Cell

'Yes, by about an hour despite that long stop when the express sat in the middle of nowhere. We'll go into that bar. Warm you up – you must be frozen.'

As he pushed open the solid sheet of glass which was the door a wave of warmth greeted them. No other customers. The bar extended down the right-hand side with leather-topped stools. Restaurant tables were arranged in a large open space. A girl with black hair tied back came to serve them as they perched on stools.

'What can I get you folks?' she asked in an American drawl.

'Which part of the States are you from?' Beaurain asked with a smile.

'Kansas. Pop works in electronics in Milan. Couldn't put up with that city any longer, so I came here. He has the most enormous apartment here, like a palace. Now what can I get you?'

'I guess you're hungry again,' Beaurain said, looking at Paula with a smile. 'Coffee to drink?'

'Coffee for me. And are those macaroons?' Paula pointed to a plate inside a cooler.

'Try one. You don't like it we'll dump it.' She used tongs to extract one and place it on a plate. 'I'm Sandy.'

'I'm Jenny,' Paula said quickly. 'This is Peter.'

She crunched the macaroon or whatever it was, swallowed it as Sandy poured coffee for both of them. Paula asked for another macaroon. Sandy pointed to a table facing the door. 'Why don't you folks go and be comfortable. I'll bring it over.'

'Good idea,' Beaurain agreed.

He chose a chair facing the door which gave him a sidelong view of the entrance to the amphitheatre. Sandy came over with a tray. A plate full of macaroons, the coffee freshly poured. Sandy stood with a hand on her hip.

'You're British.' She laughed. 'You see, I got it right. I know you don't like to be called Brits. Can't blame you.'

Beaurain asked for the bill, explaining they might have to leave quickly. He included a generous tip. Sandy thanked him, then pulled a face as she picked up the euro notes.

'This stuff is one reason I'll be glad when Pop takes me back to the States. Funny money. Dollars for me any time.'

'That was quick and smart of you,' Beaurain said quietly when the girl was back behind the counter. 'Making up false names.'

'I thought maybe when we've left someone will come in to interrogate her.'

'They probably will. Say we're friends to cover up their real motive…'

Paula had just consumed every macaroon on the plate, had a refill of coffee, when Beaurain checked his watch. Paula raised her eyebrows.

'I thought we were early.'

'We are, but someone I couldn't see very well has just unlocked the padlock on the doors to the amphitheatre. Do not assume it's Petacci.'

They said good night to Sandy and strolled to the doors, now open. The man had vanished inside. Beaurain gestured for Paula to stay behind him. He entered slowly, peered round. Barely seen, a man stood in shadow beyond the entrance. Beaurain walked slowly up to him while Paula followed, glove off her right hand which gripped the Browning behind her back. Something wrong here.

'Mr Petacci?' Beaurain enquired.

'Si.'

'Mr Murano phoned you from Milan?'

'Si.'

'So what is Mr Murano's first name?'

The shadowy figure shifted his stance. Shuffled his feet as though getting more comfortable. Both hands inside the pockets of his overcoat. Not a word of English so far. Silence. Beaurain had both hands down by his sides, neither wearing gloves.

'Murano's first name?' he repeated.

'First names do not matter in our circles.' Good English but with a faint trace of an accent Paula couldn't identify. 'You have money,' the figure added.

'You want something first?'

'The money first, then I give you information.'

Beaurain struck with the speed of a cobra. His fist hit the figure in the mouth. Then both hands grabbed his forearms, rammed him against the stone wall behind him. One hand whipped up, grasped his jaw, hammered it with force that made Paula flinch, so much force she heard the skull smash against the stone wall. All in seconds. The figure slumped down the wall. Beaurain bent down, hauled one hand out of the shadowy figure's pocket, produced the ugly sight of a Glock pistol when Paula switched on her torch, then off quickly. Beaurain checked the Glock by feel, shoved it in one of his own pockets. His eyes were accustomed to the dark now. He lifted the man by his armpits, rammed him inside one of the alcoves carved out of the rock, stood up.

'How did you know?' Paula asked.

'Didn't ask for that identification card Mario gave me. And they use first names a lot in Italy as a matter of course.'

'He was going to shoot us?'

'I think that was the general idea. The real Aldo Petacci has to be somewhere else inside this vast place.'

He was whispering but now he placed a finger to his lips. She had also heard the faint sound. Footsteps approaching the main entrance from outside, several pairs. Beaurain grasped her by the arm, guided her down a sloping ramp leading towards the arena, a huge oval shape below them. They hurried, soon reached the bottom. Still holding her arm, Beaurain guided her along the edge of the amphitheatre, then pointed her up a flight of steps between a block of tiers of seats climbing high up.

'Don't think there aren't some of them here already,' he warned. 'Go up to the top – always take the high ground. I'll creep up the next flight…'

It was eerie. You could almost hear the silence. Amphitheatre. Gladiatorial contests had been held here long ago – and now another one was building up.

She crouched down behind the wall below the tiers of seats, began to climb carefully. Once she glanced to her right, was appalled to realize that Beaurain, although crouched, was so tall his head was visible. She placed her rubber-soled shoes cautiously on each new step. There could be something on the flight which would make a noise.

Then her next tentative step felt a stone under it, small and round. Had she moved less cautiously the stone would have gone rolling down the flight behind her. In the distance, further round the curved tiers, she heard the sound of something hard clattering down steps. Then whispers. There was a gang of them. She continued climbing.

The moonlight didn't penetrate the staircase but she had good night sight and her eyes were now accustomed to the dark. She was approaching the top when she saw a figure above her, crouched with its back to her, holding some kind of machine pistol. He was staring to his right. He had spotted Beaurain, was waiting for the moment to shoot him down with a fusillade. She glanced to her right again. Beaurain was below her but his head was still so visible. Despite being shorter, she had made swifter progress up towards the top. Her legs began to ache. She ignored the pain.

The figure above her was moving now, elevating the barrel of his weapon, taking deliberate aim. She had earlier dispensed with gloves. She tensed, raised her Browning, gripped in both hands, fired. Once, twice, again. The figure stiffened, lost its balance, tumbled down the staircase towards her. The weapon clattered down after it.

She stopped the figure's fall with one hand, picked up the weapon with the other. Her Browning was bolstered. The weapon was a Kalashnikov. She switched on her torch for a second. The weapon still had a full magazine. She checked the body quickly, again switching on her torch for a brief moment. Another magazine was protruding from a pocket. She grabbed it. The gunman was dead. Beaurain appeared at the top, ran down the few steps.

'You're too tall, Jules,' she snapped. 'He could see your head.'

'So I'm still alive because you spotted him. I'll take the Kalashnikov.'

'No you won't. I can use it…'

Recently she had spent her annual training session with tough Drake at the training mansion hidden away in the Surrey countryside. Drake had checked her on the Uzi, then trained her hard on a Kalashnikov.

'They may be coming for us along the top,' he said, his revolver in his hand.