his mobile.
The Milan Contract Page 26