The Lost Relic (22 page)

‘Buitoni?’

‘Like the pasta. No spaghetti jokes, please.’ Buitoni smiled, wrinkles creasing at the corners of his eyes.

‘I don’t like spaghetti,’ Darcey told him.

‘That’s a pity.’

‘And I’m not here to appreciate humour,’ Darcey said.

‘So I see.’

‘And lose the cigarette, Paolo.’

Buitoni shot her a look, then flicked the cigarette away and orange sparks tumbled across the tarmac. He motioned towards one of the BMWs. ‘There has been a development within the last few minutes,’ he told her as they walked over to it. ‘The suspect Ben Hope evaded arrest earlier tonight and is on the run in the city as we speak.’

She narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Uh-huh. The first I hear of this is now?’

Buitoni shrugged. ‘We only just heard ourselves.’

‘Nobody was to make a move until I got here.’

‘You’ll find things tend to work that way in Italy.’

‘Not any more. What’s the target’s location?’

‘Our officers chased him into the subway system just seven minutes ago.’

‘Wonderful,’ Darcey said as he showed her to the rear of the
BMW
. The driver had the engine running. ‘A city subway system is an easy place to lose a fugitive. And this one’s already shown once tonight that he’s smarter than your police.’ She yanked open the door.

‘Not as easy as you might think,’ Buitoni said. ‘The Rome underground is still under construction. It has just two lines and only thirty-eight kilometres of track, compared with over four hundred kilometres in London. Believe me, there are few places for him to hide.’

‘Then I want the whole system sealed before he finds a way out of there. Set me up a cordon. Nothing goes in or out without my say-so.’

‘Being done. We’ll catch him. No problem.’

Darcey climbed into the back of the
BMW
with one of the other agents and slammed her door. ‘Let’s get moving, people.’

Buitoni got in the front passenger seat, and the car took off with a squeal of tyres. The second unmarked
BMW
followed, with the police Alfa bringing up the rear. As they left the airport the Alfa started up its flashing lights and siren. The night traffic parted for them as they hit the road for the city.

Buitoni turned round in his seat to pass Darcey an ID card and badge, and a handgun in a black fabric holster. She unclipped it. A Beretta 92FS, standard Italian police issue. It was heavier than the Glock she was used to, just under a kilo of chunky steel. The fat grip contained seventeen rounds of 9mm Parabellum.

‘How far to the scene?’ she asked, nodding at the speeding road ahead.

‘We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,’ Buitoni said.

‘Anything I need?’

‘You’re the boss, Commander Kane.’

‘Then get me there in ten.’

The driver put his foot down and the little procession of cars tooled into Rome in just a shade over eleven minutes. They screeched up outside a metro station that was teeming with police cars, vans and motorcycles and a milling crowd of uniformed cops. It was Darcey’s first glimpse of Italian Carabinieri with their red-striped trousers and Beretta machine pistols slapping their sides as they strode. She wondered how cocky they’d be if she told them how camp they looked in their knee-high leather boots. Buitoni must have seen her looking at them because he leaned close to her and said, ‘Your first time in Rome?’

‘And let’s get it over with,’ she said.

They were getting of the car when Buitoni received a radio call that left him frowning. ‘Hurry,’ he said, taking Darcey’s elbow to lead her towards the subway station entrance. She jerked the elbow away. ‘Talk to me, Paolo.’

As they ran down down the steps he explained: ‘We have
CCTV
footage of Hope boarding a train three stops down the line from here, just minutes ago.’

Darcey batted through the swing doors. ‘Is every station sealed?’

‘We’re working on it. But he hasn’t got off. Which means he’s still on board. The train is due to stop here any second now.’ They strode fast through the tunnels, surrounded by cops bristling with weaponry. Darcey scraped back her hair as they walked, fastening it with an elastic tie. She took the folded baseball cap from her back pocket, shook out the crumples and pulled it down tight over her head.

A moment later they emerged onto the platform where about a thousand guns were trained on the black mouth of the tunnel. Darcey did a check of her Beretta. Outwardly, she was calm, relaxed and totally in charge. She didn’t want Buitoni or anyone else to see that her heart was racing and her knees like jelly with the nervous excitement of waiting for the train to roll into the station. She almost let out an involuntary cry when she saw the lights in the dark tunnel. With a rumbling whine and hissing of brakes, the train emerged into the light and pulled up.

Darcey was so tense she thought her neck was going to snap. There was a wheeze of hydraulics and the train doors slid open. This time of night, there were just one or two passengers on board, and they stared in horror at the arsenal of weapons suddenly trained on them. Cops poured into every carriage. Up and down the length of the train, radios fizzed and chirped and officers milled around checking every inch inside and out.

It didn’t take long for the signal to reach back to Darcey.

‘He’s not here.’ Buitoni looked suddenly drained.

Darcey said nothing.

‘Don’t be angry,’ he said, watching her eyes. ‘You’ll know when I am.’

‘I don’t understand how this could have happened.’ Buitoni jabbed a finger back at the empty train. ‘He was
on
it.’

‘Then he’s obviously got off it, no? He just didn’t use a station.’

Buitoni looked blank.

‘You don’t understand what you’re up against here, do you?’ Darcey snapped at him. ‘Ben Hope isn’t your typical criminal, some little mafioso you’re going to scoop up off the street or nab asleep in the whorehouse with his nose full of coke. He’s
SAS
. You have no idea of the training these people have.’

‘How come you know so much about it?’

‘Because I’ve had more than a taste of it myself,’ she said. ‘My old unit, CO19, sends its personnel to train with
SAS
instructors. Physical fitness. Armed and unarmed close-quarter battle. Defensive driving. Hostage rescue. Escape and evasion. That’s just for breakfast.’

Buitoni raised an eyebrow. ‘Tough.’

‘Believe me, there isn’t a word for how tough it is. Just like there isn’t a word in English or Italian to describe just how royally you people have fucked up here.’ Darcey went on talking over the top of him as he started to protest. ‘Get it through your head. This man is ready for anything. He can disappear, resist capture for weeks on end, slip through the net of even the most dedicated manhunt. The hardest target you’ve ever gone after, and what do you guys do? You make it easy for him. You let him make fools of you. Not that it was so hard. Don’t argue with me, Paolo. You know I’m right.’ She glanced up the empty tunnel, past the immobile train and the hordes of cops now leading the dazed passengers away. ‘I guess that even in Italy they must occasionally service and maintain the underground system?’

‘Though we could surely never live up to your superior example.’

She ignored his sarcasm. ‘Then it must be possible to shut down a section of electrified rail but keep some lighting going in there.’

‘I think we can manage that.’

‘Do it.’

Buitoni talked in his radio. A moment later he got a call back and told her it was done.

‘Good. We’re going in.’

Buitoni stared at her. ‘Who’s going in?’

Darcey pointed at him, herself and the crowd of cops on the platform. ‘All of us. And I want another fifty searching from the other end, where Hope boarded. Somewhere along the line he’s got to be there.’

Within three minutes Darcey and Buitoni were at the head of the party flushing out the underground tunnel. Away from the station, the atmosphere was stifling and oppressive. She wasn’t used to this heat. The cotton polo-neck was sticking to her back. Every so often a dim lantern glowed against the sooty walls, but the lighting was poor and for most of the time the tunnel was in darkness except for the bobbing beams of their Maglites. There was nothing moving ahead of them, only the occasional black scuttling shape of a rat disturbed by their approach.

‘This is fun,’ Buitoni said as they trudged on, a few metres ahead of the rest of the troops.

‘How come your English is so good?’ she asked him.

‘My mother was from Gloucester. We lived in Britain until I was nine, then we moved to Rome. I’ve lived here ever since.’

‘You know this city pretty well, then.’

‘Better than most,’ he said. ‘What about your Italian? Not bad either.’

‘Night school,’ she replied.

They walked on in silence. Buitoni seemed deep in thought. ‘I just don’t get it,’ he said after a while. ‘I mean, a lot of people had their suspicions about Tassoni. There have been allegations about him for years, never proven. But to gun the man down in his home . . . And why? How is this Hope even involved?’

‘I don’t care if Tassoni was shaping up to be the next Mussolini,’ Darcey said. ‘I don’t care if Hope was doing the world a favour taking the guy out. And I don’t care why he did it. He’s mine, and he’s going down.’

Buitoni turned to look at her as a flash of torchlight passed across her face. He noticed the expression in her eyes and was going to say, ‘I can see why they sent you,’ then thought better of it and kept his mouth shut.

Another twenty minutes passed. ‘This is no use,’ Buitoni said as they trudged on in the dark. ‘I’m sure Hope was never here.’

‘He was here. Can’t you smell it?’

‘Don’t tell me. The
SAS
instructors also taught you to detect the scent of your prey, like a hunting predator.’ That wouldn’t have surprised him. He was beginning to get a pretty sharp idea of what kind of person his new commander was.

She didn’t reply. Buitoni sniffed at the stale, humid air. ‘All I can smell in this hellhole is rats and filth and damp and the sweat of fifty Carabinieri.’

‘I can smell something else as well,’ she said. ‘Burnt lighter fluid.’

The flickering yellow flame of a Zippo wasn’t quite as useful as a torch for finding your way up a black tunnel. Better than groping about blindly, though it had other disadvantages. The lighter’s brushed steel body was getting uncomfortably hot in Ben’s fingers, and he was beginning to worry about the fuel-soaked cotton inside reaching flashpoint. But singed fingers were some way preferable to zapping yourself into a piece of crispy bacon in about a millisecond when you happened to step on the electrified rail in the dark.

He reckoned enough time had passed by now for the police to seal off the whole underground network. Call it instinct, call it experience, but his sense of growing unease as he’d ridden the near-empty tube train through two stations had made him want to bail out before reaching the third. Three was pushing his luck. And he was fairly sure that, before too long, they’d be swarming through these tunnels like ferrets down a rabbit hole.

As he walked down the dirty gravel path between the rails, his shoe scraped against something solid and heavy. In the dim flame he saw that it was an old wrench. It was rusted and pitted and had probably been dropped by a workman decades earlier. A thought came to him, and he picked the wrench up and lobbed it gently against the electrified rail.

No flash, no bang. The wrench lay against the dead steel. He had suspected that would happen, and it could only mean one thing – that he’d been right, and that the cops had shut down a section of the line and were already coming after him on foot. The next station back down the track was probably swarming with them by now, and they’d be working their way back to trap him in the middle. ‘At least, that’s what I’d do,’ he muttered to himself.

And he couldn’t afford to be spotted. He snuffed out the lighter, dropped it in his pocket next to the Ruger, and pressed on in darkness. At least he didn’t have to be concerned about where he stepped. He passed the dim light of a service lantern, then moved on blindly. Every few metres he reached out his left arm to touch the tunnel wall to orientate himself. The stonework felt gritty and loose against his fingers. A few hundred metres further, his hand brushed something smooth and soft, that gave way with a rustling crackle when he pressed it. It was a thick plastic sheet, and it was covering a hole in the wall that seemed to go on for quite a few metres, nearly as wide as the tunnel itself. He found the edge of the plastic and pulled it away from the stonework. A breath of cooler air chilled the sweat on his face.

Wherever this was leading him, it was taking him away from where he didn’t want to be. He stepped through the hole into even blacker darkness. Taking small, careful steps, he found his way to the nearest wall. After a few minutes’ groping around he came across what he quickly realised was a plastic switchbox attached to the wall. He threw the lever, and blinked as a dozen powerful floodlights came on. He looked around him, shielding his eyes from the blinding glare. He saw towering lattices of scaffolding. Heavy earth shifting equipment. Electrical cables as thick as anacondas snaking across the floor, hooked up to humming transformers the size of small cars. Keep-out and hard-hat-zone warning signs everywhere. It was a construction site for a new tunnel, branching off perpendicular to the one he’d just walked up. The heavy plastic sheeting had to be there to screen off the site so that work could carry on while the trains were in service.

Except that it looked as if no work had gone on here for a while. A fine layer of black soot had found its way in around the edges of the plastic sheeting and settled over everything. No prints or marks on any of the machinery to suggest they’d been used lately. There was mould growing inside an abandoned Thermos flask of coffee.

The new tunnel curved away to the left. Ben was about to check it out when he heard a sound from beyond the plastic curtain. He stiffened, listening. Voices. An echo of footsteps. Maybe ten people, maybe twenty, maybe more. A walkie-talkie fizzed. The sounds were still a long way down the main tunnel, but closing steadily.