And herself.
96
Valentina knows the line is still open.
The voice that followed Louisa’s is too muffled for her to understand, but she can make out that it’s a man.
There’s also no trace of echo.
That means that it’s more likely that Louisa is in a car, rather than in the church as she said.
Valentina glances ahead. Rain is falling hard again and the man in her sights near the fountain has paused and is getting soaked as he answers a call on his own phone. Normally, someone would just let it ring and call back when they got somewhere dry, so he’s pretty much blown his cover. She listens to Louisa’s open line, and it’s now obvious that whoever is with her is talking to the guy standing by the fountain.
Valentina starts to piece the puzzle together.
If Louisa is in a car and not in the church, then she can’t be far away. Logically, if the vehicle is close by, it’s most likely to be in one of the official bays in Via di San Michele, off to one side of the piazza. Kidnap gangs never park illegally; they don’t want to risk drawing any kind of attention to themselves.
Valentina pauses under the main gated archway and reception block at the entrance to the courtyard.
She has to act fast.
Lightning fast.
The man by the fountain finishes his call and looks towards her.
She stops and kills the open line to Louisa.
Casually she calls Tom. ‘Louisa’s in a car. Probably in a bay by the right-hand side of the courtyard when you come out. I’m almost with the targets.’
She rings off and walks towards the fountain.
Despite the rain, the courtyard is still busy with people coming and going. Multicoloured umbrellas sprout up around the flower beds like fast-growing exotic blooms.
Valentina’s nerves jangle as Tom comes within ten metres of her.
He doesn’t even glance her way.
As far as she can tell, there’s no panic in his movement. He’s walking briskly, but not so fast that the rainfall doesn’t easily explains his haste.
She allows herself a small smile.
He’d make a good cop.
The tall, wiry man in the courtyard is now barely three metres away.
He’s in her peripheral vision but she’s avoiding eye contact.
To her surprise, he walks straight past her.
Then he stops and turns.
Only now does Valentina realise he’s not alone.
97
Tom finds it hard not to stay in the courtyard and protect Valentina. He knows she’s a professional soldier, trained to deal with situations like this, but his instinct is to hang around and make sure she’s okay.
Once he’s passed under the arch of the entrance block and emerged into the piazza, he picks up his pace.
He turns sharp right and then goes around the corner into Via di San Michele.
Immediately he’s confronted by dozens of parked cars.
All their windows are obscured by the falling rain.
People moving around with umbrellas make his view even more difficult.
Opportunistically, a guy with Rasta dreadlocks is standing near a wall, selling cheap brollies.
Tom pays ten euros for the first one he can grab.
He doesn’t give a damn about the price or about getting wet; he wants it to hide beneath as he moves from car to car studying the occupants.
Three quarters of the way along the bays, one of the parkups stands out.
A green Land Rover.
It’s noticeable not because it’s an exceptional vehicle, but because the windows have all misted up and the driver’s used a hand to wipe off the condensation to see through.
Thing is, it’s not the kind of street where there’s anything much to see.
Tom collapses his umbrella and moves to the driver’s side.
He knocks on the window.
It glides down about a third of the way.
He bends down and speaks English to a stern-looking man in his late twenties.
‘Excuse me, I’ve just locked myself out of my car.’ He gestures to the heavens. ‘Dumb, eh? Do you have a phone I can use to call my wife to come and bring some spare keys?’
The man frowns at him. ‘No.’
Behind him, in the darkness of the back seat, Tom can just make out another man. He’s sitting upright but struggling with something he’s holding down on his lap.
The window glides shut.
Tom bangs on it. ‘Hey! Come on, man, I need some help. I’m getting soaked.’
The glass glides back down.
The barrel of a gun pokes out of the blackness. ‘I said no! Now fuck off.’
98
The thin man in a long black trench coat smiles at Valentina. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
He’s as charming as dozens of other deluded guys who’ve tried to chat her up over the years.
‘Yes, my boss.’ She shrugs at the rain. ‘I hope she hurries up.’
Trench Coat comes up close and from inside his pocket presses a gun against her left hip. ‘Don’t move and don’t scream.’ He’s lost his charm now. ‘If you do, then this church will have another martyr.’ He looks into her eyes, and when he sees the fear and compliance he’s looking for, he adds, ‘Where’s Anna?’
Valentina feigns panic. ‘Oh God, don’t hurt me, please don’t hurt me.’
‘I don’t want to.’ He jabs the gun deeper into her side. ‘Where’s Anna? You’re supposed to have her with you.’
Valentina lifts her hand shakily and points through the archway at the end of the courtyard. ‘I took her back to the car because of the rain. She’s sick. Where’s Doctor Verdetti?’
Trench Coat ignores her and glances around.
‘ Please don’t hurt me, I’ve done nothing wrong.’
The gun stays pressed into her left hip. ‘Keep your voice down! What kind of car is it and where did you park?’
Valentina stares at the ground as though she’s too frightened to look at him. ‘Fiat. It’s a blue Punto. It’s not far… er… just outside in the piazza, right opposite here.’ She keeps her eyes fixed on the floor. Two sets of male feet stop just off to the right of her.
‘Go get her,’ says Trench Coat. ‘Be quick!’
The feet disappear.
Valentina feels another push in her side.
‘We’re going inside the church to wait for a little while.’ He slides his body across hers so he’s face to face with her. ‘I’d hate you to get all cold and wet.’
She feels his hand move inside her jacket, slide beneath her jumper and grab her by the waist.
His touch revolts her.
She has to fight an impulse to drive her right knee so far into his testicles they’ll come out of his mouth.
Being closer allows him to pull the gun out of his right pocket and hold it flat against Valentina’s abdomen, barrel digging into her diaphragm.
He puts his face close to hers. From a distance they could be mistaken for lovers about to kiss. ‘My little friend here is itching to get inside you,’ he whispers in her ear as he moves the cold tip of the barrel against her warm skin. ‘I don’t blame him. It must be really nice inside you.’
Valentina takes a deep breath.
He mistakes it for fear. ‘Don’t be scared. If you do exactly as I tell you, then in less than twenty minutes all this will just be an awful memory.’
99
It’s not the first time Tom Shaman has looked down the barrel of a gun.
A gangbanger once pulled an Uzi in his church in LA and robbed the entire congregation. The kid was high on crystal meth and ended up getting shot on the church steps by a gang senior who’d come to pick his mother up from the service and found her screaming and terrified.
Tom learned two basic things from all those badasses back in Compton. Firstly, there are frequent shooters, guys who only draw guns when they’re going to fire them. Secondly, there are bluffers, posers who pull a weapon but have never let off a shot in their sorry little lives.