‘You’re right, I don’t understand…’ She broke off at the sound of someone approaching with a squeak of rubber soles, the noise growing and then slowly fading away. ‘You said you were just going to see who was here. Not get yourself killed.’
‘It’s him,’ Tom said in a low voice, almost as if he was trying to convince himself. ‘He set her up!’
‘
‘I saw him and I…’ Another long pause, until he finally looked up, his lips pressed together as if he was trying to hold something in. ‘You’re right. I wasn’t…’
With a curt nod, she accepted what she assumed was as close as she was going to get to an apology. ‘Let’s just get off this thing before they find us.’
Checking that the gangway was still empty, Allegra led him back towards the stern. But they were only about halfway along it when the echo of a barked order and the sound of running feet forced them to dive through the open sitting-room door and crouch behind the sofa, guns drawn. Three men tore past the doorway, the approaching thump of rotor blades explaining the sudden commotion.
‘Someone’s landing,’ Allegra breathed.
‘Which must be what all this is for,’ Tom said, pointing at the carefully prepared drinks and glasses. ‘We need to…What the hell are you doing?’
‘Inviting us to the party,’ she said with a wink. Having taken out both the phones Tom had handed her earlier, she used one to dial the other and then slid it out of sight under the coffee table. ‘At least until the battery runs out.’
With the phone hidden and still transmitting, they made their way back along the gangway, then down the staircase to the landing platform, the helicopter’s low rumble now a fast-closing thunder. As it landed, they cast off, using the engine noise as cover to throttle up and spin away towards the harbour and the relative sanctuary of their waiting car.
SIXTY-TWO
Santos uncorked the decanter and poured the Margaux into four large glasses. It pained him to share a bottle as good as this at the best of times, but to split it at this time of the night with two former members of the Serbian special forces, whose palates had no doubt been irretrievably blunted by eating too much cabbage and drinking their own piss while out on exercise, seemed positively criminal. Then again, they would recognise the Margaux for what it cost, even if they couldn’t taste why it was worth it. And that was half the point in serving it.
‘Nice boat,’ Asim whistled. ‘Yours?’
He was the older of the two and clearly in charge, squat and square headed, with a five-mil buzz-cut and a bayonet scar across one cheek.
‘Borrowed from one of my investors,’ Santos replied, sitting down opposite them. ‘How was your flight?’
‘No problem,’ Dejan, the second Serb, replied.
Compared to Asim, he was tall and gaunt, with curly black hair that he had slicked back against his head with some sort of oil. One of his ears was higher than the other, which caused his glasses to rest at a slight angle across his face.
‘Good,’ Santos replied. ‘You’re welcome to stay the night, of course.’
‘Thank you, but no,’ Dejan declined, Santos noting with dismay that he had already knocked back half his glass as if it was tequila. ‘Our orders are to agree deal and return.’
‘We do have a deal then?’
‘Fifteen million dollars,’ Asim confirmed.
‘You said twenty on the phone,’ Santos retorted angrily. ‘It’s worth at least twenty. I wouldn’t have invited you here if I’d known it was only for fifteen.’
‘Fifteen is new price,’ Asim said stonily. ‘Or you find someone else with money so quick.’
There was a pause as Santos stared angrily at each of the Serbs in turn. With Ancelotti’s team of forensic accountants due to start on his books any day, he was out of options. And from their obvious confidence, they knew it. He glanced across at Orlando, who shrugged helplessly.
‘Fine. Fifteen,’ Santos spat. ‘In cash.’
‘You understand the consequences if you are not able to deliver…’
‘We’ll deliver,’ Santos said firmly, standing up.
‘Then we look forward to your call,’ Dejan shrugged, draining his glass. ‘Tomorrow, as agreed.’
Shaking their hands, Santos showed them to the door, waited until their footsteps had melted into towards the engine whine of the waiting helicopter, then swore.
‘We could find another buyer,’ Orlando suggested.
‘Not at this short notice, and the bastards know it,’ Santos said angrily. ‘It’s tomorrow night or never.’
‘De Luca and Moretti agreed to the meet?’
‘I told them that things had got out of hand,’ Santos nodded. ‘That business was suffering. Then offered to broker a settlement. They didn’t take much convincing. Usual place. No weapons, no men. It’ll be our only chance to get the watches and the painting in the same room.’
‘As long as we can get to D’Arcy’s.’
‘We only need three,’ Santos reminded him. ‘We’ve got Cavalli’s already and Moretti and De Luca should both be wearing theirs. D’Arcy’s is back-up.’
‘They’ll come after you. They’ll come after us both.’
‘They’ll have to find me first.’ Santos shrugged. ‘Besides, life’s too short to waste it worrying about being dead.’
‘Amen,’ Orlando nodded, topping up their glasses.
SIXTY-THREE
Main harbour, Monte Carlo 20th March – 5.03 a.m.
‘Are you sure that was him?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s Antonio Santos,’ she breathed, certain she was right but still not quite able to believe it. ‘The Chairman of the Banco Rosalia. He said exactly the same thing about life being too short when he was identifying Argento’s body.’
‘It wouldn’t exactly be the first time a Vaticanfunded bank has been a front for the mafia,’ Tom conceded with a shrug.
‘Do you think he ordered the hit on Jennifer?’
‘The priest clearly works for him and, by the sound of it, he had access to the Caravaggio too,’ Tom nodded darkly.
‘But why would he have done it?’
‘My guess is that she found something during that raid on the dealer in New York. A bank statement or an invoice or a receipt. Something that implicated the Banco Rosalia or that tied him back to the League. Something worth killing her for.’
‘Even if we could prove that, he’s got a Vatican passport,’ she reminded him with a shake of her head. ‘He can’t be prosecuted.’
‘Maybe if we can get to the painting before him, he won’t have to be.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean the Serbs will take care of him for us if he doesn’t deliver,’ Tom explained in a grim voice.
There was a pause as she let the implications of this sink in.
‘At least now we know why D’Arcy’s murder didn’t match any of the other killings,’ she said. ‘It had nothing to
