ordered Gourko to open the casket.
Gourko grappled with the domed lid of the metal box, but it was rusted shut. He reached down his leg, slipped a small double-edged commando dagger out of the hidden sheath he wore in his boot, and used its sharp tip to force the box open. The lid gave with a crack. Gourko wiped his blade carefully on his trouser leg and slipped the knife back into the boot sheath. He opened the casket and looked inside. His expression didn’t change. He glanced at Shikov. Stared back at the box.
‘Show me,’ Shikov said, panting with anticipation. Gourko slowly turned the casket round so they could see inside.
Empty.
Shikov left the cemetery looking as though he’d just attended the funeral of a dear friend. His shoulders were slumped in grim defeat as they walked back to the limo.
Inside the car, Maisky let out a long sigh. ‘Well, that’s that.’ He thought the old man was as grey as a corpse. ‘I’m so sorry, uncle. Maybe Borowsky went back for it,’ he added after a pause.
Shikov shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Maybe he lied about the whole thing.’
Shikov shook his head again. ‘Impossible.’
‘Then someone else must have taken it,’ Maisky said.
Shikov was silent for a long time. ‘And my boy died for nothing,’ he said quietly, and closed his eyes.
In the driver’s seat, Gourko said nothing.
Shikov was taken by a racking fit of coughing. He grabbed a pill from the tube in his pocket and gulped it down. When he’d finished coughing he said, ‘Spartak.’
Gourko slowly turned to look at him. His eyes stayed blank.
‘One item of business remains unfinished,’ Shikov said. ‘Until it’s done, you work only for me. Is that understood?’
‘Yes,’ Gourko said. It was the first word he’d uttered since they’d left Georgia.
‘You’ll return to Italy, or wherever necessary, and for as long as required. You’ll have unlimited resources. Men, money, transportation, weapons, no object. Eliminate anyone who gets in your way.’
Gourko nodded. A thin smile tugged at the scar.
‘Find this man who killed my boy. However long it takes. Whatever it takes. You find me this . . . this
Gourko nodded again, smiling more widely.
Shikov snapped his fingers. The tears were gone. ‘Start the car.’
The taxicab Ben took from the airport was a faded yellow Merc that had seen a lot of hard service and looked like it was a second home for the driver, a cheerful, chubby guy with curly hair. Ben read out the address on Tassoni’s business card, and the guy seemed pleased. It was right across the other side of Rome.
Almost 5.20 and the traffic was intense. As they hustled across town the driver played Iron Maiden loudly from rattling speakers, drummed on the wheel and sang along. His English was even less comprehensible than the lyrics the lead singer was belting out.
‘OK if I smoke?’ Ben said over the noise.
The guy made a casual gesture that said sure, do what you like. Not the fussy type. Ben leaned back in the worn seat and took out his Gauloises and Zippo. He offered one to the driver. The guy was happy to accept. Ben smoked and watched the city go by, and thought about Urbano Tassoni.
When the politician had invited him to dinner earlier that day, Ben had made the assumption that he simply wanted to curry public favour by being seen to hobnob with
But Ben realised now that his assumption had been false. Dinner probably would most likely have been a very private affair after all. Just the two of them, over good food and good wine, exactly as Tassoni had promised. A pleasant, quiet couple of hours during which the politician would have used all his well-practised smooth-talking guile to pump Ben for just how much he knew, or might have figured out, about the gallery robbery. Whoever had set up the operation, they hadn’t figured on their plan being interrupted by someone like him; and whatever Tassoni’s involvement, it made sense that he would want to assess the level of threat Ben represented now, in the aftermath.
This surprise visit was going to be interesting. Even a politician could be made to tell the truth. All it took was a little pressure of the right kind. By the time their discussion was over, Tassoni was going to feel all squeezed out.
It was after quarter past six by the time the taxi pulled up in the quiet street where the politician lived. Judging by the average value of the cars parked along the kerb, Tassoni had picked himself one of the most prestigious neighbourhoods in the Roman suburbs. The houses were widely spaced apart, and stood well back from the road at the end of long paved or gravelled driveways. The late afternoon air smelled of flowers and freshly- mown lawns. Tassoni’s place was bounded by a high wall. The house was a graceful white villa, its facade elegantly half-hidden behind drooping willows. Outside the front entrance, a sparkling white Porsche Cayman was parked up next to a burgundy Cadillac SUV. If Tassoni was a patriot, it didn’t show in his automotive tastes.
Cameras peered down from the tall gateposts. Ben wasn’t going in there to kill anyone. Not yet. So it wasn’t nervousness about being caught on a security recording that made him stop and peer back up at the little black lenses that were watching him from above. He was thinking again about inconsistencies. An untrained eye would have missed them, but Ben was already picking out details that seemed to jar.
The politician clearly valued his security; yet the tall wrought-iron gates were wide open. Not just open, but wedged with wooden chocks so that their automatic closing mechanism was blocked. Not the most secure perimeter Ben had ever had to cross.
He walked through the open gates and up the driveway. The lawns were prim, the flower beds neat. Fancy gravel, not just rough quarry chippings but the expensive ornamental stuff. Ben only noticed it because of the tyre grooves cut so deep into the surface that in places it was down to the black synthetic membrane underneath. As though someone had driven away from the place in a real hurry. More inconsistency. Tassoni’s place looked well- tended enough to be pretty well staffed. The kind of place you’d expect two little guys to come out from behind the bushes to rake the gravel up after you. The urgent skidmarks struck the wrong note. A subtle sense of emptiness, a certain desolation that Ben couldn’t put his finger on.
He walked on towards the house. At its end the driveway forked into two and swept across the front of the villa in a U-shape. He climbed the steps to the entrance and his eyes searched for a bell push. Before he found one, he saw the inch-wide gap between door and frame. He nudged with his foot, and the door swung open silently.
The hallway was large and elegantly furnished, with huge polished stone floor tiles that probably each cost the price of a small car. It made Ben think of the old part of the Academia Giordani building, on a showier scale. The broad double staircase was carpeted in red and the banisters gleamed with fresh wax. A perfect backdrop for a photo session for
Not today, though. Not without some major cleaning up first.
