Ten metres away from the entrance, two men in dark suits were lying sprawled on their backs on the gleaming floor. Tassoni’s bodyguards. They hadn’t been there very long, because the blood pools around them hadn’t fully glazed yet. Ben put it at about twenty minutes. Both men had been shot.
Ben walked up to them. He wasn’t interested in the smaller, blonder of the two guys. It was the big one who caught his attention, and held it. Standing up, he would have towered over Ben by maybe four inches. The cut of his suit couldn’t hide the weight-room bulk of his chest, shoulders and arms. But no amount of muscle could stop a bullet. One had punched through his left pec, straight through to the heart. That one probably hadn’t killed him outright, though. The fatal shot had split his dark glasses in half before blowing out the back of his head. Everything above the eyebrows was pretty much mulch. Below the eyebrows, the face was mostly intact. The dark glasses had fallen away to reveal the guy’s eyes, which were open and staring.
One brown. One hazel.
The big man had been going for his weapon when he’d died. The chunky .45 Ruger automatic was cupped loosely in his outflung hand. Ben scooped it up. It was loaded. Better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it. First lesson Boonzie McCulloch had ever taught him, a long time back, and it had stuck.
He glanced around him, and that was when he noticed the foot poking through the banister rails. The shoe was shiny. Expensive Italian leather. He trod up the stairs to see more, but he already knew whose foot he was seeing.
Which was just as well, because Tassoni’s whole face was missing. The generous blood spatter and the bullet hole in the staircase wall told Ben that the politician had taken one shot to the head while still on his feet, then a second after he’d gone down.
Not the messiest headshot Ben had ever seen, but not too far from it.
It ain’t a lump of coal, he thought.
That first shot had gone right through Tassoni’s head and into the wall. Ben stepped carefully over the body and examined the hole in the plaster. It was neat and clean, about the right size to have been drilled by a .38 or .357 handgun bullet. He could see through it into the next room. There were no shell casings lying about, which meant either the shooter had picked them up, or he’d used a revolver. Three targets, two shots each, added up to six. A revolver made sense. It also tallied ballistic-wise. The most penetrative handgun calibre Ben had used in an automatic pistol had been the .357 SIG cartridge, back in his army days. It had been conceived by a military mind with the purpose of providing a little more power than the standard 9mm auto rounds. But not even the .357 SIG could punch through a man’s skull and out the other side, removing most of his head before going straight through the wall behind him.
Whereas a revolver round like the .357 Magnum was a whole different concept. That hadn’t been developed by a soldier, but by a big-game hunter called Elmer Keith, back in 1934. Keith had been more concerned with taking down elk at three hundred metres than a man at room distance. Forty-four thousand pounds per square inch of pressure, enough to drive the bullet through an engine block. Which was precisely why no soldier would use one for close-quarter work. Too penetrative. Not even the SAS could see through walls and tell who might be standing in the next room, waiting to catch a stray round. A comrade. An innocent civilian. A hostage. A kid. And the calibre’s sheer power was also the reason why no professional assassin would choose it, especially not for close-up indoor kills in a residential area. A .357 Magnum revolver was impossible to silence. Not just difficult. Impossible. And ear-splittingly loud, a brutal high-pitched bark combined with a supersonic crack, that added up to just a few decibels short of standing next to a jumbo jet on take-off. A sound that could carry for miles.
So in the three seconds Ben spent assessing the situation, he knew he was seeing more inconsistencies. A professional kill, executed in a decidedly unprofessional manner. More odd notes struck in his mind.
But now wasn’t the time to try to figure it out. He trotted back down the stairs to the hallway and began checking rooms. The first was a dining room with a long table and a grand piano. The next was some kind of scullery. The third door he tried led to a small room with a row of security monitors on the wall and a table covered in electronic equipment. The stack of four DVD recorders on a professional rack-mounting system looked state of the art. The spaghetti of wires running from the backs of the machines trailed across to a splitter box that it wasn’t hard to guess was wired up to the CCTV system. All four disc ports on the machines were open. The discs had been removed, and with them the cameras’ testimony to the events of the day. The security system was a blind witness to everything that had happened since.
Ben would have liked more time to spend going through Tassoni’s home. He was short on clues as to what the hell this was all about. But the sound of police sirens outside, still some way off and getting steadily closer, told him that his time was running short. He ran back out into the hall and through a door to the right of the stairs that led into a plush living room. Beyond that was a sprawling conservatory and sliding glass doors that led out to back garden. Skirting the L-shaped pool, he made his way across the patio to the long stretch of lawn that led all the way to the far garden wall. Quickly climbing over it, he dropped down into the neighbouring garden. Kiddies’ swings, a tennis court, a patch of woods. He slipped into the trees and was gone before the first in the wailing convoy of police cars made it to Tassoni’s front gates.
Inside a sealed operations room, on the top floor of a tall, modern, closely guarded building whose real identity and purpose was kept strictly secret from the public, nine people were gathered around a table. If the room had had any windows, the view would have been a spectacular panorama that took in the Thames, Westminster Bridge, Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. The things that were seen and discussed inside were kept carefully away from prying eyes and ears, but through the giant LCD screen that dominated the far end of the room, those granted access had a window on the world whose reach was virtually limitless. From the comfort of their chairs they could monitor events in any location of the world as they unfolded. Zoom in on individual players close enough to count the hairs on their heads and track them anywhere they wished. All beamed to them from space in crisp hi-definition colour, controlled by the small team of technicians in uniforms and headsets who were seated on the other side of a wall of soundproof plate glass.
The most senior member of the group, presiding from the head of the table, was a slender, grey-haired man called Mason Ferris. Even to his closest aides, seasoned veterans like Brewster Blackmore seated to his right and the steely-eyed Patricia Yemm on his left, Ferris was a legend. His present occupation was even less a matter of public record than the details of his past military career. His mere presence in the room commanded absolute deference.
Of all the people around the table, nobody was more in awe of Ferris than Jamie Lister, at twenty-nine by far the youngest and rawest recruit to the team, freshly promoted from the GCHQ spy centre at Cheltenham. He just hoped that he wouldn’t look like these guys when he got to their age. Ferris was a gnarled skeleton of man. By contrast, Blackmore looked like he lived on an exclusive lard diet, with skin that hadn’t seen sunlight for decades. None of the rest looked much better. Lister tried not to stare too much.
This was Lister’s first time in the operations room, and he felt as rigid and awkward as the stiff, prickly new suit he was wearing. From the moment he’d been admitted through security and taken his place in the room, he’d been aware of Brewster Blackmore’s watchful eyes darting his way every so often. From the little office gossip Lister had managed to pick up during his short time with the department, he’d learned that Blackmore lived to serve his lord and master Ferris. The man missed nothing, and reported everything.
The giant screen showed a crisp aerial view of a large villa set in well-manicured gardens in a quiet suburb of Rome. The image was crisscrossed with gridlines, technical readouts and co-ordinates that constantly changed as the satellite panned slowly to follow the lone figure emerging from the rear of the house. They watched as he moved stealthily across the grounds, vaulted the wall at the bottom of the garden and slipped into the trees in the neighbouring property. The satellite’s gaze followed him as he made his way through the quiet streets. The watchers had no interest in the fleet of police cars swarming at the entrance of the villa he’d just left.
