Havoc (20 page)

CHAPTER 52

Vega snatched the cellphone from his pants pocket the moment he felt it vibrate. “Sergeant Lama. It’s about time you called.”

“Don’t use my real name!” said the caller in a thick accent. “Are you crazy?”

“Don’t worry. I’m in my hotel room. No one’s going to hear me.”

“I don’t care. There’s no reason to take that kind of risk.”

“Fine. Do you have any updates,
Raven
? I’ve been sorely disappointed by your lack of progress.”

“I have been busy—”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” cut in Vega. “I know you’re on the take. It’s time you decided which team you’re playing for. There’s a lot more riding on this investigation than you’re aware of—dangers that threaten your country and mine. The dead man, Wells, is just the beginning. You’ve had plenty of time to engage in this case but have sat on your hands. So now I’ll put it to you bluntly: either help me, or I expose your Mafia connections to your superiors.”

Neither man spoke for a full five seconds.

“Okay,” said Lama at last. “What do you want to know?”

“Now we’re getting somewhere. I need two things. First, I need your help tracking down the person who is offering to sell the second half of the Silverstar files to Feng Wu.”

“Feng Wu?”

“The guy who purchased the first set of files from Wells just before he was capped in the Colosseum.”

“Ah, yes. I don’t know who the new seller is, but I have heard of Feng Wu. We’ve been looking for him but haven’t found him yet.”

Vega shook his head in disbelief. “I know where Wu is, but I can’t take him down until we’ve identified all the players in this game. If we arrest Wu now, anyone at Vidulum who might be interested in selling to his replacement would just melt away until the new Cúnchú buyer comes along. We have to take all of them out simultaneously, or we won’t plug the leak at Vidulum.”

“I see. Do you have any information I can use to help find this new Vidulum person?”

“Not really. I know the seller goes by the name of ‘Brookings,’ but I’d be shocked if that’s his real name. He met with Wu at a hole-in-the-wall restaurant three days ago and was supposed to meet him again yesterday to wrap up the sale, but he never showed. It seems to me Brookings must be either an employee of Vidulum or someone who’s been hired by an employee as a front man.”

“You know a man from Vidulum is already in Rome, right? His name is Terry Langford.”

“Yes, we’ve known about him from the beginning. He has a solid alibi, though. He’s been working on his laptop almost non-stop in his hotel room since he arrived. He’s been sending a steady stream of outgoing files to servers back in Palo Alto, including during the interval Brookings met with Feng Wu, so Langford is off our list.”

“Can you describe Brookings?” asked Lama.

“He wore a floppy hat and sunglasses, so it was a little hard to make him out. Let me see…medium height, slim build, couldn’t see hair or eye color. He dressed pretty casually—jeans and a tee-shirt.” Vega could hear the sound of Raven thumbing the information into his phone.

“Okay. I will see what I can do on this. You said you needed help with two things. What is the second thing?

“I need your help tracking down two other agents who just appeared on my radar in the last forty-eight hours,” said Vega.

“I haven’t heard about any other agents. What are they doing? What can you tell me about them?”

“Not much,” replied Vega, pausing to recall all that Gantt had told him earlier that day. “There’s at least two of them, possibly more. Frankly, their profiles look almost identical to Brookings’. Either they’re employees of Vidulum or were hired by Vidulum employees. Here’s the dilemma: I don’t know why they’re here. On one hand, they could be damage-control folks who share our mission of finding the first set of Silverstar files and returning them to Vidulum. On the other hand, they could share Wells’ former mission—sell the second half of the files to Wu and live like royalty the rest of their lives. At this point, it’s impossible to say which is true. We need to track them down and ascertain their motives.”

“Okay. Do you know their names?” asked Lama.

“No, the two we’re aware of use pseudonyms: ‘Yankee’ and ‘Raindog.’”

“Do you know when they arrived in Rome?”

“No,” replied Vega. “I can check back on that, but I think if Control knew, they would have told me already.”

“So you don’t have a physical description of them?”

“No, nothing.”

“So how do you know there are such men?” asked Lama.

“Control cracked the password on a blog that serves as a marketplace for stolen IP—intellectual property. IP thieves visit this site to sell their stolen information to the highest bidder. Control was hoping to find a dialog about the seller of the Silverstar files. They didn’t hear anything about Brookings, but they did intercept some chatter about new agents nosing around here in Rome.”

“So maybe they are trying to find the files and take them back home, like you said,” suggested Lama.

“Possibly, but if so, why the secrecy? Why the pseudonyms, the lack of contact with local authorities, the lack of contact with Vidulum itself?”

“So your people have already talked with Vidulum?”

“No,” replied Vega, “but we’ve been monitoring their internal communications. They’ve never mentioned having sent anyone here besides Langford, and this topic would have surely come up if they had. It all points to a couple of rogue employees or their hired guns trying to cash in.”

“I think you are right. Can you send me the web address of the IP theft blog and the password? I will see what I can find.”

“I can, but our guys already have it covered. You’ll do more good asking your local informants if they’ve heard anything. Ask them if they’ve heard of anyone looking to make a big-league score selling high-tech plans.”

“Okay, I will do this,” said Lama. “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

“No, that’s all. I’d like to keep you focused on the essential tasks that I can’t easily replicate.”

“Good. You understand that if you tell my boss about my friends in Sicily, I won’t be working on your case anymore. I’ll be on a boat to Africa, hoping the rest of the
Polizia di Stato
doesn’t find me.”

“I understand,” said Vega. “You help me with this, and my lips are sealed, as always.”

CHAPTER 53

Zane Crowe strolled across the grimy floor of his hostel room. His medical recovery had stretched into its third day, a little longer than anticipated. As he walked, Crowe concentrated on his injured limb. It throbbed, but not with enough intensity to incapacitate him.

Crowe exited his room and walked to the end of the property’s small parking lot, then returned, again maintaining his focus on the intensity of pain in his gunshot wound. Now he was sure—his leg had healed sufficiently to walk without limping, at least not enough for anyone to notice. In a pinch, he could probably run.

The former soldier began to pack his nylon duffle bag. As he did so, he cast his mind back to his activities over the past three days of unexpected confinement. Despite his best efforts, he had uncovered no additional information regarding the buyer of Wells’ cellphone. Crowe wished he had stayed on better terms with Colonel Michaels, his former CO in the British Army’s Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Such a connection would have provided an invaluable source of information in tracking down Wells’ buyer. But Michaels was such a by-the-book prick, maintaining a mutually-beneficial relationship with the man had proved to be impossible. He had refused every bribe Crowe had offered. Lacking that resource, Crowe had worked the investigation from a number of angles on his own but had come up empty. There was a limit to how much recon he could conduct without being on the ground in Rome.

Crowe wasn’t ready to give up on acquiring Wells’ cellphone, but he knew time was running out to track down Blackwell and Wilson and finish them off. Surely their Italian trip would end soon. Once they returned to the States, eliminating them would become considerably more problematic if not impossible.

Stuffing the last of his tee-shirts into the duffle bag, Crowe swung by the hostel office to settle his bill. The last thing he needed was a disgruntled property manager calling the police to report an unpaid tab and providing an inadvertent lead on Crowe’s whereabouts.

After paying the bill, Crowe found himself driving southward within minutes, speeding towards Rome. He hoped the police’s search for him in Florence had abated over the last three days but wasn’t about to test the theory with any unnecessary stops—better to keep driving, at least for a while, and blend into the Eternal City’s vast tourist population.

Two hours into the drive, Crowe pulled into the small town of Giove. Although reluctant to stop, Crowe recognized the danger of entering Rome with his appearance unaltered. Now that the police and his targets had gotten a good look at him, the task of disguising his appearance had to be addressed before attempting another hit on Blackwell and Wilson.

He found a local barbershop and through a series of gestures at photos on his cell phone, requested a buzz cut. While in the small town, he also purchased a wardrobe of upscale tourist clothes, hoping to blend into the Roman throngs as much as possible.

The hired gun arrived in Rome’s northeastern suburbs. He looked for an out-of-the-way hotel, finally spotting a nondescript building with a hand-painted “Hotel Aurolilia” sign bolted over the door. It didn’t appear to be the kind of spot that would attract tourists. After renting a room at the seedy hotel, Crowe retired for the night, thankful for the opportunity to rest his wounded leg.

Early the next morning, Crowe struck out for the Pantheon Royal Suite, the targets’ luxurious accommodations located in the heart of Rome. If they left their hotel, Crowe wanted to arrive in time to witness their departure.

Crowe located the hotel and stationed himself outside the establishment, settling in for a protracted wait. He hoped to obtain intel from the hotel’s staff in order to prepare an effective ambush. In doing so, however, he couldn’t take the risk of being spotted by his targets. He had to be assured of their absence.

The hit man had waited scarcely thirty minutes when he saw a couple emerge from the hotel’s front doors. The male walked with a distinct limp, and there was no mistaking the petite looker at his side. It was Blackwell and Wilson, all right. Crowe contained a rising tide of anger as he watched the couple disappear around the corner. He’d have his opportunity to even the score soon enough.

Crowe waited another ten minutes after their departure before entering the hotel. Concentrating on walking without a limp, he sauntered into the lobby and approached the front desk. A young woman in her twenties with a braided ponytail and innocent eyes worked the counter alone.

“Good morning, Miss,” said Crowe.

“Good morning,
signore
,” replied the clerk. “Are you checking in?”

Crowe glanced over his shoulder to ensure his privacy. “Actually, no. I’m a bail bondsman from the United States.” He flashed the counterfeit bondsman license that had served him so well in the past. “I’m looking for a couple of small-time criminals who jumped bail in Florida and sneaked here to Rome. I have reason to believe they may be staying at this hotel.”

“What did they do…to be arrested?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of the charges,” said Crowe, “but let me tell you this: they may look like a regular couple, but I wouldn’t want to make them angry, if you know what I mean.”

The clerk’s eyes grew wide. “And they are staying here?”

“That’s what I need to confirm. The bloke is an athletic-looking guy but walks with a limp. His girlfriend, the one who drove the getaway vehicle, is short with black hair, slender, very pretty.”

“Yes—I know this couple! I remember the man with the limp. They just left a few minutes ago.”

“That’s the ticket,” said Crowe. “Now here’s where I need your help, Miss. Did you hear them say anything about where they might be going over the next few days? I’m not allowed to arrest them myself, but I can tell the Italian police where to apprehend these criminals. I don’t want to put your guests in danger, so it would be better if the police could arrest them outside of your hotel.”

“You think these people might fight the police?”

“They’ll do more than that. I know for a fact the man carries a gun.”

The clerk’s face turned pale. “Let me think…I don’t remember them saying anything. I will check the concierge desk to see if they reserved any activities. What are their names?”

“The bloke is Alton Blackwell, and his girlfriend is Mallory Wilson.”

“You wait here. I will be back in a minute,” said the hotel employee, who walked over to a desk with a brass “Concierge” plaque bolted to it.

While he waited, Crowe wandered over to an alcove containing a bookshelf filled with musty volumes and stepped into the nook’s dark shadows. Blackwell and Wilson weren’t likely to reappear, but there was no point in lingering in a spot as vulnerable as the front desk.

The clerk returned, and Crowe walked back to the check-in counter.

“Michael, our concierge, say that this couple talk to him about activities but they don’t schedule anything with him,” said the clerk.

Crowe cursed his luck.

“But the couple say they going to walk over to the Trevi Fountain,” continued the hotel employee.

“Good—did they say when?”

“Yes, Michael hears the couple talking to each other. They say they gonna go tomorrow morning ‘cause they have something else planned for today.”

“That’s brilliant, Miss,” said Crowe, deciding his fortunes had improved. “Did Michael say if they mentioned any other destinations?”

“Yes, he says they talk about going to the Jubilee Church tomorrow, too.”

“The Jubilee Church? What’s that?”

“Is…how you say…a modern-looking church. It was just built a few years ago.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“I am not surprised,” said the clerk. “Not many people are. It is located in a plaza by itself. The only things around it are apartments and factories, so not many people go there except on Sundays.”

“Not many people, you say? Interesting. Did they say when they’ll be going to this church?”

“Michael did not say. If they are going to Trevi Fountain in the morning, I think they will go to the Jubilee Church in the afternoon, no?”

“Makes sense to me,” replied Crowe.

“So I have helped you?” asked the clerk.

“You have no idea.”

After returning to his hotel room, Crowe placed a call to his employer.

“It’s me,” said the hit man. “You still want the Americans dead, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my rate just went up fifty percent…on account of getting shot.”

“And how is that my problem? It was your mistake, not mine.”

“It’s your problem now. Unless you have someone else you can line up by tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. I know where they’re gonna be, and it’s a good location to lay a trap. Don’t worry…I won’t be subcontracting out the job this time. I’ll be doing it myself.”

“Very well,” conceded Crowe’s employer, “but I’m only paying after the job is done.”

“Fair enough, ‘cause you know what happens to my non-paying customers, right?”

“Just do your job, and I’ll do mine.”

That afternoon, Crowe began to formulate the battle plan for his attack. The clerk at the targets’ hotel had certainly proved to be a goldmine of information. He could scarcely believe his luck.

Crowe considered the lessons he had learned from his first disastrous assault on Blackwell and Wilson: remain mindful of their backgrounds and strengths, stick with silent weapons, and engage in a surprise attack at close quarters to eliminate the possibility of Blackwell drawing his Beretta again. With these principles in mind, Crowe derived the perfect strategy, one brilliant in its unorthodoxy while remaining consistent in its adherence to the lessons just considered. Having made this decision, Crowe went in search of the materials needed to execute his ambush.

“You surprised me the first time, Blackwell,” Crowe muttered under his breath. “It’s only fair that I return the favor.”