The man approaching him had very short dark hair and was wearing dark sunglasses. He and all his men were wearing black combat shirts and trousers. Bonomi had expected men in suits. This was like something out of the movies.
His outstretched hand was ignored as the man facing him held out his hand for the folder. Bonomi handed it over in silence. He suddenly felt nervous and glanced at the lear jet. The open door and steps seemed like an invitation. Bonomi puffed out his chest and put his hands together in front of his waist. Bonomi glanced nervously over his shoulders at the men searching around. One even had a quick glance in Bonomi’s car. They moved away to begin searching the outbuildings. Finally the cold features of Anatoly Petrov looked up from the file and stared at Bonomi. There was no emotion in the black eyes.
“Nice day,” Bonomi said, trying to break the stalemate.
The cold eyes remained fixed on him. Then they moved past the estate agent as one of Petrov’s men gave the thumbs up. Petrov nodded. He held the folder up.
“Is this everything?”
“Yes sir. My name is Carlo Bonomi of the Centauro property services. Yes all the details are there.”
Petrov ran his eyes over the contents of the file again. Bonomi studied the man, very afraid of him. Then he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and saw a face at a window on the learjet before the shutter came down. Bonomi couldn’t be sure but he thought the face was disfigured somehow, possibly scarred.
“Were you followed?” Petrov asked.
“Followed?” Bonomi glanced about nervously. This whole situation was getting weirder by the minute.
“Followed by who?”
Petrov snapped the folder shut.
“No matter.”
He beckoned another man forward. One who had been hovering near the lead Hummer. This man was carrying a black briefcase. He popped the locks open and raised the lid. The case was presented to Bonomi at chest height and he looked down at used Euro notes.
“You’ll want to check it,” Petrov said.
Bonomi shook his head.
“I’m sure it’s all there.”
The case was closed and Bonomi took it. Petrov handed the folder to his aide who took it to the aircraft. The man returned shortly and gave the folder to Petrov. The Russian opened it to show Bonomi the signed document. The estate agent nodded. Petrov snapped the folder shut again and handed it to the Italian.
“I guess that concludes our business, “ Bonomi said.
“Not quite,” Petrov said. He reached down into the side pocket of his combat trousers and produced a large padded jiffy bag. He tossed it to Bonomi who had to catch it to stop it from hitting him in the chest.
“Open it,” the Russian ordered.
Bonomi did as he was told.
“There are two thousand Euro’s there,” Petrov said, “No questions. No answers. Understood.”
The Italian nodded nervously. Petrov merely smirked then beckoned to his men. They moved towards him as the learjet’s engines started. The steps were retracted and the small jet began to move across the grass. They all watched until it disappeared into the sun. Then Petrov looked at Bonomi once more and got into the lead Hummer, his men following. The Hummer’s moved off towards the hangar. Bonomi put the case into his car, started it up and left the airfield as quickly as he could. He didn’t even stop to close the gates.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Officer Gianni Balotelli of the Carabinieri glanced at his watch. It would soon be time for his break. He patrolled a section of the A12, a major road in the Lazio region of Italy. Speeding tickets were his thing and there was a particular section of the highway which had a long hill that articulated lorries struggled up. There were solid white lines in the middle of the road but motorists could see for quite a distance ahead and impatient drivers would often overtake the lorries thus crossing the white lines and that’s where Balotelli came in. He enjoyed sitting in his police car at the brow of the hill where there was a large pull off area and catching the offending motorists. On the spot fines were his speciality and he always gave chase. He liked to listen to offenders excuses and would occasionally nod or agree with them while writing out tickets.
This morning had been quiet though. He’d only issued two tickets and so far it had been an uneventful day. The only highlight so far that had caught his attention was witnessing three black Hummers that had passed about an hour before. They had been moving swiftly in a convoy. With their blacked out windows and German number plates Balotelli had assumed that they were diplomatic vehicles. They certainly looked it.
Balotelli watched more lorries coming up the hill. No-one attempted to overtake and he sighed. The road was clear for a long way and he looked at his watch again. It was 11.45am and he decided to go for his lunch break.
He started his police car and moved into the road, deliberately slowing other road users down until someone stopped for him to pull out. There was an old abandoned airfield nearby with a small lay-by at the metal gates and he liked to stop there and doze in his car everyday.
When he got there he was surprised to see the gates were open. He was even more surprised when he had to stop suddenly as an Alfa Romeo convertible sped out of the gates narrowly missing him. He looked over his shoulder through the back window of his police car with one hand still on the gear stick. He was very tempted to give chase. The convertible was soon lost from sight. It had happened so quickly Balotelli hadn’t even caught a glimpse of the number plate. He turned his attention back to the open gates, put his police car into first gear and moved slowly through them.
Petrov’s men had almost finished unloading the Hummer’s. The last crate was being carried upstairs by two men and they bumped into the man who was drilling new locks into the door and he cursed them when his drill slipped. Mocking him in return they bumped the heavy crate down. One of them stood up straight and pressed his hands into the small of his back to ease his aching muscles. He glanced out of the window and his eyes widened. He was reaching for his radio as his colleague turned to look outside.
Petrov was outside with a laptop and a small satellite antenna. He had the equipment on a pile of old, rusty, oil drums and he was placing a memory stick into the computer’s USB socket when his radio crackled and he heard his name being called. He took his own radio and pressed the talk button.
At this moment the small satellite dish connected to the internet and he put the radio down to concentrate on the laptop. He stopped to look at the radio when he heard the word ’police.’
Petrov moved away from the oil drums slowly and went to the corner and peered round. He saw the Carabinieri police car come to a slow stop. He watched as the policeman got out and glanced around slowly. Then the man reached back into the car and took out his hat and put it on. The car door was closed slowly and quietly. Petrov shrank back away from the corner. He held his radio to his lips and pressed talk.
“Radio silence,” was all he said.
He returned to the laptop. The download on the screen was at 86 % and he cursed under his breath and clicked cancel download and closed the laptop. He quickly put it back in its case, folded up the satellite dish and placed both on the ground in amongst the oil drums. He then returned to the corner and unclipped his handgun from its holster in front of his chest.
Balotelli was poking around the outbuildings. He’d noticed some fresh tyre marks on the grass and in some mud and assumed they belonged to the speeding Alfa Romeo he’d seen earlier.