Gavin stopped pacing. ‘She’s supposed to be at the party. I can’t tell you any more than that.’
‘Great.’
A few minutes later there was movement on the terrace and Silva looked through the scope again. A tall woman wearing a pale dress breezed into view. High cheekbones, glossy brown hair, nods to the other guests as they parted to let her through.
‘Panic over,’ Gavin said. ‘She’s here.’
Chapter Twenty-One
They drove through Switzerland and into Italy. Long periods of mind-numbing tedium spent tailing the lorry were interspersed with brief moments of anxiety whenever Kowlowski stopped for a break; Holm and Javed had to do their own ablutions in those breaks, aware Kowlowski could move on at any moment.
They passed Florence, still headed south, and as night fell they were on the outskirts of Naples.
‘It figures,’ Holm said. ‘This is the perfect place to pick up a couple of terrorists who’ve made the crossing from North Africa. There are ISIS training camps aplenty over there.’
‘Yes, but why don’t they rendezvous with the container in the Netherlands?’ Javed shook his head. ‘All Kowlowski has to do is stop in a lay-by somewhere outside Rotterdam and meet them there. They don’t need all this subterfuge.’
Holm took his eyes off the road for a moment and looked at Javed. He hoped the lad wasn’t right because if he was they’d just driven over a thousand miles for nothing.
‘Look, boss.’ Javed pointed ahead. ‘We’re here.’
The indicator lights on the truck flashed yellow and a sign above the motorway showed the route to the port off to the right. Holm merged onto the exit slip, keeping a few vehicles between their own and the truck.
Twenty minutes later the truck rolled into the port. Kowlowski stopped at a barrier, produced his papers and was let through.
‘We could show them our ID,’ Javed said. ‘Stress the need to cooperate across borders.’
‘We could,’ Holm said. ‘But we won’t. I don’t trust the Italians.’
‘Cosa Nostra and all that?’
‘Whether or not the Mafia have their dirty fingers round the neck of the port authorities or not is irrelevant. I simply I don’t want anyone to know we’re here.’ Holm pointed at Javed’s phone. ‘Now stop wittering and make sure we don’t lose him.’
After half an hour of negotiating some ill-lit and very dodgy backstreets, they managed to park outside the port but alongside a fence close to a quay. The truck had pulled up on the quayside beneath a set of floodlights and they watched as a forklift unloaded a number of crates from the container.
‘Volvo Penta,’ Javed said, lowering a pair of binoculars from his eyes. ‘Marine engine parts, like the guy said.’
‘A cover story, you’ll see.’
‘You mean there’s something else in those crates?’
‘No. They probably do contain engine spares. It’s what’s coming back to the UK we’re interested in, remember?’
‘There’s something else written on the crates.’ Javed shifted his position and refocused. ‘It says MV Angelo.’
‘Motor vessel Angelo. Right.’ Holm climbed out of the car. This part of the port was away from the container ships and the general cargo. The quayside was clean and tidy and a number of expensive-looking white fenders were stacked in a pile near an empty berth. He took out his phone and held it up. ‘Stay in touch.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘For a wander. Sit tight.’
Holm walked along the fence, trying to appear as if he was simply a lost tourist wandering in the dark. A hundred metres farther on a little cafe sat sandwiched between two derelict warehouses. A table and a couple of chairs had been arranged outside on the narrow pavement and an A-board sign was adorned with a scrawl of chalk and the name of the cafe at the top: Luigi’s. Light shone from inside where there were three more tables and a long counter. The wall behind the counter was adorned with football posters and press cuttings, some of the posters going back decades. Holm strolled in. There was a little handbell by a plate of pastries. He picked up the bell and gave it a shake. Moments later a man entered through a back door. He wore an apron, the white material curving over a substantial stomach. A round face mirrored the stomach, while the top of the man’s head wore a dusting of grey hair shaved razor close. Luigi, Holm assumed.
‘Could I have a coffee?’ Holm spoke slowly in English. ‘A cappuccino?’
‘Si, si. Un momento.’ Luigi turned to an ancient-looking machine and began to prepare the drink. ‘English, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Manchester?’
‘No, London.’
‘Ah, Arsenal, Chelsea, Tottenham Hotspur.’
Holm wasn’t much interested in football, but his father had taken him along to Millwall when he’d been a kid. He doubted the owner would have heard of the team.
‘Napoli,’ Holm said. He spotted the front page of an old newspaper stuck on the back wall. ‘The UEFA Cup in ’89, yes?’
Luigi turned, a broad smile on his face. ‘You know about that? All the way up there in England?’
‘Of course.’ Holm nodded. He took another glance at the headlines on the paper. ‘You beat Stuttgart. Maradona scored a penalty.’ He paused for a moment and pulled out some euros. He spread the coins on the counter. ‘How much?’
Luigi shook his head, his expression almost dreamlike. ‘For you, my friend, it is gratis.’
‘Thank you.’ Holm glanced round the cafe. The place was empty. ‘Quiet, yes?’
‘Not always like this. It’s busy in the day, but I like to keep open all hours. Gives me something to do.’
‘I’m glad.’ Holm paused. ‘I was wondering about the boat.’
‘The boat?’
‘This Angelo.’ Holm turned and gestured outside towards the dock. ‘Where is she?’
‘Not good.’ Luigi scowled and shook his head. ‘It is not right.’
‘I don’t understand. What isn’t right?’
‘You don’t know about this boat, this so-called Angelo del Mediterraneo?’
‘No.’
‘Pah.’ For a moment it looked as if Luigi might spit on the floor. His mood had changed. ‘She’s a rich man’s plaything.
