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Authors: Scott Mariani
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we look like to you?’
Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.
The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Buratti backed away in a panic, then let out a wheezing gasp as Bellomo stepped up behind him and buried a combat dagger in his back. He slumped down on top of Ghini.
Spartak Gourko jumped down from the van. In his hand was the hilt of his knife, a long steel spring protruding where the blade should be. A trophy from his Spetsnaz days. He kicked over the bodies and retrieved the detachable blade from Ghini’s chest. Slipping it into a metal sheath, he compressed it back inside the hilt with an effort before replacing the weapon in his belt.
Anatoly Shikov jumped out of the van next, followed by the other three Russians, each holding a large black canvas holdall. Strong hands grasped Ghini and Buratti by their collars and belts and bundled them messily into the back of the Mercedes.
The ornamental slabs and edging stones were lying in a ditch miles away.
Anatoly slammed the doors shut, peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, checked the dial of his shiny Tag Heuer. Dead on time, the radio gave a splurt and a fizz. He snatched it up. Petrovich’s voice, transmitting from somewhere beyond the woods.
‘You’re good to go,’ Petrovich said in Russian. ‘Landline dead?’
‘As disco.’
‘OK. You and what’s-his-name stand by.’
‘Caracciolo. Copy. See you when it’s done, boss.’
Anatoly shut off the radio. He unzipped a plain black gym bag, took out the cellphone blocker his father had given him, set it down on the van’s passenger seat and activated it. Just like that, all communication to and from the Academia Giordani was cut off. Also in the gym bag was the padded case his father had given him, tailored to the dimensions of the Goya sketch. Anatoly put the strap around his shoulder.
The eight men walked fast across the gravel and paused outside the entrance to unzip the holdalls. First, out came the black balaclavas, standard three-hole military issue. Rocco didn’t like to remove his shades, but couldn’t wear them over the mask. He took them off reluctantly and slipped them into his pocket. Next came the tight-fitting leather gloves; and finally the weapons. Five Steyr TMP ultra-compact 9mm machine pistols with twenty-round magazines; Anatoly grabbed one of those like a kid in a sweet shop, while Rocco Massi helped himself to one of the two AR-15 assault rifles fitted with 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers. Gourko claimed the other. The last firearm to be handed out was the short-barrelled Remington 12-gauge autoloader with folding stock. Good for blowing locks and generally blasting apart anything at close range. That one fell to Garrone.
Between them, it added up to enough firepower to hold off a regiment.
Once everyone was kitted up, all eyes fell on Anatoly. Waiting for his command. He loved this moment.
Chapter Twelve
There was a limit to how much Ben could discuss about fine art, but it turned out that Donatella shared his love of Bartók’s music and that was what they were talking about when Gianni came up to complain he was thirsty. While she fussed over the boy and went to the refreshments table to get him a glass of fruit juice, Ben stepped casually across to the window and gazed out at the grounds and the woods that surrounded the property. He noticed the white Mercedes van parked up outside, which hadn’t
Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.
The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Buratti backed away in a panic, then let out a wheezing gasp as Bellomo stepped up behind him and buried a combat dagger in his back. He slumped down on top of Ghini.
Spartak Gourko jumped down from the van. In his hand was the hilt of his knife, a long steel spring protruding where the blade should be. A trophy from his Spetsnaz days. He kicked over the bodies and retrieved the detachable blade from Ghini’s chest. Slipping it into a metal sheath, he compressed it back inside the hilt with an effort before replacing the weapon in his belt.
Anatoly Shikov jumped out of the van next, followed by the other three Russians, each holding a large black canvas holdall. Strong hands grasped Ghini and Buratti by their collars and belts and bundled them messily into the back of the Mercedes.
The ornamental slabs and edging stones were lying in a ditch miles away.
Anatoly slammed the doors shut, peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, checked the dial of his shiny Tag Heuer. Dead on time, the radio gave a splurt and a fizz. He snatched it up. Petrovich’s voice, transmitting from somewhere beyond the woods.
‘You’re good to go,’ Petrovich said in Russian. ‘Landline dead?’
‘As disco.’
‘OK. You and what’s-his-name stand by.’
‘Caracciolo. Copy. See you when it’s done, boss.’
Anatoly shut off the radio. He unzipped a plain black gym bag, took out the cellphone blocker his father had given him, set it down on the van’s passenger seat and activated it. Just like that, all communication to and from the Academia Giordani was cut off. Also in the gym bag was the padded case his father had given him, tailored to the dimensions of the Goya sketch. Anatoly put the strap around his shoulder.
The eight men walked fast across the gravel and paused outside the entrance to unzip the holdalls. First, out came the black balaclavas, standard three-hole military issue. Rocco didn’t like to remove his shades, but couldn’t wear them over the mask. He took them off reluctantly and slipped them into his pocket. Next came the tight-fitting leather gloves; and finally the weapons. Five Steyr TMP ultra-compact 9mm machine pistols with twenty-round magazines; Anatoly grabbed one of those like a kid in a sweet shop, while Rocco Massi helped himself to one of the two AR-15 assault rifles fitted with 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers. Gourko claimed the other. The last firearm to be handed out was the short-barrelled Remington 12-gauge autoloader with folding stock. Good for blowing locks and generally blasting apart anything at close range. That one fell to Garrone.
Between them, it added up to enough firepower to hold off a regiment.
Once everyone was kitted up, all eyes fell on Anatoly. Waiting for his command. He loved this moment.
Chapter Twelve
There was a limit to how much Ben could discuss about fine art, but it turned out that Donatella shared his love of Bartók’s music and that was what they were talking about when Gianni came up to complain he was thirsty. While she fussed over the boy and went to the refreshments table to get him a glass of fruit juice, Ben stepped casually across to the window and gazed out at the grounds and the woods that surrounded the property. He noticed the white Mercedes van parked up outside, which hadn’t
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