his own business. Ben had long ago learned to answer those kinds of questions without sounding evasive but without getting too specific about the kind of training that went on at Le Val. She’d visited that part of France a few years earlier and was curious to know if his home was anywhere near to Mont Saint Michel, which he told her it was.
As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.
Chapter Eleven
It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.
‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.
The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’
‘Not that I was told about.’
The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’
Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’
‘So?’
‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’
‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’
‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’
‘I
am
the boss.’
Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’
‘Fine.’
Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.
Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.
The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.
‘What is it?’ Buratti said.
‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’
‘What?’
‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’
‘You’re shitting us.’
‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.
Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do
As they talked and the minutes went by, neither of them noticed the white Mercedes van that was pulling up outside, or the men who were getting out.
Chapter Eleven
It was exactly 6.45 p.m. when the van appeared on the driveway and drew up in the forecourt outside the entrance of the Academia Giordani. The window rolled down as the two security guys swaggered up to the vehicle, putting on their best officious frowns. Ghini, the one with the moustache, was the first to notice the intimidating bulk of the van driver as he leaned out to talk to them. He could see himself and his colleague, Buratti, reflected like a couple of dorks in the mirror lenses of the guy’s wraparound shades. He folded his arms across his chest to make them look bigger, tried to act tough and let Buratti do the talking.
‘Think you’re in the wrong place, guys,’ Buratti said.
The driver looked puzzled, shook his head. ‘This is the Academia Giordani, yeah? Delivery for you.’
‘Not that I was told about.’
The big guy produced a yellow printed sheet from his bulging breast pocket. ‘See for yourself.’
Buratti studied it carefully. It did indeed look as if the goods had been ordered. ‘We have a problem. There’s an exhibition on here now.’
‘So?’
‘So can’t you see there are people inside? I can’t have a bunch of workmen spoiling the view from the gallery windows. You’re gonna have to come back tomorrow.’
‘No way. Not till next month, pal. We’re booked solid.’
‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’
‘I
am
the boss.’
Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’
‘Fine.’
Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.
Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.
The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.
‘What is it?’ Buratti said.
‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’
‘What?’
‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’
‘You’re shitting us.’
‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.
Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do
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