‘At this time we don’t know who the assassin represents, but as he went after Yamout once, he could again. Or others might in his place. Perhaps Ariff will be targeted too. If they die, one of their many lieutenants would likely take over, and it might take us months to adapt to the new leadership, all the while losing opportunities to track our enemies. An even worse outcome would be that some unaffiliated arms dealer or dealers steps into the void left behind and we would know nothing of them. We can’t allow that to happen.’
Zahm nodded.
Father said, ‘But there is more for us to consider than the need to protect the operation. I have lost four of my heroic children. And in dying they saved a life of the very worst kind.’ He paused, revulsion and anger taking the place of grief in his sagging face. ‘That fact sickens me to my stomach. What would their families think if they knew who their loved ones had died to protect?’ He paused again to compose himself. ‘My son, I want your unit to avenge them.’
‘Of course,’ Zahm said without hesitation.
‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but don’t be so hasty to commit yourself and your people to this mission. Who knows how many others were involved in this, or how long it could take to find them all. And don’t forget, the assassin himself is a dangerous target. Like yourself, he is an exceptional killer.’
Zahm gave a placatory nod. ‘Regardless, I still accept. My team is the best I’ve ever worked with. One man, however dangerous, is still one man. Our people deserve vengeance, and I can promise you my team will share these sentiments. We will be honoured to kill this killer and those who sent him.’
Father took Zahm’s hands in his own. ‘I knew I could count on you, my son.’
‘Do we know who this assassin is, or where he is?’
‘No to both,’ Father answered. He reached into his canvas shopping bag again and handed Zahm a file containing another series of photographs. ‘But these were taken at Minsk Central train station the day after the attack. As you can see, there are two men walking together, one a little way behind the first. We do not see the face of the second man, but I believe him to be the assassin we seek. The first man has been identified as Danil Petrenko, the Belarusian crime boss Yamout went to Minsk to meet with.’
Zahm examined the photographs. ‘He looks like a captive to me.’
Father nodded. ‘Yet he flew out of Belarus later that day with his girlfriend on a flight to Barcelona. I think it might be worth you having a quiet word with Mr Petrenko.’
CHAPTER 42
Bologna, Italy
Victor had a room at the Villa Relais Valfiore, a charming hotel about six miles south-east of Bologna. While he waited for Giordano to complete his work Victor had explored the acres of vineyards near the hotel and the rolling countryside beyond. He walked and lay in the sun, giving his wound as much time to heal as possible and the sun a chance to stain his skin. It had been a week since the bullet had grazed his arm and the thick scab was coming away at the edges and the muscle only hurt if he pushed against it. Yesterday, he had begun running to maintain his fitness, though he avoided his usual bodyweight exercises so as not to hinder his arm’s recovery.
His room offered a view of the hotel’s large swimming pool, but he resisted its pull. The weather had been hot and dry and perfect for swimming but he couldn’t risk the stares his wound and collection of scars would draw. In clothes, he was forgettable. Out of them, no one forgot. The evening was no good either. The pool was well lit and even if onlookers didn’t notice his scars his musculature would draw its own looks. Surviving meant going unnoticed at all times.
The contessa who ran the hotel was especially friendly and Victor was forced to engage in small talk like all the other guests did, else stand out and be memorable. The guests were mostly older Italian tourists and foreign couples. Everyone was frustratingly sociable and he found himself drawn into frequent conversations. He was the only single male, as far as he could tell, and made sure to be personable but boring, claiming to be an accountant who had recently divorced. No one tried to chat with him twice.
*
The bus to Bologna arrived on time and he disembarked with a ‘ Grazie mille ’, to the driver.
At Le Stanze del Tennete he had a lunch of garbanzo soup followed by prosciutto-filled tortellini with a glass of crisp local Pinot Grigio. The restaurant was located inside the sixteenth-century Palazzo Bentivoglio Pepoli and he took his time over his meal, enjoying the five-hundred-year-old frescoes on the wall as much as the food itself. After lunch, Victor strolled through the russet arcades and porticoes, passing students and rollerblading teenagers, pausing to watch a heated game of dominoes between two elderly Bolognese gentlemen with too much red wine inside them. He applauded the winner as did the rest of the small crowd that had gathered around them, and departed as the dominoes were mixed up ready for the rematch that was sure to be just as heated.
He saw no sign of surveillance, but performed his usual counter-measures during the walk to the Orto Botanico in the north-east corner of Bologna’s centre. The botanical garden was one of the oldest in the world, dating back to 1568, and framed on two sides by the medieval walls that surrounded central Bologna. Victor was an hour early, and he spent the time walking through the grounds like any other visitor, examining the huge array of trees, plants and flowers on display, and the various habitats created within the gardens.
Giordano was waiting for him at the pond wetland habitat, watching dragonflies buzz around water lilies and aquatic beetles swimming across the glassy surface of the water. Today he was on time. He smiled as he saw Victor approach. No one else was nearby.
‘Vernon, you do look better with a little colour in your face.’
Victor returned the smile. ‘How’s your new waitress friend?’
Giordano blew out some air and said, ‘Exhausting.’
‘I trust the last two days haven’t been all pleasure.’
‘Of course not. I have been hard at work when I haven’t been hard at work.’ He winked and reached into an outside pocket of his jacket. He produced a padded envelope. ‘My best, as promised.’
He handed it to Victor, who opened the envelope and removed the Italian passport it contained. Victor thumbed through it, unsurprised to find it every bit as genuine as Giordano promised, except that it now had Victor’s photograph instead of the original owner’s.
‘Tolento Lombardi,’ Victor read aloud.
‘He’s a construction worker,’ Giordano explained. ‘A construction worker who borrowed money off the wrong people. He sold them his passport to help clear his debt, and they were then kind enough to sell it on to me. Mr Lombardi is a most clean citizen. Not even a parking ticket, and he’s never been out of the country. He’s painfully boring, and therefore perfect for your purposes.’
Victor nodded and ran a fingertip over the image of his face. ‘This is even better than the last one I bought from you. How do you switch the photograph without leaving marks?’
Giordano grinned. ‘Well, that’s my secret, is it not? Else everyone could do what I do. But, as I like you, Vernon, I will tell you I have refined my techniques, so I’m glad you noticed the improvement. Passports are getting harder to modify all the time. It’s almost as if they want to stop people like me. Fascists. But my method of using solvent fumes to strip wafer-thin layers of laminate away, one at a time, is quite ingenious.’
‘Modest to a fault.’
Giordano bowed his head briefly. ‘Once the laminate has been stripped it’s child’s play to insert your photo and re-laminate. Result: no trace of modification. Sounds simple, does it not? Yet no one else can do it like I can.’
Victor pocketed the passport. ‘Which is why you charge such a competitive rate.’