Hunched over a weathered oak desk, Antonio Locatelli worked under the light of an LED table lamp. He could have been anything with hands like his. A cellist, a brain surgeon, a concert pianist. Yet Locatelli had chosen computing and engineering. And at the age of fifty-four, it was too late to learn the cello.
The rest of his workshop rested in gloom and shadow as he worked to the strains of Turandot on his old record player. Surrounded by the latest in computer technology, he still preferred the warm sound of the old-fashioned transistor.
A nearby clock tower struck on the hour with ten even chimes. Locatelli scratched his thick grey stubble and wiped the sweat from the deep creases in his brow. He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and soldered the last wire into place with the help of a freestanding magnifying glass. The Italian sung under his breath to the opera and slotted the back of the black, box-like remote in place.
He set the remote down on the desk and wheeled over on his chair to the right of the vast work desk. Locatelli brought his computer out of its slumber with the nudge of a mouse. The screen came to life with a passport photograph of his client. He dragged the image to the template he’d set up earlier and dropped it in place. Clicking print, he got up and walked to the far end of the workshop. He stretched his back, a dozen bones cracking, his bread and pasta belly sticking out under a scruffy blue shirt.
Locatelli picked up the white plastic ID card from the printer, still warm in his hand. He returned to his desk and checked the card under the magnifying glass. He turned it over in his hand, picking up the original card and comparing the two. Aside from the photograph, they appeared identical. ‘Good, good.’
Locatelli slipped the card inside the lanyard the original had come in and rose with a wheeze. It had been a week full of long hours working to meet the client’s deadline. Usually, he would have demanded a longer lead time, but the man was prepared to pay for Locatelli’s inconvenience. More to the point, his organisation were not the kind of people you said no to.
Locatelli took a padded brown envelope from a loose stack on a high shelf. He slipped the lanyard and the remote inside and placed it with care on the lid of the zinc-plated flight case. The Italian looked at the case, wondering exactly where and when the device would be used. His client had assured him it wouldn’t be local. But no one was going to check in a piece of baggage like that at an airport. Not unless they wanted armed carabinieri surrounding them in ten seconds flat. And why else would the American have requested it at such short notice? It was clear he was seeking to minimise the risks associated with his work. The fewer people who knew ahead of the event the better. Locatelli would have done the same.
Exhausted, the ageing craftsman flopped back down in his chair and opened a desk drawer. He took out an ageing bottle of whisky and poured himself a glass. Savouring the spirit, he checked his watch – his client wouldn’t arrive for another hour. Yet already, Locatelli could look forward to a fortnight of relaxation in his villa in the Tuscan hills. It would be him, his wife Andrea and their white, long-haired terrier, Cesare. There would be good food, fine wine, walks in the lemon groves and lots and lots of sleep.
Locatelli was tempted by another glass of whisky. He thought better of it, needing to stay sharp for when the client arrived. As Turandot crackled on the record player, he nudged up the volume. He screwed the top back on the bottle and stooped in his chair to return the whisky to the bottom desk drawer. As he rolled the drawer closed, something caught his eye. The muzzle of a Glock pistol. It appeared from the shadows, in the hands of a young woman with strong cheekbones and intense eyes. Her finger rested on the trigger.
‘How did you get in here?’ Locatelli asked.