shrug. ‘So that’s case closed, I guess.’
‘Except you think he’s still alive,’ Tom guessed.
‘I think if he’s got any sense, he’ll stay dead,’ she said, the muscles in her jaw flexing with anger. ‘Moretti’s people are looking for him and the word is that De Luca’s put a five-million-dollar ticket on his head.’
They reached a large lawned area and walked to its far wall where there was a view out over the treetops to the sea, white caps rolling in neat parallel lines towards the beach.
‘There’s one thing I still can’t figure out,’ Allegra said, hitching herself on to it to face Tom, who was shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Why did Faulks have two watches?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘De Luca, D’Arcy, Moretti and Cavalli only had one watch each. Why did Faulks have two in his safe?’
‘He said he had two seats on the council,’ Tom reminded her. ‘Presumably to act as a counterweight between D’Arcy and De Luca on one hand and Cavalli and Moretti on the other. The watches went with the seats, I guess.’
‘Except the League was formed by putting De Luca’s and Moretti’s two organisations together,’ she said slowly. ‘That must have meant that they would each have had their own dealer at one stage.’
‘So what are you saying? That one of the watches used to belong to someone else?’ Tom frowned as he considered this.
‘De Luca did say that Faulks’s two seats were an accident of history,’ she said. ‘What if the other dealer left? Faulks would have taken over his seat and his watch.’
‘Unless the other dealer never handed the watch back. That might explain why Faulks had to go and get a replacement made.’ Tom suggested. ‘You could be right. Maybe when you see him you can ask him. Which reminds me…’
He took a piece of paper from his pocket and deliberately ripped it in half and then half again.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, as he continued to rip it into ever smaller pieces.
‘You remember when we went through the papers in Faulks’s safe? Well, I found a map. The one showing where Cavalli found the mask.’
‘Wait!’
She reached out to grab his hand, but he threw the pieces up into the air before she could get to him.
‘Tom!’ she shouted angrily. ‘Have you any idea what else could be down there?’
He gave her a rueful smile.
‘Not everything’s ready to be found, Allegra.’
Above him, the scraps of paper fluttered like butterflies in the sunlight, before a gust of wind lifted them soaring into the sky and carried them out to sea, like a flock of birds at the start of a long migration south.
EIGHTY-SIX
Central Square, Casco Viejo, Panama
1st May-6.36 p.m.
Antonio Santos, his arm in a sling, stood to one side and pressed the muzzle of his gun against the door at about head height.
‘Who is it?’
‘DHL,’ a muffled voice called back. ‘Package for Mr Stefano Romano?’
‘Leave it outside.’
‘I need a signature,’ the voice called back.
Santos paused. He was expecting a couple of deliveries this week under that name, and it would be a shame if they got returned. On the other hand, he needed to be careful until he was certain that he had shaken everyone off the trail.
‘Who is it from?’ he asked, slowly sliding his face across to the peep hole.
A bored-looking man was standing on the landing dressed in a brown uniform. He appeared to be trying to grow a beard and was chewing gum. Santos’s last question had prompted him to roll his eyes and blow a bubble that he popped with his finger.
‘It’s from Italy,’ he replied, glancing at the stamps and then turning it over so that he could read the label on its back. ‘Someone called Amarelli?’
Grinning, Santos tucked his gun into the back of his trousers, unbolted the door and threw it open.
‘Amarelli liquorice from Calabria,’ he explained, signing the form and eagerly ripping the box open. ‘The best there is.’ He flicked open a tin of Spezzata and crammed two pieces into his mouth, chewing them noisily. ‘Want to try some?’ he mumbled, thrusting the tin at the courier, who waved them away with a muttered word of thanks. ‘I’ve looked everywhere, but no one seems to stock it here. Lucky for me they do mail order.’
‘Lucky for me too, Antonio,’ the courier replied. ‘Or I’d never have found you.’
His eyes widening as he realised his mistake, Santos immediately kicked the door shut and reached for his gun. But the man was too quick, stamping his foot in the jamb and then shouldering the door open, sending Santos reeling backwards. Swinging his gun out from behind him, Santos lined up a shot, but before he could pull the trigger a painful punch to the soft inside of his arm sent it rattling across the tiled floor, while a forearm smash to his neck sent him crashing to his knees. He made a choking noise, his hands wrapped around his throat, his breathing coming in short, animal gasps.
Quickly checking that no one had heard them, the man eased the front door shut and then dragged Santos by his feet towards the kitchen. Once there he cuffed him, and then attached his wrists to a steel cable that he looped over the security bars covering the window.
‘Wait. What’s your name?’ Santos croaked as he was forced to his feet.
‘Foster,’ the man replied as he tugged down hard on the cable, the metal fizzing noisily as it passed over the bars until Santos’s hands were stretched high above his head, forcing him to stand on the balls of his feet to stop the cuffs biting into his wrists, his injured arm burning.
‘Please, Foster, I’ll pay you,’ he wheezed. ‘Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.’
‘You know how this works.’ The man eyed him dispassionately. ‘Once I’ve taken a job, there’s no backing out. It’s why people hire me. It’s why you hired me.’
‘I don’t even know you.’
‘Sure you do.’ Foster tied the cable to a radiator, twanging it to check that it was under tension. ‘Las Vegas? The Amalfi? That
‘The Amalfi?’ Santos breathed, whatever colour he had left in his face draining away. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘There must be another way. Let me go. I’ll disappear. They’ll never know.’
‘I’ll know,’ the man replied. ‘And I can’t have your life on my conscience. Now, open wide.’
‘What?’
Santos gave a muffled shout as a grenade was forced into his mouth. The ribbed metal casing smashed two of his teeth as Foster wedged it between his jaws, making sure that the safety handle was at the back so that its sharp edges cut into the corners of Santos’s mouth like a horse bit. Santos began to gag on the oily metal, his eyes wide and terrified.
‘The person who sent me wanted you to know that he is a reasonable man. A civilised man. So, if you were to feel able to apologise…?’
Santos nodded furiously, the pain in his arms now making him feel faint.
‘Good!’ Foster reached forward, pulled the pin out and placed it on the counter. Then he took out a mobile phone, dialled a number and positioned it next to the pin. ‘He’s listening now-’ Foster nodded at the phone. ‘So when you’re ready, just spit the grenade out and say your piece. Just remember-you’ll need to speak quickly.’
EPILOGUE
