After the dank Manchester weather and then the air-conditioned Cessna Citation jet, the sultry Rome night felt like a sauna to Darcey as she stepped down to the tarmac of the private runway. She knew right away that the thin black cotton polo-neck sweater she’d changed into on board was going to be way too heavy. First time in Italy, and she was caught out like a damn fool tourist.
Three vehicles were waiting nearby, two unmarked Interpol BMWs and a police Alfa Romeo. Next to them were clustered a group of four plainclothes agents, watching her expectantly as she walked up to them. A quick round of businesslike handshakes, and one of the agents did the introductions. He was tall, bald and rail-thin in a tailored jacket and open-necked shirt. His English was excellent. ‘And my name is Paolo Buitoni,’ he finished. ‘I’m your liaison officer in Rome. Anything you need.’ He stole a puff of his cigarette and exhaled through his nose.
‘Buitoni?’
‘Like the pasta. No spaghetti jokes, please.’ Buitoni smiled, wrinkles creasing at the corners of his eyes.
‘I don’t like spaghetti,’ Darcey told him.
‘That’s a pity.’
‘And I’m not here to appreciate humour,’ Darcey said.
‘So I see.’
‘And lose the cigarette, Paolo.’
Buitoni shot her a look, then flicked the cigarette away and orange sparks tumbled across the tarmac. He motioned towards one of the BMWs. ‘There has been a development within the last few minutes,’ he told her as they walked over to it. ‘The suspect Ben Hope evaded arrest earlier tonight and is on the run in the city as we speak.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Uh-huh. The first I hear of this is now?’
Buitoni shrugged. ‘We only just heard ourselves.’
‘Nobody was to make a move until I got here.’
‘You’ll find things tend to work that way in Italy.’
‘Not any more. What’s the target’s location?’
‘Our officers chased him into the subway system just seven minutes ago.’
‘Wonderful,’ Darcey said as he showed her to the rear of the BMW. The driver had the engine running. ‘A city subway system is an easy place to lose a fugitive. And this one’s already shown once tonight that he’s smarter than your police.’ She yanked open the door.
‘Not as easy as you might think,’ Buitoni said. ‘The Rome underground is still under construction. It has just two lines and only thirty-eight kilometres of track, compared with over four hundred kilometres in London. Believe me, there are few places for him to hide.’
‘Then I want the whole system sealed before he finds a way out of there. Set me up a cordon. Nothing goes in or out without my say-so.’
‘Being done. We’ll catch him. No problem.’
Darcey climbed into the back of the BMW with one of the other agents and slammed her door. ‘Let’s get moving, people.’
Buitoni got in the front passenger seat, and the car took off with a squeal of tyres. The second unmarked BMW followed, with the police Alfa bringing up the rear. As they left the airport the Alfa started up its flashing lights and siren. The night traffic parted for them as they hit the road for the city.
Buitoni turned round in his seat to pass Darcey an ID card and badge, and a handgun in a black fabric holster. She unclipped it. A Beretta 92FS, standard Italian police issue. It was heavier than the Glock she was used to, just under a kilo of chunky steel. The fat grip contained seventeen rounds of 9mm Parabellum.
‘How far to the scene?’ she asked, nodding at the speeding road ahead.
‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ Buitoni said.
‘Anything I need?’
‘You’re the boss, Commander Kane.’
‘Then get me there in ten.’
The driver put his foot down and the little procession of cars tooled into Rome in just a shade over eleven minutes. They screeched up outside a metro station that was teeming with police cars, vans and motorcycles and a milling crowd of uniformed cops. It was Darcey’s first glimpse of Italian Carabinieri with their red-striped trousers and Beretta machine pistols slapping their sides as they strode. She wondered how cocky they’d be if she told them how camp they looked in their knee-high leather boots. Buitoni must have seen her looking at them because he leaned close to her and said, ‘Your first time in Rome?’
‘And let’s get it over with,’ she said.
They were getting of the car when Buitoni received a radio call that left him frowning. ‘Hurry,’ he said, taking Darcey’s elbow to lead her towards the subway station entrance. She jerked the elbow away. ‘Talk to me, Paolo.’
As they ran down down the steps he explained: ‘We have CCTV footage of Hope boarding a train three stops down the line from here, just minutes ago.’
Darcey batted through the swing doors. ‘Is every station sealed?’
‘We’re working on it. But he hasn’t got off. Which means he’s still on board. The train is due to stop here any second now.’ They strode fast through the tunnels, surrounded by cops bristling with weaponry. Darcey scraped back her hair as they walked, fastening it with an elastic tie. She took the folded baseball cap from her back pocket, shook out the crumples and pulled it down tight over her head.
A moment later they emerged onto the platform where about a thousand guns were trained on the black mouth of the tunnel. Darcey did a check of her Beretta. Outwardly, she was calm, relaxed and totally in charge. She didn’t want Buitoni or anyone else to see that her heart was racing and her knees like jelly with the nervous excitement of waiting for the train to roll into the station. She almost let out an involuntary cry when she saw the lights in the dark tunnel. With a rumbling whine and hissing of brakes, the train emerged into the light and pulled up.
Darcey was so tense she thought her neck was going to snap. There was a wheeze of hydraulics and the train doors slid open. This time of night, there were just one or two passengers on board, and they stared in horror at the arsenal of weapons suddenly trained on them. Cops poured into every carriage. Up and down the length of the train, radios fizzed and chirped and officers milled around checking every inch inside and out.
It didn’t take long for the signal to reach back to Darcey.
‘He’s not here.’ Buitoni looked suddenly drained.
Darcey said nothing.
‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, watching her eyes. ‘You’ll know when I am.’
‘I don’t understand how this could have happened.’ Buitoni jabbed a finger back at the empty train. ‘He was
‘Then he’s obviously got off it, no? He just didn’t use a station.’
Buitoni looked blank.
‘You don’t understand what you’re up against here, do you?’ Darcey snapped at him. ‘Ben Hope isn’t your typical criminal, some little mafioso you’re going to scoop up off the street or nab asleep in the whorehouse with his nose full of coke. He’s SAS. You have no idea of the training these people have.’
‘How come you know so much about it?’
‘Because I’ve had more than a taste of it myself,’ she said. ‘My old unit, CO19, sends its personnel to train with SAS instructors. Physical fitness. Armed and unarmed close-quarter battle. Defensive driving. Hostage rescue. Escape and evasion. That’s just for breakfast.’
Buitoni raised an eyebrow. ‘Tough.’
‘Believe me, there isn’t a word for how tough it is. Just like there isn’t a word in English or Italian to describe just how royally you people have fucked up here.’ Darcey went on talking over the top of him as he started to protest. ‘Get it through your head. This man is ready for anything. He can disappear, resist capture for weeks on end, slip through the net of even the most dedicated manhunt. The hardest target you’ve ever gone after, and what do you guys do? You make it easy for him. You let him make fools of you. Not that it was so hard. Don’t argue with
