before he left, he dyed the moustache black. He chose only casual clothes, the kind a free-lance photographer would wear: a pair of tan corduroy stacks, a white turtleneck sweater, a suede jacket, and hiking shoes with platforms and interior soles that added almost two inches to his normal five-eleven.
He was feeling good, very good, the morning he left.
When he arrived at the terminal in Milan, Falmouth went straight to the American Express office. A young gigolo in a formless jacket, with a narrow tie hanging from his open collar, peered at him through aviator sunglasses and said, ‘Si?’
Falmouth smiled, his casual, boyish, photographer’s smile. Buon giorno, signore. Scusi, c ‘e una lettera per me, Harry Spettro?’
The creep sighed and said in a bored voice, ‘Un momento,’ pulled open a drawer and leafed leisurely through the letters.
He looked up at Falmouth. ‘S-p-e-t-t-r-o?’
‘Si.’
‘Identificazione, per favore.’
Falmouth produced a fake driver’s license and passport. The young man’s eyes flicked back and forth between the picture in the passport and Falmouth. Satisfied, he nodded and handed the letter to him.
‘Mile grazie,’ Falmouth said with a grin and, under his breath, added, ‘You little prick.’
‘Prego,’ the kid said — Don’t mention it.
He went outside and tore open the envelope. Inside was a key and a brief message: ‘Locker 7541.’
He found the locker, took the heavy, flat leather case that was inside and placed it in his own suitcase and then went to the men’s room, where he checked the contents of the case. Everything he needed was there, including the car keys and another simple message: ‘Black Fiat 224, license XZ 592, terminal parking lot, row 7, section 2, ticket under spare tire.’ So far, it had gone well. He drove straight to Padua and checked into a small hotel.
It took him several days, longer than he had planned, to find a vacant room with a clear view of the ten- kilometre concrete test rink. He had almost decided to abandon the project until after New Year’s when he spotted the house from a pub. It sat up on a rise, back from the road, a three-story building facing due east.
High enough and aimed right. Now all he had to do was arrange to get a room on the backside. That was tougher than he thought. It was finally arranged only after some heated negotiations with the woman who owned the place, a fiery Italian widow who at first slammed the door in his face, then threatened to call the police if he persisted. But when he told her that he was there to photograph the basilica for Paris- Match, and that the local hotels were full, and then offered her what must easily have been ten times what such a room normally would rent for, she finally relented.
Her son was skiing in Austria for the holidays. Perhaps his room would be suitable. But she demanded quiet — no radio after nine o’clock and no visitors. She was a good Catholic and would not have the neighbours talking. The location was perfect, less than a mile from the track with a completely unobstructed view, and although the room was fairly small, it was comfortable and clean, its walls covered with photographs of skiers, skiing posters, maps of famous ski runs, and patches from famous resorts The son was more than an aficionado, he was a fanatic.
A dormer window faced the track. That was good, Falmouth thought. It would be almost impossible for anyone to see him from the Street and it provided a small shelf to work from. He locked the door and immediately went to work.
The case he had brought from Milan contained a Bausch & Lomb Discoverer telescope with a 15x to 60x constant focus zoom lens and a minimum field of forty feet at a thousand yards. It weighed less than six pounds with the tripod and was only seventeen and a half inches long.
The rifle was even more impressive. He had never seen one quite like it. It was nothing more than a barrel and firing chamber with a skeletonised aluminium stock, and it was thirty-three inches long, including the flash suppressor and silencer. The tripod was also aluminium. It was fitted with a laser scope he knew to be pinpoint accurate up to fifteen hundred yards. A five-shot clip dropped down below the firing chamber, fully loaded with 7.62 -mm steel-point explosive shells. The whole rig didn’t weigh more than ten pounds.
Hair-trigger. The heat from his finger almost popped it.
Neat. Everything he had asked for, plus a little bonus. The rifle was strictly for backup. If the C-4 explosives didn’t work, he would have to make the shot — and what a shot it would be. Six hundred yards at an automobile moving 90 miles an hour on a ninety-degree path.
Sure, Falmouth.
He laughed to himself and shook his head. What the hell, it was strictly insurance anyway.
He set up the tripod and zeroed it and zoomed in on the entrance gate to the track. He could read the hinges on the gate, a helluva scope. He set up the rifle beside it, calibrated its scope and sighted it, and watched it change focus as he slid his aim up the track.
Beautiful.
I hope to God I don’t have to use it.
Now all he had to do was wait.
III
The office was empty when Marza arrived. It was a little after seven and the staff usually did not arrive until eight. He made a pot of coffee and checked the weather. Then he went to his office and changed into his racing gear: cotton long johns; a black fire-resistant jump suit with a red slash down one sleeve and the number 333 in blazing red across the back and the Aquila patch over his heart with the single word ‘UNO’ under it; white sweat socks and Adidas jogging shoes. He stuffed a pair of pigskin racing gloves in the knee pocket of the jump suit. And
