Alessandro Gavi slipped into his customary pew on the left side of the church. Many considered him handsome in a spare and meticulous fashion. He dressed well, he had his hair cut every ten days, he was seldom seen without a tie. He exercised regularly, ate sparingly, and remained within two kilos of his teenage weight, even in his late fifties. Alessandro knew many considered his daily attendance of morning mass simply another precise habit. Certainly he gave no indication of extreme devotion. The reason he attended daily mass was quite simple. He had a long and intimate knowledge of evil. As far as he was concerned, such experiences required an act of balancing. Of consciously making room for the good and the just and the divine. Otherwise, he risked drowning in the sea of shadows and ghosts.
When he emerged from the church, Alessandro was pleased to discover that the constant rain had paused, at least momentarily. But the sky smoldered beneath the same heavy grey blanket that had dominated northern Italy for the wettest spring in three hundred years.
He spotted the watcher as he crossed the church’s forecourt and entered the main piazza. Alessandro’s first impression was that the man who observed him was an assassin. But an assassin would not stand in plain view, his hands open and at his sides. As one professional might greet another, signaling there was no danger.
The closer Alessandro came, the more certain he grew of the man’s occupation. He was handsome enough to draw stares from passersby. This individual scanned his surroundings constantly. He was taller than Alessandro, and the body beneath his knit shirt and slacks was warrior hard. His features were severe. Hints of old scars peeped from the shirt’s collar and his left sleeve.
Alessandro stopped in front of the man and waited.
The man spoke to him in American-accented English. “Turn on your phone.”
“Pardon me?”
“You have a call coming in. It’s important. Switch on your phone.”
Alessandro drew out his phone, hit the switch. The instant he had a signal, it rang. He lifted the phone to his ear. “Hello?”
“Alessandro? Tell me you haven’t already heard the news from someone else.”
“Edoardo?”
“Who else? Tell me I’m the first.”
“Have you been trying to contact me?”
“How could I, when I only heard it for myself five minutes ago? First I called around to make sure it was real, this story. And even though I have now had it confirmed by two people I trust, I still don’t believe it.”
It was not uncommon for Alessandro to receive phone calls upon leaving the church. This was, after all, Italy, where empty chatter was considered a vital weapon against the vacuum of silence. But to receive a phone call from Edoardo was a singular event.
Edoardo was an ally from the bad old days. He had been the head of the anti-Mafia police in Catania. He was also that rarest of breeds, an honest policeman who had survived. He and Alessandro had become natural allies in that other great battle, the one against corrupt officials in Rome. Three months after Alessandro had arrived in Como, Edoardo had been reassigned to the Guardia di Finanza in Milan. They had not spoken in four months. Longer.
“Alessandro, are you there?”
He forced his lungs to take a breath. “What do you have to tell me that is so urgent?”
As Alessandro absorbed Edoardo’s news, the American remained as still as the statues cresting the central fountain. An immovable force, one so potent the very air about him was compressed. He watched Alessandro with a predator’s patience as Edoardo regaled him with how a Mercedes S500 had been discovered that morning, parked in the front room of the Bar Azzurra. Inside were crammed nine men. Five of them were tied to the prostitution ring that dominated northern Italy. The other four were all members of an elite corporate security group based in Como. All but one had their palms glued together, and then the outside of their hands glued to the inside of their knees, forcing them to adopt a most uncomfortable position. Their pant legs had been sliced open at the thigh to make this possible. The ninth man had his hands glued to the steering wheel and his shoe glued to the pedal. The men were all moaning pitifully over being trapped like this, apparently for hours, crammed tightly inside the car.
Edoardo howled with the simple pleasure of being the first to inform his friend of the event.
Alessandro made noises he did not actually hear himself, then hung up. He asked the American, “This was your doing?”
“Yes.”
Alessandro studied the man a bit longer. “Do I have anything to fear from you?”
“Not now, not ever.”
“In that case, perhaps you should join me for breakfast.”
They walked to the largest of the cafés fronting the square. The waiter saw Alessandro coming and lifted the “Reserved” sign off his customary table. It was a small favor, but one that meant a great deal, for his was one of the few outdoor tables set far enough beneath the awning that not even the strongest gusts could propel rain onto his morning paper.
Alessandro gestured for the American to be seated. “What will you have?”
“Whatever you take is fine by me.” When the waiter departed, the American continued, “I’m sorry about the bar’s entrance. We needed to make sure they were arrested.”
Alessandro nodded as though that made perfect sense. “We.”
“I serve as security agent for a group of scientists. They’ve taken over a villa in Brunate.”
“You are a professional bodyguard.”
“Currently, yes. Normally my work involves risk assessment and running security teams.”
“So how many other security agents have you brought into my country?”
“Not enough.” The man turned and signaled to a grim-faced woman seated at the table closest to the building. Alessandro was very good at noticing professionals, which this woman certainly was. Yet he had missed her. That only heightened his sense of being confounded by this man.
The woman carried a battered canvas case as she walked over and seated herself. “No tails.”
“My name is Charlie Hazard. This is Irma Steeg. Irma, show the man your badge.”
Alessandro read it. “An Orlando policewoman. Here in Como.”
“That is a gold shield,” the woman said. “Senior detective. Homicide. Retired.”
Alessandro asked Charlie, “How did you know about the phone call I was about to receive?”
He replied, “You have two sets of questions. One pertains to the incident last night. The other is about how we have come to contact you. I would advise you to keep them separate.”
Alessandro paused while the waiter set down two breakfasts of brioche, spremuta, and cappuccino. It was the sort of advice he would have himself given to a new bailiff. “Signora, will you perhaps take breakfast?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He nodded to the waiter, who departed. Alessandro asked once more, “How many are in your team?”
“Irma, myself, and a kid.”
Irma said, “Julio is no kid.”
“He’s eighteen and untrained.”
“Actually, he’s seventeen, and he did just fine last night.”
Alessandro raised his hand. “I have difficulty believing that the three of you and a group of scientists took out nine armed assailants. If indeed you were attacked.”
“The attack was real,” Charlie replied. “And the scientists didn’t help. They don’t even know about it yet.”
Irma said, “I still feel like we should have gotten them together and told them.”
“Not a chance. You want to wake up a bunch of civilians, tell them, ‘Last night we took out a professional hit team, you go ahead and have your cornflakes, we’re making a run into town’?”
“They’re as safe as your shadow can make them.”
Alessandro saw Charlie shoot Irma a warning glance, but all he said was, “That will do nothing to reassure the team. They need to hear about this from us.”
Alessandro rattled his cup. “Wait, please, enough. Return to my question. You three have taken out nine assailants.”
Irma said, “Charlie here is very good at what he does. He’s ex-Ranger. Do you know what that is, Ranger?”
Charlie said, “We had the element of surprise on our side. We won’t next time.”
Alessandro asked, “How can you be certain they will return?”
“These guys won’t. But others will. And the next group will be a lot worse than these punks.”
“Half the men you captured have a history of violence and prostitution. The others do corporate security.” Alessandro had to admit that made for some very intriguing questions. “Such attackers would carry a serious level of threat.”
“They’re punks. The next attackers will be people like me.” Charlie reached for the detective’s battered case and slipped it over by Alessandro’s feet. “In there are nine silenced pistols, seven carbon knives, and four switchblades. We’re keeping the Tasers and the batons.”
“Please, that last word, I don’t know it.”
“Batons. Retractable hand-to-hand weapons.”
Irma said, “Primo quality. Titanium with carbon grips.”
Alessandro motioned to the waiter and waved his finger at their empty cups. “Italy’s crooks always get the best toys.”
Charlie said, “The Tasers were all jacked up to illegal settings.”
“They were after causing maximum pain and probably permanent damage,” Irma said. “These were not nice boys.”
“So what do you want from me, absolution?” Alessandro pointed at the church across the square. “Please. Go. All are welcome.”
The pair just sat and watched him. Waiting.
Alessandro sighed. “All right. Now we shall move on to the second set of questions. Just exactly who is this group you are protecting, and why did these attackers have such a powerful interest in them? And how did you know to tell me to turn on my phone?”
Charlie became even grimmer than before.
Irma leaned back and cocked her arm over the empty seat next to hers. She revealed a very hard smile, that of a woman who had seen as much of the world as Alessandro. Perhaps.
She said to Charlie, “Here we go, sport. You’re on.”