The driver of the Audi was Spartak Gourko. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was Anatoly Shikov. Gourko’s hair was freshly razed to his scalp in a severe buzz-cut. While Anatoly liked to look stylish, Gourko didn’t make the effort. There was little point, not with the disfigurement of the mass of scar tissue that extended down the left side of his face from temple to jaw. An old fragmentation grenade wound from the first Chechen War, it twisted his mouth and brow into a permanent scowl that made him look even more pissed off than he nearly always was.
Anatoly was pleased with his little scheme so far. It was a lot more inventive than his father’s. The idea of getting one of their Italian associates to call up pretending to order more materials for the art gallery grounds had occurred to him on the flight. Naturally, the Italians were under the impression that the whole thing was his father’s idea, so nobody questioned anything.
And this way was going to be so much more fun.
OK, so the old man might be a little pissed off at him for altering one or two minor details of the plan – but as long as he got what he wanted in the end, what did it really matter? Ends and means, and all that. Wasn’t like his father hadn’t done some crazy shit himself, back in the day when he was coming up. Anatoly was well versed in the legend of the hardest son of a bitch who’d ever walked the earth. He only wanted to measure up, that was all. And have fun doing it.
Anatoly smiled quietly to himself as he climbed out of the car and he and Gourko walked unnoticed up behind the arguing Italians. He nodded to the pickup driver. The big guy’s name was Rocco Massi, and he was one of their main contacts over here. Anatoly wasn’t exactly sure, but he thought Massi’s boss was a friend of his old man’s. The rest of the Italian crew were called Bellomo, Garrone, Scagnetti and Caracciolo. Anatoly couldn’t remember which was which. He trusted them well enough, though not as much as his own guys. Gourko of course, then Rykov, Petrovich, Turchin. Only Petrovich knew much Italian. Rykov seemed not to speak anything at all. But Anatoly hadn’t picked them for their communication skills. They were the hardest, meanest, nastiest bunch of motherfuckers you could find anywhere in Russia. Apart from the old man, naturally.
Anatoly’s hand darted inside his jacket and came out with an automatic pistol fitted with a long sound suppressor. Without pausing a beat, he raised the gun at arm’s length and blew off the back of Beppe’s head at point-blank range.
In the open air, the sound of the silenced gunshot was like a muffled handclap.
Beppe went straight down on his face.
Before Mauro and Carmine could react, Spartak Gourko had reached for the pistol holstered under his jacket and Rocco Massi had produced an identical weapon from behind the hip of his jeans. Gourko’s bullet took Carmine between the eyes; Mauro got one in the chest. Carmine was dead instantly and his body slumped across Beppe’s, their blood intermingling on the road.
Mauro didn’t die right away. Groaning in agony, he tried to crawl back towards the Mercedes, as if somehow there was some hope of getting in and escaping. Rocco Massi was about to finish off Mauro with another bullet when Anatoly shook his head and made a sharp gesture. ‘I do it.’ His Italian was primitive, but the warning tone in his voice was clear.
He stepped over to the dying man. Flipped him over with the toe of his expensive alligator boot and stared down at him for a moment as he lay there helplessly on his back, gasping, blood welling from the bullet hole in his chest. Then Anatoly raised his right foot, smiled and stamped the heel down on Mauro’s throat. It crushed his trachea as if squashing a roach. Mauro gurgled up gouts of blood, then his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he was dead.
The road was still deserted. The three passengers from each ambush vehicle got out and quickly cleaned up the scene. Few words were exchanged between the Italians and the Russians, but they worked together quickly and efficiently. The bodies were dragged over to the pickup, where zip-up coroner’s bodybags were waiting for them. Earth was sprinkled over the blood pools on the road. In less than two minutes, every last trace of the killings was erased.
Four bulging holdalls were transferred from the Audi to the van. Anatoly and Gourko clambered into the back of the Mercedes together with Rykov, Turchin and Scagnetti. Rocco Massi switched over to take the van’s wheel and was joined up front by Bellomo and Garrone. Carraciolo and Petrovich took their places in the Nissan and the Audi. Doors slammed in the still, hot air. The convoy took off.
Exactly seven minutes after the van had been intercepted, it was back en route to its destination. They’d stop on the way for their final briefing, to make sure everyone knew exactly what they were doing, and to wait until the time was right.
Then it was game on.
Ben Hope loved beaches. Not the heaving nightmare of scorched flab and sun tan lotion it was so hard to avoid all up and down the coasts of Europe from May through September, but the secluded kind of place where you could sit and watch the tide hiss in over the sand and be alone with your thoughts for a while. After his lunch he’d taken a long stroll down by the shore, carrying his shoes in his hand and letting the cool water wash over his bare feet. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he’d looked out across the Gulf of Gaeta. Due west, the nearest land was Sardinia.
Then he’d retraced his steps back to the car, wiped the sand from his feet and started making his way further up the coastal road.
It was getting on for six in the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to dip lower in the sky by the time he entered a colourful-looking village a few kilometres from the town of Aprilia. He felt tired of driving. Maybe it was time to think about stopping, parking up somewhere and exploring the place for a nice, quiet hotel. It felt a little decadent to be taking things this easy, but the last thing he wanted was to hit Rome too early and have to deal with the oppressive heat and noise of the place with nothing else to do but sit around waiting for his flight tomorrow afternoon, fretting about Brooke and what the hell he wanted to do with his life.
Those were the thoughts in Ben’s mind when a black cat suddenly streaked out of a concealed entrance behind a hedge and darted across the road in front of him.
Followed closely by a running child.
Ben slammed his foot urgently on the brake pedal. He felt the percussive kickback of the ABS system against the sole of his shoe as the Shogun’s tyres bit hard into the dusty tarmac and brought the car to a skidding halt barely a couple of metres from the kid.
The young boy was maybe nine or ten years old. He stood rooted in the middle of the road, staring wide-eyed with shock at the big square front of the Mitsubishi. Ben flung open the car door, jumped out and stormed up to him.
On the other side of the road, the black cat paused to stare a moment, then slunk away into the bushes.
‘Didn’t your mother teach you to look where you’re going?’ Ben raged at the kid in Italian. ‘You could have got yourself killed.’
The boy hung his head and stared down at his feet. His hair was longish and sandy, his eyes blue and his face a lot paler than it had been just a moment ago. He looked genuinely sorry, and more than a little shaken. Softening, Ben crouched down in front of him so that he wouldn’t seem like a huge big angry adult towering over him. ‘What’s your name?’ he said in a gentler tone.
The kid didn’t reply for a moment, then glanced up nervously from his feet and muttered, ‘Gianni.’
‘Was that your pet cat you were chasing after, Gianni?’
A shake of the head.
‘Do you live around here?’ He was too neatly dressed to have come far, and Ben could see he wasn’t some kind of street urchin running wild about the place.
Gianni pointed through the trees at the side of the road.
‘Are