him slyly, assessing, but Milton held his eye. He knew that he dare not look away first. Any sign of weakness, even of a lack of confidence, and he knew that his control of the situation would quickly be lost. He was unarmed, in a room full of murderers. He might be able to take two or three of them out with his hands and feet, perhaps even disarm one and use his weapon, but they would be able to overpower him eventually. And then… well, Milton knew what would come next. Number Three’s demise would be pleasant by comparison.
“No,” Ernesto said, “no, I believe you. Why would you be foolish enough to try to take advantage of us for the sake of a few thousand Euros?”
“The opportunity to work together is too valuable.”
“You know what would happen if you did, yes?”
He was reminding him about Grieve. Seeing if it would make him buckle.
It did not. Milton held his gaze.
He became aware that the other men had stopped talking. They were all watching him to see how he would react.
Milton did not buckle. He stood there, implacable, cool.
Ernesto laughed—a big, explosive laugh—and his men took their cue and laughed with him.
“My apologies for doubting you, Signor Smith.”
“No apology needed.”
He turned in his chair and called across to the bar. “Grappa,” he barked out. “A drink for our English friend.”
The waitress brought over a bottle and two shot glasses.
Ernesto took it and showed the label to Milton. “Bocchino Cantina Privata Grappa. The best you can buy.”
He put the glasses on the table, opened the bottle and prepared to pour.
Milton put his hand over his glass. “No.”
“No?” Ernesto looked as if he could be offended very easily.
“We haven’t concluded our business yet.”
“What?” Ernesto said. “The practicalities? The supply? You should not worry. It will be a simple enough thing.”
“Not just that.” Milton’s face was calm and composed.
“What? We are done for tonight.”
“Not yet,” Milton said. “There’s something else that I want.”
Ernesto looked at him for a long moment, a frown on his chubby forehead, and then he smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Ah, yes. Our friends. I understand.”
“They must be removed.”
“When would you like it done?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
Ernesto looked up to one of his captains. “È possibile?” he asked.
The man shrugged, his lip curling up, and then he gave a curt nod. “Può essere fatto.”
“He says it can be done,” Ernesto said.
Milton nodded, too. “Good. Now we’re finished. I’ll have that drink.”
THERE WAS celebrating to be done to mark the conclusion of their agreement.
Milton paced himself carefully. He knew his limits and he did not want to exceed them. Ernesto and the others drank freely and Milton kept just a glass or two behind them, not so much as to draw attention to himself but enough so that he would be able to do what he needed to do. There were more bottles of grappa, and then wine, and then bottles of vodka and gin. Ernesto drank heavily, but it was obvious that he had a prodigious capacity for it. His conversation became more effusive, his jokes bawdier, but the same glitter of concentrated evil remained steady and unstinting in his eyes.
Milton finished his glass, pushed it across the table and started his act.
The big man from the restaurant in Castellabate, the man whose nose Milton had broken, was at the bar. He had been watching him all night. There was hatred in the way he looked at him, the way he levelled his stare at him whenever he thought that Milton was looking in his direction. Milton encouraged it, looking at him for a moment longer than he needed to, an unspoken challenge, a questioning of his stomach. The man was big, much bigger than Milton, and the ease with which he had been bested must have eaten at him. Perhaps he had been teased by the others, about how the Englishman, five inches smaller and a hundred pounds lighter
“No,” Ernesto said, “no, I believe you. Why would you be foolish enough to try to take advantage of us for the sake of a few thousand Euros?”
“The opportunity to work together is too valuable.”
“You know what would happen if you did, yes?”
He was reminding him about Grieve. Seeing if it would make him buckle.
It did not. Milton held his gaze.
He became aware that the other men had stopped talking. They were all watching him to see how he would react.
Milton did not buckle. He stood there, implacable, cool.
Ernesto laughed—a big, explosive laugh—and his men took their cue and laughed with him.
“My apologies for doubting you, Signor Smith.”
“No apology needed.”
He turned in his chair and called across to the bar. “Grappa,” he barked out. “A drink for our English friend.”
The waitress brought over a bottle and two shot glasses.
Ernesto took it and showed the label to Milton. “Bocchino Cantina Privata Grappa. The best you can buy.”
He put the glasses on the table, opened the bottle and prepared to pour.
Milton put his hand over his glass. “No.”
“No?” Ernesto looked as if he could be offended very easily.
“We haven’t concluded our business yet.”
“What?” Ernesto said. “The practicalities? The supply? You should not worry. It will be a simple enough thing.”
“Not just that.” Milton’s face was calm and composed.
“What? We are done for tonight.”
“Not yet,” Milton said. “There’s something else that I want.”
Ernesto looked at him for a long moment, a frown on his chubby forehead, and then he smiled a cold, cruel smile. “Ah, yes. Our friends. I understand.”
“They must be removed.”
“When would you like it done?”
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow.”
Ernesto looked up to one of his captains. “È possibile?” he asked.
The man shrugged, his lip curling up, and then he gave a curt nod. “Può essere fatto.”
“He says it can be done,” Ernesto said.
Milton nodded, too. “Good. Now we’re finished. I’ll have that drink.”
THERE WAS celebrating to be done to mark the conclusion of their agreement.
Milton paced himself carefully. He knew his limits and he did not want to exceed them. Ernesto and the others drank freely and Milton kept just a glass or two behind them, not so much as to draw attention to himself but enough so that he would be able to do what he needed to do. There were more bottles of grappa, and then wine, and then bottles of vodka and gin. Ernesto drank heavily, but it was obvious that he had a prodigious capacity for it. His conversation became more effusive, his jokes bawdier, but the same glitter of concentrated evil remained steady and unstinting in his eyes.
Milton finished his glass, pushed it across the table and started his act.
The big man from the restaurant in Castellabate, the man whose nose Milton had broken, was at the bar. He had been watching him all night. There was hatred in the way he looked at him, the way he levelled his stare at him whenever he thought that Milton was looking in his direction. Milton encouraged it, looking at him for a moment longer than he needed to, an unspoken challenge, a questioning of his stomach. The man was big, much bigger than Milton, and the ease with which he had been bested must have eaten at him. Perhaps he had been teased by the others, about how the Englishman, five inches smaller and a hundred pounds lighter
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