The number of assassins on earth whose reputations were in Slaton’s league could be counted on one hand. Every one of them would tell you unreservedly that Pietro Vittorio, whose field of expertise was very much affiliated, was a man without peer.
He had been born on the island of Sardinia, the product of a man with good hands and a sharp eye, and a woman for whom food was a religion. The elder Vittorio ran a small tool and die shop, making pipes until the start of World War II, then gun barrels during and after—during because the fascists had demanded it, and after because rifle barrels proved far more profitable than threaded pipe.
Signori Vittorio’s talents with lathes and grinders were reflected clearly in his only son. Young Pietro skipped school in the seventies to learn how to drill, and skipped marriage in the eighties to build the business his aging father had begun. In the early nineties he finally married, a guileless woman who knew nothing about guns but everything about authentic Sardinian cooking. It was then, with his belly full and his clientele growing, that Pietro Vittorio’s comfortable life had come undone.
His troubles began when he signed a minor contract with a Serbian militia at the outset of what would become an ugly war in the Balkans. Vittorio’s contribution was a mere handful of modified, high-end sniper rifles that proved devastatingly effective. From a financial standpoint the venture was but a minor supplement to his established accounts, no more than a few dozen highly accurate guns. As a business strategy it was a disaster.
The Balkan War played out in all its viciousness. Truces were declared, breached, then awkwardly reinstated. The world watched from a distance, and with more than its customary revulsion. When the Adriatic dust settled and details emerged, the world stood aghast. From soft chairs in the Hague, lawyers of the United Nations did their best to catalogue war crimes and bring charges to bear. Among the least egregious, but most provable, offenses involved a registered arms contract between a certain Sardinian gunsmith and a ruthless Serbian strongman.
As the lawyers of the International Criminal Court began to debate matters of temporal and personal jurisdiction, the Italian government decided to take the lead in soothing the collective conscience. They instigated their own proceedings against anyone who could be proved to have aided and abetted the worst of the Balkan criminals. Among the first to fall under their magnifying glass: a boutique armorer from a tiny village in Sardinia.
Vittorio claimed, in a classic armorer’s defense, that he could have no way of knowing that the end users of his weapons were targeting schools and churches. He tried to distance himself, claiming he was no more than a simple gunsmith. It was all to no avail—he, or more accurately his business, was among the first sacrifices. While not held criminally responsible, his license to manufacture arms in Italy was permanently revoked. So stung, a bitter Vittorio sold his building and most of his machinery and let go six employees. To make his exile complete, his good wife, shamed by her husband’s illicit dealings, left him and went back to cooking for her mother.
With no small amount of bitterness, Vittorio packed up a few of his best machines and moved to Milan, a location that was both central to Europe and far removed from his troubles. There he set up a one-man shop and embarked upon a new business plan: His license to sell guns commercially had been revoked, but he was not banned from working with private parties. Over time his reputation quietly grew, and his client list became thick with shadowed men and women who sought the very best—and who, more importantly, never quibbled over price.
Within five years he was doing modifications for Delta Force, the SAS, and a handful of lesser-known but equally lethal operators. Among them: a certain Mossad assassin who was destined for legend. To these select individuals, Pietro Vittorio was known not by his given name, but simply by his trade.
He was l’Armaiolo.
The Armorer.
* * *
Slaton had ditched the Mercedes on a residential street in Lugano, reasoning that it looked perfectly at home amid the rows of well-kept hillside residences overlooking the lake and a brooding Monte San Salvatore. He crossed into Italy by train, his passport never challenged, and reached Milan by midafternoon.
There he wasted no time. Not wanting to use his CIA-issued phone, nor compromise the handset pair he shared with Christine, he took the time to purchase a new throwaway device. As he activated the burner, Slaton wondered what nuances of electronic tradecraft might now escape him. Communications intelligence was a fast-moving discipline, and he’d spent most of the last year at sea. Were burners still secure for one-time use? Could he use it more than once to call the same number? Should he limit his call to a set amount of time? It was all of course unanswerable, and he felt a distinct unease at having been away from the game for so long.
Slaton departed the Milano Centrale station toward Porta Nuova, Milan’s primary business district. There the streets were clean and busy, lined with modernist facades representing a virtual who’s who of global commerce. As he walked, Slaton was reminded of yesterday’s climb—his legs felt as though he’d spent the entire day doing lunges at a gym. He knew he was in good shape, aided by the occasional masonry job, yet if life at sea had its charms, it also ruined the pursuit of any serious training regimen. Slaton decided that once this affair was behind him, it would be time for a serious self-appraisal: fitness, marksmanship, Krav Maga. Knowledge of the latest technologies. He could permit no weaknesses.
He addressed the burner phone, dialing as he walked. There were roughly ten phone numbers in the world Slaton had committed to memory. The Armorer’s was one of them.
Vittorio answered on the second ring, his Sardinian accent, with its core resonance of Latin, clear on every word.
“Ciao,” Slaton said, keeping with Italian. “It’s your friend from Stockholm.”
A pause, then, “It’s been some time.”
“Three years, but who keeps track? I have need of your expertise.”
“But of course.”
“Are you available this evening?” Slaton asked.
“Certainly. I am in the middle of a project, but the deadline is well off. Come around seven.”
“All right. Are you still at the same address?”
“I am. However, if this is only a consultation … perhaps we might meet for dinner.”
Slaton weighed this proposal on two levels. Vittorio was inquiring if Slaton would be carrying a rifle to be modified. If so, fine dining was hardly an option. He also knew the armorer’s wife had abandoned him, and that he desperately missed her cooking. “I have something to show you,” Slaton said, “but nothing to draw attention.”
“Good. Do you know Risoelatte?”
“No, but I’ll find it.”
“It is long one of my favorites. They have discreet tables, and the waiters are among the slowest in Milan.”
Slaton could not suppress a grin. “Seven it is.”