Driver tied her plum-red apron over her chic black open-collar uniform. She brushed the apron down with both hands and adjusted the black letterbox-rimmed glasses on the bridge of her nose. Fiddling with her long, raven-haired wig, she blinked and flexed her eyes, still adapting to the dark-brown contacts.
‘I’m sure it’ll all come back,’ she said to herself as she faced the counter and memorised the specials.
The last time she’d worked as a waitress she was seventeen, and she hadn’t spoken Italian for ten years. Driver hoped the refresher course on the red-eye flight from Russia would pay off. Thanks to a hard tap on the shoulder, she was about to find out. Driver turned to see a short, immaculate man with a goatee and a name badge that said ‘Mario, Manager’.
‘And who are you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Angela,’ she replied. ‘The actress, remember?’
‘No,’ Mario said.
‘They didn’t tell you?’ Driver tutted. ‘The studio was supposed to – I’m researching a role.’
Mario was suspicious. ‘What for?’
‘For the movie American Bella,’ Driver said. ‘Or Gap Year. They haven’t decided… I’m actually not Italian,’ she continued in English.
‘Yes, I’d worked that out,’ Mario replied in fluent English. ‘Are you joking with me? Did Antonio put you up to this?’
‘I don’t know any Antonio,’ Driver said. ‘It’s only for a couple of days.’
‘What’s your name again?’
‘Angela Westermann.’
‘Never heard of you.’
‘I’m more of a TV actress. This is kind of my big break, you know?’
‘So what’s this movie about?’ Mario asked, stroking his beard with a thumb.
‘Oh, well, it’s about this single mom who comes to Italy to take the gap year she never could at college.’
‘Hm,’ Mario took out his phone. ‘An-ge-la West-er-mann.’
Driver watched over his shoulder as he Googled her name.
A page of results came up with a Wikipedia snapshot of Angela Westermann – fake TV shows and all – created by Mo the night before. He’d even set up a fake IMDb page for Gap Year, slated for direction by Steven Spielberg.
‘Oh my God, you didn’t tell me it was Spielberg,’ Mario gasped. ‘I’m his biggest fan.’ He put a hand on Driver’s arm. ‘You think I could meet him?’
‘Depends how well you treat me,’ Driver said with a playful smile.
Mario held up both hands. ‘Like a princess.’ He stepped in and whispered. ‘If there’s anything you don’t want to do, just tell me and I’ll give it to one of the others.’
‘No, no,’ Driver insisted. ‘I want the authentic experience.’
‘Sure, of course,’ Mario said. ‘But any trouble, you come to me… You know what you’re doing?’
‘I’ll get the hang of it,’ Driver said in Italian.
Mario nodded and waltzed away, his phone to his ear. ‘Darling, you’re not going to believe this. I’m going to meet Steven Spielberg!’
Driver watched in amusement as he interrupted the work of two burly workmen fixing a new swinging door to the entrance to the kitchens. He told them all about his impending meeting with the Hollywood director, much to their indifference. She laughed to herself and walked to the front of the restaurant of the Hotel Popolo. It was high-end but casual. Cafe over à la carte. The large glass entrance looked out onto the Piazza del Popolo. Outside were twenty covers dressed in white tablecloths. The chairs were tasteful, made of wicker with white padded cushions. They huddled around tables inside a branded cordon matching the shade of Driver’s apron.
She headed outside, where the sky shone blue over the Eternal City. Tourists and pigeons congregated on the piazza. The honk and rumble of traffic was constant. Spying a table in need of clearing, Driver weaved between a smattering of locals smoking and sipping espressos. As she collected the discarded crockery, Driver surveyed the piazza.
‘Status check,’ Gilmore said in her ear as she gathered a collection of cups and plates.
‘Great news, Papa. I got the job,’ Driver replied.
‘Got a couple of ripe ones in an Audi across the street,’ Pope added. ‘Been here for the last ten minutes, scoping out the joint.’
Driver glanced over her shoulder and saw a black Audi SUV parked across the road, fifty yards further up from the hotel.
‘Merlin must be close by,’ Gilmore said. ‘Responder One, what’s your ETA?’
Baptiste spoke over the sound of horns and engines. ‘To be confirmed.’
‘What does that mean?’ Gilmore asked.
‘Traffic’s a super-bitch,’ Rios explained.
‘Thanks for that clarification, Responder One,’ said Gilmore.
As Driver stacked the dirty cups and plates on top of each other, she noticed Yedmenov appear to her left, on his phone and walking with his usual swagger across the piazza. He wore a pair of Armani sunglasses and a charcoal suit over a black shirt. Taking a seat in the middle of the outdoor area as instructed, Yedmenov crossed a leg, leaned back in his chair and continued to talk.
Driver rested the stack of cups and plates on a nearby table. She took out her pad and pen and approached. ‘Hello, sir, what can I get you?’
Yedmenov dismissed her with a hand. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, picking up the stack of crockery.
Yedmenov grinned as she walked away. ‘You look cute in that uniform.’
Driver didn’t dignify his remark with a response. Instead, she returned to the kitchen, where she found the entrance taped off and blocked by a set of steel stepladders. It was drinks only as the workmen sought to prise the old door from its rusted brackets. Driver left the crockery at the end of the bar, eavesdropping on Mario briefing his staff. He continued to boast of his date with Hollywood royalty and instructed them not to bother world-famous actress, Angela Westermann.
Driver hurried back to the outdoor seating. She fetched a menu for a well-to-do elderly German couple and apologised for the brief suspension of food service. The elderly couple promptly upped and left. Driver wasn’t exactly disappointed – the fewer customers on the scene the better. The disruption in the kitchen was a lucky break. She hoped it would last.
As the German tourists wandered away across the square, Wells pulled up across the street in a dark-blue Range Rover. He skipped around the front, dressed in a tan turtleneck and a black jacket. He opened a rear passenger door for Lim, who stepped onto the pavement in a dark-grey trouser suit, white chiffon blouse and Gucci sunglasses. She carried a leather-bound tablet under an arm, striding across the street like she owned the planet.
Wells played catch-up, eyes concealed behind wraparound shades. Lim walked in small, stiff steps at pace, her body mannequin-still above the waist. Driver had to admire her method approach. She sure knew how to play a role.
Yedmenov noticed Lim and ended his phone call. He jumped out of his chair and greeted her with a smile. They shook hands and Yedmenov pulled out a chair. As Lim took it, Wells moved to an adjacent table with a clear view of the piazza.
Driver hovered close by. ‘Where is this guy?’
‘He’ll be here,’ Yedmenov replied.
‘He’d better,’ Wells said, signalling to Driver. ‘Coffee.’
Driver took out a pen and scribbled on her order pad.
‘He’s here,’ Yedmenov said. ‘The one in glasses and a light-grey suit.’
Before Driver could turn to look, Mario called her from inside the restaurant. ‘Angela!’
‘Shit,’ Driver cursed. Of all the times.
‘You’d better go,’ Wells muttered under his breath. ‘It’s got to look legit.’
She peeled off and stepped inside the restaurant. ‘Yes, boss?’
‘Staff meeting,’ Mario said. ‘About the kitchen.’
Driver pointed to the entrance. ‘But I’ve got customers.’
Mario waved her over. ‘It will only take a second.’
She relented and joined the small huddle towards the back of the restaurant. Mario briefed the team on what a monkey could work out for itself: that food would unavailable from the kitchen for an hour while they replaced the door.
‘Finally,’ a young waitress said. ‘That door’s been stiff for ages.’
Mario continued to talk, telling them what to say and how to keep customers in their seats, drinking coffee and spending money until normal service could resume. Driver heard only snippets of the briefing, her attention drawn back to the meeting.
From the back of the restaurant, she glanced over her shoulder and caught only the slightest glimpse of Merlin. She saw him only from behind as he passed by the window, yet thanks to years of surveillance work, Driver could size up a man with only a partial view. She put him in his early forties and six foot plus, a strong, athletic build underneath what appeared to be a tailored suit and a light-blue shirt.
As Mario continued to prattle, Driver grew more and more impatient. She broke from the huddle. Mario opened his mouth to object.
‘Customer!’ Driver snapped in Italian.
Her boss for the day let her go without further complaint. Driver hurried outside, digging her pad and pen from her apron pocket.
Yedmenov and Lim sat to the left of the entrance, facing the square. This was part of Driver’s plan – to keep their lines of sight open, while closing off Merlin’s view of proceedings. The man in question had already taken a seat at Yedmenov’s table with his back to her. She stepped in closer without his knowledge.
‘You didn’t order already?’ Merlin asked in English tinged with a Scandinavian accent.
‘We wait,’ Lim said. ‘Chinese custom.’
‘Bu hao,’ Merlin said.
‘You speak Chinese?’ Lim asked.
‘Yiddian,’ Merlin said, pinching thumb and forefinger together. ‘Not enough to hold a real conversation.’
‘That’s a relief,’ Yedmenov said. ‘My Mandarin is as bad as my Farsi.’ He summoned Driver to the table with a click of his fingers, revelling in having her at his beck and call.
‘What can I get you?’ Driver asked. She stayed behind Merlin, wanting to remain in the background until the right moment.
Lim ordered a green tea and Yedmenov a cappuccino.
‘And for you, sir?’ Driver asked Merlin, positioning herself on his right shoulder.
‘Still water,’ Merlin answered in a flat tone, not even a glance in her direction.
‘Anything else?’ Driver asked the table.
Yedmenov waved a dismissive hand. ‘Yes, go away.’
Driver spoke through a gritted smile. ‘I’ll be back in a moment.’
Next time, she was playing the government arms dealer.
Driver breezed back inside the hotel and put the order in with Antonio. He was a wiry, energetic barista who looked like he could still have been in school. As he set to work on the cappuccino, Driver drifted back to the entrance of the restaurant. She watched the table and listened in via her earpiece.
‘I thought I said no security,’ Merlin griped. ‘As per our usual arrangement.’
‘I didn’t bring any,’ Yedmenov replied.
‘Then who’s the muscle?’ Merlin asked, pointing to Wells.
‘He with me,’ Lim said. ‘And I don’t travel without him. General Ding orders.’
‘Tell him to take a walk,’ Merlin continued.
Lim turned and gave the nod. Wells was reluctant, but rose to his feet, picked up his coffee and strolled by the table. He exchanged a look with Driver on his way inside and took a stool at the bar with his drink.
‘Now, speaking of Ding,’ Merlin said. ‘Where is the general? I thought he was going to—’
‘I speak for general,’ Lim replied. ‘Handle all business dealings.’
‘I’m sure you can understand,’ Yedmenov said, ‘it’s not an opportune time for General Ding to travel. Not with everything that’s going on.’
‘I don’t care what’s going on,’ Merlin continued. ‘I deal with decision makers, not errand girls.’
‘Then I go,’ Lim said, standing up. She grabbed the tablet and moved to leave.
It was a smart move. Merlin stood with his hands up in apology.
‘Nicely handled,’ Gilmore said. ‘Now move it on.’
Lim returned to her seat. ‘I hear you’re in market for new product.’
‘I might be,’ Merlin said. ‘If the price is right.’
‘Price is price,’ Lim replied. ‘Only question – are you serious?’
Driver craned her neck to see better through the window of the restaurant. With Merlin facing away from her she couldn’t get a full view, but there was amusement in his voice.
‘I can see why General Ding trusts you in his place,’ he said. ‘Forgive my abrupt manner. In this business, you can never be too careful.’
Lim nodded. ‘Careful good.’
‘So, you brought the specs?’ Yedmenov asked Lim.
She fired up the tablet. ‘Of course.’
‘Hey, Angela,’ Antonio yelled over the sound of a coffee grinder. ‘Your order is ready.’
‘At last,’ Driver whispered in relief. She headed to the counter and snatched a circular white tray off a stack, eager to play her part. She wasn’t very good at watching on from the sidelines, and the sooner they could wrap up the meeting the better. She loaded the drinks, opened the bottle of water and set it down. With Antonio’s back turned, she checked her surroundings and put a hand inside her trouser pocket.
Driver pulled out a tiny bottle of clear liquid and unscrewed the dropper at speed, slipping several drops into the neck of the water bottle. Screwing the top back on, Driver tipped the bottle upside down, letting the liquid mix in. Satisfied, she set the bottle on the tray and carried it towards the door. ‘Here come the drinks,’ Driver announced over the comms.
‘See if you can get a better shot of Merlin,’ Gilmore said. ‘Mo needs a full frontal.’
‘Give it five minutes and we’ll have the real thing,’ Driver whispered as she sidestepped an overweight male customer.
She made her way to the table, where Lim was scrolling through a series of schematics on the tablet. ‘This is product. EMP railgun.’
‘Range?’ Merlin asked.
‘Two hundred twenty mile,’ Lim replied.
‘Speed of projectile?’
‘Seventy-five mile per minute.’
‘That’s seven times the speed of sound,’ Yedmenov added. ‘It’ll hit any target within range in under three minutes.’
Driver set the tray down on an adjacent table and served Yedmenov his order. ‘Cappuccino for you, sir.’
The Russian tasted his coffee and nodded in approval.
Driver set Lim’s drink in front of her. ‘A green tea for you, madam.’
Lim pulled the tea bag from the cup and set it aside, snapping the case on the tablet closed.
Driver picked up the bottle of water and made it appear like a struggle, as if opening it for the first time. She poured out a glass and set it down in front of Merlin. She lingered a moment in front of the man without looking directly at him. Driver didn’t want to make him suspicious. It was merely to allow the tiny wireless camera built into her blouse button to capture a shot.
‘That’s it, we’ve got an image,’ Gilmore said. ‘Searching now… Wait, that can’t be right. Gotta be a mistake. Let us rerun it through facial recog…’
Driver was dying to know what the problem was. To ask would be to break cover. So she lingered, willing Merlin to drink his water. After a few seconds, he took a sip. Two or three more sips was all it would take. But agonisingly, Merlin put the glass down.
Realising she was acting unnaturally, Driver broke from the table. She fetched the half-full bottle of mineral water and set it down in front of Merlin. He took a second sip, and the cuff of his right sleeve rode up as he drank, revealing a tattoo on the inside of his wrist – a yin. Driver froze, electricity in her veins. She looked down at Merlin. He looked up. Their gazes connected as the sunlight caught his eyes, lighting them a pearlescent blue.
Driver felt paralysed, unable to break the spell as an invisible charge crackled between them.
He didn’t have blue eyes.
He didn’t wear glasses.
But she didn’t need Gilmore to run his image a second time.
It was him.
It was… Tom?