Wells checked his watch. ‘Whoops, time for the briefing.’
Driver bounced to her feet, eager to get out there. ‘Let’s do it.’
Yet she heard a disturbance outside the room – the guards yelling at each other and Gilmore barking orders.
Wells looked as curious as she did. As he opened the door, the four-man security team shuffled past as if on an armed raid. ‘Clear!’ they said, checking each room.
Wells and Driver stepped out into the hallway together. Rios came out of her room at the same time. With tongue in cheek at the sight of them together, she nodded and smiled, mischief in her eye.
Driver ignored the insinuation. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
Gilmore marched past them in the hallway. ‘You know that thing you feared?’ he said to Wells. ‘It just happened.’ He strode off towards the secure room. Driver followed with Wells and Rios in tow. The door was wide open, a light on and the room empty. She was shocked to find Lim was gone.
The guards doubled back into the room. ‘No sign of her anywhere, sir.’
‘You checked every room?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you were here the whole time?’
‘No one came in or out,’ the guard said. ‘Regular checks. She was right there.’
‘Have we got CCTV?’ Gilmore asked.
Anna appeared. ‘The interior hallway of the apartment and the parking garage. All clear.’
‘Then how the hell did she get out?’ Wells said, alarmed.
‘I don’t know, sir,’ the guard replied. ‘We checked the ties. Searched her for weapons. She was secure.’
‘The woman’s a goddamn ghost,’ Gilmore muttered.
Wells stepped forward and pulled the bed to one side. He checked underneath, but found nothing other than dust. Gilmore tugged at the bars on the window, finding all of them fixed in place.
Driver looked around the room. ‘If I couldn’t escape through the window, the door, the floor or the ceiling, where would I—’ She paused as she spotted something. A rectangular outline in the wall, almost invisible to the eye. Driver knelt low next to it, running her hands along the joins. She gave it a push. A rectangular piece of plasterboard fell in on itself. ‘I think we found her escape route.’
The others gathered round.
‘She’s in the walls,’ Wells said to the guards. ‘Fire at the walls.’
Gilmore pushed a guard’s rifle barrel to the floor. ‘No one’s firing at the damn walls.’
Driver turned to Lim’s security detail. ‘How long since you last saw her?’
‘Uh, about twenty-three minutes.’
‘Then she’s already gone,’ Driver said, rising to her feet.
‘We don’t have any proof of that,’ Anna replied, as analytical as always.
‘Let’s see, shall we?’ Driver strode out of the room. The others followed. She led the hunting party down the stairs and across the garage. They found the shutter door open at the base. Driver looked at Anna. ‘That proof enough for you?’
‘Okay,’ Gilmore said, resting his coffee cup on the edge of a large map of the Piazza di Spagna. ‘We’ve got the Chinese minister due to speak at midday.’ He tapped on a spot on the map marked in red pen. ‘We know he’s going to be speaking here. Before that, there’ll be a private choral performance at the Trinità dei Monti.’
‘If I was McNeil, where would I strike?’ asked Wells, standing over the map.
‘We know his MO is an explosive device,’ Driver said, pointing at a spot on the map. ‘That means he’s likely to plant it inside the church.’
‘Or he could plant it outside,’ Wells replied. ‘Either where the minister’s due to speak, or under a platform.’
‘We’ll have to cover both,’ Gilmore concluded.
‘Won’t be easy,’ Wells said. ‘The place will be surrounded – Italian secret services, private contractors, McNeil’s own people.’
Driver crossed her arms. ‘We know he’s got at least two of his own team in Rome. Maybe more.’
‘And shooters on the roof,’ Rios added, a foot on a chair, leaning forward on a thigh. ‘The piazza has four tall buildings on all four corners.’ Rios pointed out three points on the map. ‘The police snipers will take up position here, here and here.’
‘You think you can find a spot?’ Gilmore asked.
‘There’s always a spot,’ Rios said.
‘That leaves two of us on the ground.’ Driver stared at the map. ‘And a lot of it to cover.’
‘You’ll have me, Mo and Anna running surveillance nearby,’ Gilmore said.
‘Plus I’ve got you a new drone,’ Anna shouted from her desk. ‘And this time I’ll be at the controls.’
‘But what about Lim?’ Wells asked.
‘If I was her, I’d be in the wind,’ Rios said.
‘Except you’re not,’ Wells replied. ‘You don’t know how she thinks.’
‘We think like criminals, isn’t that right, boss?’ Rios said to Gilmore.
The remark bounced clean off him. ‘Let’s not get into hypotheticals. McNeil remains the primary threat.’
‘I’ll sweep the steps and the church,’ Driver said, guessing it the most likely place she would find Tom.
‘And I’ll play lookout in the square,’ Wells added, ‘in case Lim appears.’
‘Good,’ Gilmore nodded, clicking the end of a pen. ‘As far as Lim goes, she’s a shoot to kill. If you spot her, call it in to Rios. Let her take the shot.’
Driver glanced at the young Mexican, but she didn’t protest, her eyes fixed on the map.
‘All right, so Driver finds the device and calls in the bomb threat,’ Gilmore continued. ‘Wells stays close to the minister and counters any secondary attack from Lim. And Rios, you’re going to have to be your own spotter.’
‘So what’s new?’ she replied.
‘What about eyes and ears?’ Driver asked.
‘I’ll be nearby calling the plays on comms. Anna will monitor chatter and pilot the drone. Zeus ought to give us an advantage. Mo’s re-tasking a satellite as we speak.’
‘He can do that?’ Wells asked, impressed.
‘Please, look who you’re talking to,’ Mo said, sipping on a mug of coffee. He spat it out into the cup. ‘Scheisse! I’ve gotta stop doing that.’
‘What about extraction?’ Driver said. ‘If things get messy again.’
‘Dead or alive, we’ll get you out of there.’
‘Well that’s comforting,’ said Wells. ‘And McNeil?’
‘If you can take him alive, great. In a body bag, fine. But the minister’s life is the priority now.’
‘And if all this fails, then what?’ Anna asked, approaching the table with a look of concern.
‘Then God help us all,’ said Gilmore.
Driver opened the door on the safe house rooftop. In need of fresh air, she walked to the edge and looked across the rooftops of Rome. The sun rose low over the horizon. The air was cool and fresh. The traffic was light. A clock tower chimed. It was the time of day when all cities were at their best – low on people, high on possibility. Yet this morning was different. Driver wasn’t prone to entertaining her fears, but she felt a shiver down her spine and a persistent shallowness of breath.
This was the world as it appeared now, with its domes and steeples and tourist traps. But how would it look after the events of the day? A week from now? A month? She couldn’t help but picture a blinding white flash in the distance. A wave of fire tearing across the city. A world blown to rubble. A sky snowing ash. A future cast in nuclear darkness.
Why was Tom doing this? Running your own private army was one thing, but triggering a nuclear war? What in the hell could he be thinking?
Driver took a few deep breaths. She cast her eyes across a clutter of old buildings and ancient walls, as far as the Vatican City.
‘Where are you, Tom?’ she said out loud, as if the question would find him on the breeze. ‘Where are you, you son of a bitch?’
From the northern outskirts of Rome, Tom McNeil looked out over the city. He clipped his forged ID badge to the breast pocket of his dark-blue, short-sleeved shirt. It was part of the uniform he’d stolen from Di Paola, the maintenance man – the same man he was holding captive. Di Paola was being treated well, and would be released as soon as the mission was over. McNeil didn’t believe in killing for no reason. And his hostage would know nothing other than a needle to the neck, the four walls of a bedroom and a masked captor.
McNeil took a deep breath. Today was the big day. A voice spoke in his ear over the comms. ‘Ready to go, sir. Waiting on your command.’ He plucked the radio from his belt, held it to his mouth and hesitated. Was he sure he wanted to do this? When he gave the instruction, there would be no going back. The world would never be the same. And if the plan failed, death would be the best-case scenario. If it succeeded – well, no one really knew what would happen.
Yet it was better than the alternative. For everything to remain as it was. No, something had to be done. Something radical. And like his backers always said, destruction was the first act of creation. It was this idea that had dragged him from the pit of despair one Tuesday evening four years earlier. A trip to his local church and a support group for military personnel with depression and PTSD. Bobby, an ex-marine, had invited McNeil for a beer at O’Dowd’s across the street from the church. He told him he was a recruiter for a private foundation running trials to rid soldiers of depression and past traumas. Bobby had slipped him a business card on his way out, blank except for a number on one side and a name on the other in plain black writing: ‘Vesuvius’.
McNeil didn’t regret for one second calling the number. He’d received tens of thousands of dollars of cutting-edge treatment. It had cured his PTSD and given him a new lease of life. More than that, the ideas he’d learned from his Vesuvius mentor had transformed his view of himself and the world. What could be achieved. What could be changed. What needed to be done. And these were not just the words of dissidents or dreamers. There were long-term plans in motion, backed by four-star generals, no less. But they needed boots on the ground and skilled operatives in the field. His mentor had offered him a pivotal role in the organisation – the ultimate mission that would take years to execute. It meant a double life, a promotion to commander of SEAL Team Six and absolute loyalty.
Falling for Sam hadn’t been part of the plan. But a soldier had to turn his heart cold when the situation demanded. McNeil had committed fully to the programme. And he wasn’t about to back out now. He gave the command. ‘Green light.’
McNeil took one last look at the city and walked around to the rear of the white van. Opening the flight case Locatelli had secured the device in, he tested the remote for the third time – turning it on, setting the timer, and deactivating it again.
It was excellent work. And it even looked beautiful, the usual mess of wires and components hidden from sight behind a brushed steel panel. Locatelli was a true master of his craft. Like many Italians, he valued beauty as much as function. It’s a shame he had to die.
McNeil closed the lid on the device and locked the trunk. He slammed the doors shut and walked around the driver side of the van, adorned with the regal crest of the Città Metropolitana di Roma Capitale. McNeil started the engine and pulled away from the warehouse, cruising through the industrial estate and rolling downhill towards the city.