42
Malpensa Airport predated the Second World War. Until the early eighties, most airlines except Alitalia were relegated to this dilapidated outpost. Italy’s flagship carrier had a dead-solid lock on the far more modern Linate. Only when the European Union’s economic watchdogs began growing teeth did Italy reluctantly abandon this farce. Now Malpensa was slated for closure. But nothing happened swiftly in Italy. For the moment, it served as the city’s municipal airport. Maintenance was nonexistent.
Trace, the Combine’s head of security, stood by the Gulfstream’s port engine, watching their gear being unloaded from the rear hold into two windowless vans. “What a dump.”
Reese stood in the shelter of one wing, staring out at a reluctant dawn. Her phone rang. The readout said it was her chief techie. Reese walked a few paces away and said, “Give me the good news.”
“There isn’t any. We tracked the attacker who overloaded our system to the Bank of Singapore. The next thing we knew, we had their secret police tracking us.”
“That cannot happen.”
“Weldon took care of it. But he had to go to the Combine board for help. And there’s something else. We know why they sent the bomb. They used the time we were down to send out an alert. Yesterday they met with students from the Statale. That’s where they did their original—”
“I know all that.”
“What you don’t know is, they took seven students back with them. The intel we’ve received about them is secondhand and garbled. But apparently these people are extremely gifted. If what we have learned so far is correct, these students have already moved beyond the team’s original parameters.”
The shifting dread she had carried with her across the Atlantic solidified. “This is extremely not good.”
“Tell me about it. Wait. Weldon wants to have a word.”
Trace walked over and said, “Heads up.”
“Not now.”
“We have a situation.”
“Deal with it. Weldon is coming online.” Reese walked farther away, clutching her umbrella more tightly against the gusting rain.
Her boss said, “You’re late.”
“Our flight was delayed almost four hours. Some light went off in the cockpit.”
“Do I need to tell you what to do about those Italian students?”
“No, Weldon. You don’t.”
“Give me your update.”
“We know where they are. Some African trader working the Como street market came up with the address.” She gave him a chance to respond, then asked, “Is Byron McLaren in place?”
“He’s just across the border in Switzerland, awaiting your word. What’s more, he’s become a serious pest.”
“Who wouldn’t be, when you’re holding eighty million of his dollars.”
“Byron has turned to his contacts in Washington, trying to get some leverage he can apply against us. I’m thinking it’s time to introduce the guy to his last day on earth.”
She watched the rain drip off the lip of her umbrella. “Actually, the man might be extremely helpful just now.”
“I hope there’s some serious risk involved. For him, not us.”
She outlined what she had in mind.
Weldon mulled it over, then said, “Keep him alive only as long as he serves your purpose, get me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Now for some bad news. Our local allies, you know who I mean?”
“The group that owns the security business.”
“Correct. They demand to be included.”
“We don’t need any help.”
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
“Weldon, this situation is already beyond the pale without including strangers—”
“I couldn’t agree more. But they’ve got ties that go right up our own food chain. I’ve heard from our board on this. They’re involved.”
“But why?”
Weldon sighed. It was an odd sound. Reese tried to remember if she had ever heard the man breathe his version of submission. “My guess is, because we’re operating on their turf, and because the deal is big enough to have our Italian magnate become personally involved.”
Though she had a dozen reasons for why they should fight it, what she really thought at that moment was, at least Weldon was being honest. “When in Rome . . .”
“Or Como. Right. Now get this done and get back here. We’ve got a dozen other things brewing. Weldon out.”
She cut the connection and turned around to discover a pair of dark Maybach sedans pulled up between the jet and the airport exit. An elegantly dressed man stood under the shelter of a large umbrella, which was held by a massive brute of a bodyguard.
Reese walked over. “And you are?”
“My name is Dimitri. These days, I am normally referred to as the Prince.” The man was ancient, but his age mattered very little. He carried about himself an air of timeless dread. “My sincere apologies for this dreadful weather, Ms. Clawson.”
“Is that a Russian accent I hear?”
“My heritage is of no importance. Think of me as your personal customs officer. Entry into Italy will require me to become your escort.” His smile was meaningless. “But I suspect you might already have heard that from others.”
Trace and Reese shared a limo with the old mobster. Trace said from the front seat, “You’re that guy, the one who blew his hand with the scientists we’re after.”
The Prince sipped coffee from a pewter mug. “The man who failed me decided to slit his own throat in prison rather than face me. It would be wise of you to remember that.”
Reese said, “I’m still trying to figure out why you think we need you at all.”
“You misunderstand, Ms. Clawson. You intend to operate in my territory. Beyond that, I have scores of my own to settle.”
“You guys have got some nerve, I’ll hand you that much.” Trace’s smile was evident in his voice. “You go against our explicit instructions. You totally fail. Now you want to leech off us—”
“Trace.”
“I was just telling the Prince here how—”
“Be quiet.” She turned to the Prince. Trace’s attitude was making it easy for her to play good cop/bad cop. “How much do you know about these scientists?”
“My information is, they are an international group, drawn from many nations. Only one is Italian.”
“Right so far.”
“Perhaps this Italian has relatives we could visit.”
“We’ve already thought of that. Her mother lives in Milan, but she has vanished. There is a sister in Greece.”
“We have allies there. But I dislike the idea of bringing them in. They can be, shall we say, heavy-handed.”
Trace snorted. “Like you guys know the meaning of the word subtle.”
“Stow it, Trace.” Reese kept her gaze on the Prince. “We are ordered to do this and get out. As quickly and quietly as possible. But there’s a problem. They know we’re coming.”
“You are saying there is a spy?”
“Worse.”
“None of my men have informed. I assure you of that.”
“They don’t need informers. They have developed a method of silent infiltration. Anywhere, anytime. Which is how they managed to take out your first team.”
The Prince’s eyes gleamed. “Such technology would be worth a fortune.”
“Only if it can be controlled. That’s why we need them alive. And why we gave explicit instructions not to move on this yourself.”
He waved it away. “That is behind us now.”
“Is it?” Reese slid across the seat, coming as close as she could without actually touching him. She could see he disliked it, which was why she made the move. “I need to know that you and your men will actually follow orders this time.”
“I am honorable in my dealings, I assure you. Now please—”
“And your men?”
“They obey me.”
She licked the words, a delicious whisper. “And when we get the prize, do we have to worry about you flying off on some private tangent or deciding you can make for yourself a better deal?”
His fretting motions stilled. “I and my men will hold to our agreement.”
“Excellent.” Reese returned to her side of the seat. She gave the men what she had worked out on the flight across the Atlantic. “Here’s what is going to happen. Our teams are going to make multiple strikes.”
Trace said, “That is seriously a serious bad idea.”
“Listen carefully to what I’m saying. They know we will attack. They find us out before we even move. So we make a series of attacks. Not with feints. They will recognize a fake. We’ll carry out multiple strikes—two, three, four, all in rapid succession. The Prince and his group could actually help us out here. His team leader will work independently on the how and the where. Just like you, Trace. When your crew gets into position, the team leader will then call me for the final go.”
Trace swiveled around in his seat, watching her now. “Standard request for the green light.”
“Just prior to penetration,” she confirmed. “Like always.”
“Nobody knows until the last minute which attack is real.”
“They are all real. The question is, which team actually makes the move?” She turned to the old man. “I need to know just how well your men obey you. At the final moment, in full adrenaline rush, will they accept my command and withdraw?”
He was looking at her differently now. The complacent superiority gone. “And the purpose is?”
Trace replied for her, “To wear the opposition down.”
“They’re a small team,” Reese said. “Seven scientists, three guards, maybe a local hire, whatever. We prepare to strike over and over. Night and day. As fast and as often as we can prep and go. When we’ve softened them up, we go in hard.”
The Prince said, “I underestimated you, Ms. Clawson.”
“Bad idea,” Trace said, his features taut with the prospect of coming battle.
Reese leaned back, satisfied. “We start in eight hours, once my team is rested up. Trace, your men go first. Prince, your team follows ninety minutes later.”
As Trace and the old guy got busy on their phones, Reese leaned back and closed her eyes. It was vital that the two of them bought into the plan and started moving immediately, losing themselves in the details of attack before either had time to scope out the flaw in her plan. Because there was one. A gaping maw that threatened to swallow them all.