by Gary McAvoy
“Yes, sir. Though they did not identify themselves, that’s my assumption as well. We’ve been causing them quite a few headaches this past week. But despite that, kidnapping is one of their more principled businesses. Once payment is made, they’re known for always returning the victim.”
Marco failed to mention that he’d killed many of the Camorra’s own assets lately, and there was a chance of retribution killing despite the ransom payment—though he hoped they conducted this particular job as they normally would. The Mafia’s honor was at stake, after all. If word got around that their victims were killed after payment was made, that lucrative business would dry up faster than spit on a Sicilian sidewalk.
“Let me know the minute you have more news, Marco. I’m counting on you.” The baron ended the call.
Dominic kept checking the Find My app to see if any iPhone had come near Hana’s AirTag tracker, with no luck yet.
Chapter 41
Set in the fashionable upmarket district of Muette in Paris’s 16th Arrondissement, on the west bank of the River Seine, Eldon Villard’s 40-room villa was home to one of the world’s foremost art collections.
The 18th-century mansion boasted a quintessentially Parisian setting, with a façade built from locally sourced limestone of the kind that was used on the exteriors of Notre Dame Cathedral and the Louvre, with grey slate tiles on the mansard roof, and tall casement windows with splendid views of the Eiffel Tower just across the river.
But this villa was specially rebuilt only with art in mind. Every room was constructed such that its interior layout was secondary only to the walls, on which were hung many of the world’s finest paintings, a pristine collection valued in the multi-millions of euros. Apart from impressive security technology and on-premises guards, the villa was also protected by a state-of-the-art fire extinguishing system, one that sucked oxygen from the atmosphere rather than using water which would damage works of art.
Eldon Villard had a keen eye and an unquenchable passion for the Old Masters, which he often bought and infrequently sold. But his larger collection was securely maintained at the expansive freeport complex in neighboring Luxembourg, where—like most high-net-worth individuals who use freeports for such purposes—he was free to buy, sell and trade pieces without the burdens of taxation or Customs duties, or the inquisitive pursuits of law enforcement authorities.
A tall aristocratic sort favoring Fioravanti bespoke suits and Louis Vuitton Richelieu wingtips crafted from waxed alligator leather, Villard’s business enterprises constantly took him around the globe, where he would check in with his favorite galleries for the latest treasures they held aside exclusively for his approval. His private jet of choice getting there was a gleaming silver Gulfstream G650ER, allowing him to fly almost halfway around the world before needing to refuel.
The jet had just taken off from Le Bourget in Paris for the Friuli Venezia Giulia Airport in Trieste, where Villard would view one of his most prized acquisitions yet—Raphael’s Madonna of Foligno. As he sat in the main cabin nursing a flute of Louis Roederer Cristal champagne, a superior 2013 vintage, he reviewed the Condition Report and provenance records of the piece. He was well aware that it had come from the Vatican, making him even more covetous. How Renzo Farelli’s Studio managed that bit of expropriation was not his concern. The painting would always remain in his private storage locker—actually more an interior series of small steel-reinforced luxury warehouse suites—in the Luxembourg Freeport anyway, so no one would ever see it but him. At 57, Eldon Villard had made it. He could have and do anything he wanted.
The Frecciarossa Red Arrow sped Renzo Farelli from Venice to the Trieste Centrale station in just under two hours, during which time he had immersed himself on the Condition Report of the Raphael. He needed to speak fluently about the painting when he met Eldon Villard.
From the train station, Farelli was picked up by a dark limousine sedan and taken to the Trieste Freeport, where he was greeted by its director, Pietro Meloni, while they both waited for Villard’s plane to arrive.
“He should be here within thirty minutes or so, Signor Farelli. In the meantime, would you like a tour of the freeport?”
“No, thank you. But I would like to see the painting while we’re waiting. Can you take me to it?”
“Of course, please follow me, signore.”
Meloni led him through a maze of gently lit hallways lined with state-of-the-art brushed steel doors, each equipped with biometric handprint identification panels and retinal scanners. The walls of each spacious storage room were composed of half-meter thick steel-reinforced cellular concrete, with fire suppression and prevention equipment that reduced the oxygen ratio in each room. Since air normally contains around 21% oxygen, the system lowered this to around 16% percent oxygen, preventing fires from even starting.
Meloni stopped in front of Vault 42, held his hand up to the ID panel and rested his chin on the retinal scanner support. There was a confirming acceptance tone, then the smooth grind of heavy bolts retracting, and the steel door silently swung open.
Stepping into the room, Meloni ran his hand over a wall panel that initiated a slowly rising beam of custom LED lighting, illuminating the stunning Raphael hanging on the center wall with custom LUX levels enhancing every color and shadow of the piece. This room was clearly designed for displaying art of the finest quality.
Impressed with the freeport’s attention to detail, Farelli walked into the room and stood in awe of the painting before him. He knew, of course, that this was Giuseppe’s forgery, but it was thoroughly indistinguishable from the original. His trained eye examined every area of the piece, satisfied that Villard would be quite pleased with his purchase.
And at 25 million euros, it would be the Camorra’s largest sale yet.
The sound of footsteps approaching made Farelli turn back toward the door. Entering the room were four people, three men—two of them obviously personal security guards—and a woman, presumably an assistant. The easily recognized Eldon Villard stepped up to Farelli, holding out his hand.
“Signor Farelli, I presume?”
“Oui, Monsieur Villard, it is a great honor to meet you,” Farelli gushed. Then, turning with a flourish of his arm, he presented Raphael’s Madonna of Foligno.
“Is she not spectacular in every way?” he asked, clasping his hands.
Villard took in a deep breath, gazing at the painting. He stood in front of it for a few moments, then walked from side to side, viewing it at different angles.
“There isn’t a better word to describe it,” he said in almost a whisper. Then, decisively, “I shall take it. Signor Meloni, would you be so kind as to make arrangements for it to be moved to my jet? It will go directly to my vault at the Luxembourg Freeport, so please ensure the paperwork reflects that it is in transit only between freeports.”
“We have already prepared the shipping container, Signor Villard, and all papers have been completed, as your assistant requested earlier. We will have it delivered by armored van to your jet within the hour.”
“Is there a conference room where Signor Farelli and I might have a conversation in the meantime?” Villard asked.
“Of course, if you’ll follow me…” Meloni waited until everyone had left the room, then secured the door.
The freeport director led the group back toward the entrance of the building and into a lavish conference room overlooking the waters of the Gulf of Trieste. While the security detail waited outside the door, Farelli, Villard and his assistant went inside and took seats.
“Signor Farelli,” Villard began, “I well appreciate the risks you have taken to deliver such a fine piece to me, and I am more than grateful. However, a man in my position needs to be sure there will be no repercussions from certain parties as to my personal involvement in this matter. Are we in agreement?”
“Yes, absolutely, signore. As far as anyone is concerned, you are invisible to the transaction.”
“Good. Then the matter
is settled. I will have the funds wired to your Swiss account immediately. My assistant has the details.” He motioned to the woman sitting across from him, who nodded, then picked up her iPad and executed the transaction.
“If there is any issue at all,” Villard continued, a grave tone to his voice, “we will speak again.”
He rose from his chair, shook Farelli’s hand, then left the conference room. With a quick wave to Meloni, his entourage swiftly left the building and got into a black Mercedes limousine waiting outside the entrance.
Renzo Farelli was shaking with a mixture of joy and trepidation. Joy at the sheer size and smoothness of the transaction; trepidation at the consequences should Eldon Villard ever discover he had just paid 25 million euros for a forgery.
Chapter 42
Pierluigi Falco had already spent nearly ten hours guarding his hostage, and as it was almost 8 p.m., his shift was about to end. He had spent the last couple hours preparing his grandmother’s favorite recipe for Fettuccine all'Amatriciana—handmade noodles in a rich tomato sauce with aged pancetta topped with freshly shaved Pecorino Romano cheese—especially for his honored captive.
“I will leave you soon, signorina, but Hugo will take good care of you until I return tomorrow. I hope you enjoy the pasta.” He placed the bowl on a table in Hana’s room.
“It smells great, Pierluigi, thank you,” Hana said with little enthusiasm. With his wriggling finger wave, Falco left the room.
A few minutes later, Hugo, the replacement guard, slammed the door as he entered the apartment on the third floor of Altamonte Suites in downtown Florence, a building owned by the Camorra, who leased out most of the apartments but reserved a few for their own use as safe houses.
As usual, Hugo had his iPhone flush to his ear, engaged in a prolonged argument with his girlfriend. Falco sighed as the young man entered the room, squabbling, this being a common occurrence. It was as if those two thrived on chaos in their relationship, he mused.
Falco signaled to him to stop talking for a moment. Hugo obliged, holding the phone to his chest.
“I have just fed her, and if you’re hungry, there’s more on the stove. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hugo waved him off, then returned to animatedly discussing the problems of the day with his girlfriend.
Unbeknownst to Hugo, his iPhone was now inside the ten-meter Bluetooth circle of Hana’s bag. The moment he entered the apartment, the AirTag had recognized an iPhone, which instantly transmitted the AirTag’s location to a secure server on iCloud, where it would wait until the Find My app on Dominic’s host device initiated a search request.
Dominic, Marco, Karl and Lukas had just finished dinner at their hotel when, after multiple checks with no luck, Dominic tried the Find My app once again.
This time a tiny picture of Hana appeared at a specific location on a map of Florence, showing the location of the AirTag in her wallet.
“Got it!” he cried out excitedly. “She’s in a building called the Altamonte Suites.
“So,” he asked, looking at Marco, “what’s our plan?”
Marco thought a moment, then opened Livia’s laptop, launched the Google Earth software, entered the address shown on the app, then enabled the 3D option. The software flew to the given location, angling so as to show surrounding buildings from the front, sides, and back. Using the rotational tools, he viewed the building with an eye toward access and escape.
“It’s only three stories tall. We’ll wait until dark, say a couple more hours when most people are going to sleep, then if there are no guards outside, we can try entering through the front door. If that’s locked, Karl can try to pick it. Our last option would be to go in from the roof. Will that app guide us to where the AirTag actually is, Michael?”
“Yes, it’ll show the actual distance counting down the closer we get to it.”
“Perfect. OK, let’s gear up. I’ll arrange for a rental car with the concierge, then we’ll go monitor activity at the building until the time is right.”
Chapter 43
Under cover of darkness, Faustino Perez lay prone on the secluded rooftop across the street from an upscale residential building. His Austrian-built Steyr SSG 69 sniper rifle with silencer and Kahles Wien ZF69 scope properly aligned, he waited for the Go signal from his client, Don Angelo Gallucci.
He was glad to be back in Florence, though he rarely performed assassinations in his hometown. But this was a high-profile contract, an Italian magistrate, with a large payday attached to it. Admittedly, it was much more gratifying building bombs—the infinitely sinuous intricacies of working with C-4 and Semtex wiring, blasting caps and cell phone igniters were his passion—but since he was also in great demand for his Italian Army-trained sniper skills, why not take the easy money, too? Lately the Camorra had been his primary client; a mutual trust had developed over time. And since they seemed to have unlimited funds, they never complained about the high fees his work demanded.
The text message arrived. Proceed when ready.
Relaxing his body, he peered through the scope again, finding his target in the crosshairs, sitting in a wingback chair, reading a newspaper by the fireplace in his library. He took a deep breath, held it, then gently squeezed the trigger. He watched as a wide splatter of blood soaked the newspaper. Then the man’s head fell to the side.
He broke down his rifle, repacked it in its foam casing lying next to him, shrugged the pack onto his shoulder, then casually walked to the rooftop exit door, went down the stairs and exited the building.
Once back in his van, Perez got another text from Gallucci: Payment waiting at Altamonte. See Hugo.
Hugo. What a sad excuse for an operative. Echoes between the ears and anger management issues. I’ll see him after a celebratory drink.
Marco had parked the rental car across the street and a building down from the Altamonte Suites, and for the past hour he, Dominic, Karl and Lukas sat watching the entrance, checking for unusual activity or the appearance of anyone they might recognize or who appeared suspicious. They saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Dominic checked his Find My app. A large arrow on the display pointed to the northwest corner of the building—approximately 100 meters away from their current location—as the last recorded position of the AirTag. Once they got closer, the app display would change.
“Everyone ready?” Marco asked. Karl and Lukas checked their SIG Sauer pistols and gave Marco a thumbs up. “Michael, take this Taser in case it’s needed.” He handed him the electroshock weapon, showing him how to operate it.
“I don’t imagine killing anyone would be your first choice, and this will only cause temporary paralysis. But regardless, you stay behind us when we go in. If there’s any action, I want you to wait outside the door until I call ‘Clear.’ Understood?”
Dominic nodded. “Thanks for obliging me, Marco, not to mention the Sixth Commandment.”
“Alright, let’s go.”
Leaving the car, they walked in pairs, staying in the shadows, until they reached the front door of the Altamonte. It was locked.
But, ever-prepared, Karl had brought his lock picking kit with him. As the others gathered around, shielding him from view beneath the entryway light, he first inserted a tension wrench, then a high hook pick, identifying each pin starting with the rearmost. He lifted and set each of the binding pins, hearing a soft click as each one set. A few moments later, he turned the handle.
They were in.
Since they were on the ground floor, they first had to walk the halls there until Dominic’s app indicated their distance from the tag identifying the suspect apartment. They needed to be within its ten-meter Bluetooth range.
The ground floor showed no change on the app.
Heading to a door marked with the image of a man walking upstairs, they entered and ran up to the next floor. Repeating the same process, apartments on that floor showed nothing on the app as well. Back to the stairs and up to the top floor.
As th
ey proceeded up the hallway, the arrow on the app display jumped to life, now pointing directly ahead, about nine meters.
They approached the last suite in the northwest corner of the building, weapons drawn, tensions high. The Find My app confirmed the AirTag was on the other side of that door.
Marco gently tried the door handle. It was locked. They heard the TV inside was on and the volume was unusually, and helpfully, loud. Marco whispered to Karl to try picking the lock so they didn’t have to break down the door, alerting others in the building.
Karl went at it, using the same quiet, efficient process as before. Within a minute, the mechanism was unlocked.
With Karl and Lukas standing on either side of the doorway, their silenced weapons raised at head level, Marco turned the knob, opened the door a crack, and peeked inside.
What he saw surprised him. He closed the door silently.
“All I see is two old people with their backs to us, a man and a woman watching television!” he whispered. Then, looking at Dominic, “Are you sure this is the right place?”
The priest checked again. “Yes, the AirTag is in this apartment. No doubt about it.”
“Well, in we go, then.”
With that, Marco opened the door, aiming his pistol at the older couple in the living room. Karl and Lukas followed him closely, their pistols sweeping the rest of the apartment and down the hall. The old woman was knitting something, while the man was engrossed in an Italian football game. They both looked up, surprised.
“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my home?” the old woman demanded.
“Our apologies if we’re mistaken, signora,” Marco said, “but we’re seeking a friend of ours who has been kidnapped, and we believe she’s in this apartment.”
“Well, as you can see, it’s just me and my husband watching television. Now get out of here before I call the police!”