The Milan Contract Read online

  The Milan Contract

  Stephen Franks

  Mooncat Books

  Copyright © 2020 Stephen Franks

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN: 9798577940072

  Cover design and artwork: Richard Barker

  To Angie

  Foreword

  Polizia di Stato (Ministry of Interior)

  Serving as the state police, this national police force is part of the Public Security Department. Its responsibilities include investigative and law enforcement duties, and the security of motorway, railway, and waterway networks.

  Arma dei Carabinieri (Ministry of Defence)

  A force with military status and nationwide remit for crime investigations. It also serves as the military police for the Italian armed forces and can be called upon for national defence action.

  Guardia di Finanza (Ministry of Economy and Finance)

  A force with military status and nationwide remit for financial crime investigations.

  (Interpol, 2020)

  1

  Sunday

  Hotel Napoli, Milan, Italy

  The first tram had not yet rolled out of the Messina depot and pigeons pecked and nodded between the rusty tracks along the Via degli Imbriani. The shutters on the apartments overlooking the boulevard still shielded the sleeping from the wash of pale yellow that was creeping over the flat roofs and down the plaster walls.

  A black Mercedes hugged the pavement, the driver leaning forward to read the names of the buildings. Finding what he was looking for, the car accelerated briefly and swung across the tracks before sliding to a stop in front of Hotel Napoli.

  His watch told him he was eight minutes early, so he called up a sports newsfeed on his mobile and flicked the release catch of his seat belt.

  To the south-east, the wheels of the early Paris express train whined and creaked in protest as it was shunted into position at Milano Porta Garibaldi station. From behind the stucco-fronted apartment blocks to the north, a deep growl of laughter echoed around the walled courtyards.

  The glass doors slid open and Lukas Stolz stepped out of the hotel, his eyes narrowing against the morning light. He caught a glimpse of a young girl cycling towards the city as the wheels of the express train emitted a final squeal, and the whisper of laughter faded behind the pigeons’ satisfied coos.

  The driver returned his smile as he rose from his seat and pirouetted neatly into position at the rear of the car. Stolz skipped down the low step, raising his bag in handover. But the driver’s hand failed to meet his and Stolz turned to see what had made the young man freeze in open-mouthed shock.

  A few seconds later, it was all over.

  In the brief instant it took the .22 bullet to effortlessly drill a neat hole in Lukas Stolz’s forehead, he relived the summer storms of his childhood. He was standing on a bridge with his parents, balls of lightning bouncing off the river and rolling towards him. His mother’s lips were moving but her words were drowned out by thunderous drums so deep he could feel the wooden boards shift beneath his feet. The bridge collapsed and he was falling. His father turned away as Lukas Stolz felt himself slipping below the cold, dark water.

  The second and third bullets were not necessary.

  2

  A grey-haired man viewed the scene from the hotel’s second floor. His tight jaw expressed concern, and although the early Milanese sun had not yet reached his balcony, his hairline was defined by silvery beads of moisture.

  Immediately below, he could see the roof of a black Mercedes saloon. The driver’s door and boot were open and on the pavement, lay a cream-coloured sheet of irregular contours. Even without the rivulet of blood that had congealed before reaching the gutter, he recognised the scene of a murder; he’d been at many. But it was the presence of the Mercedes rather than the shroud-covered corpse that had unsettled him.

  On the pavement next to the body, he saw a black leather attaché case and leaning against the car’s rear wheel, a blue fabric bag, its white baggage label dancing in time with the gentle gusts of warm air that spat dust in spirals from between the rusting tram tracks.

  An inner cordon of red and white barriers had been erected around the car and a corporal stood guard at its entrance. Two dark-suited men with narrow ties leant against the fence, sipping coffee out of paper cups whilst complaining about having to work on a Sunday. Two uniformed policemen were taking measurements on the road while a figure in white overalls crawled along the gutter looking for evidence.

  The whine of a camera motor startled the man on the balcony and, instinctively, he shuffled back against the wall. He watched while a young man in jeans and ill-fitting white tee-shirt took pictures of the car and surrounding area.

  Opposite the hotel, a few of the shutters had been thrown back and white-vested men smoked languidly and speculated noisily while flicking ash onto the police cars below. The sirens that had awoken the residents more than an hour ago were now silent.

  A black van with a flat, round communications dish on its roof was parked opposite the hotel entrance. Trails of blue and yellow cables ran between an open flap on its side to a portable generator, which hummed gently to itself on the pavement. An irregular procession of police officers filed in and out of the van’s rear door.

  On the main road, a hundred metres either side of the hotel, carabiniere manned the barricades at the junctions with Via Antonio Carnevali to the north-west and Via Acerenza to the south-east.

  A two-tone siren announced the arrival of an ambulance at the Via Acerenza roadblock and was promptly waved through. It was closely followed by a dust-streaked blue Maserati, which pulled up next to the inner cordon. A short bald man with rimless glasses eased himself from the driver’s seat, and one of the dark-suited men raised a hand in recognition. He returned a cursory nod and wiped his bright pink scalp with a handkerchief before shuffling across the road. Slowly he climbed the three narrow steps running up to the van’s rear door.

  When he reappeared a few minutes later, he was dressed in white plastic overalls complete with hood, which he must have decided was superfluous. He was carrying a small leather bag and grey folder. The corporal offered a perfunctory salute as he passed through the gap in the fence. ‘Doctor,’ concluded the grey-haired man on the balcony, edging forward to watch the new arrival.

  The bald man stood over the body and retrieved a voice recorder from his bag. Awkwardly and with a pained expression, he lowered himself onto one knee and let out a curse as he jerked back the sheet to reveal the dead man’s head, chest, shoulders and arms. He didn’t hear the stifled gasp that came from the balcony above him.

  The grey-haired man felt compelled to stare at the lifeless features of the corpse lying on the pavement a few metres below. The dark-framed glasses looked too wide for the dead man’s face and the ragged brown and black hole in his forehead was in ugly contradiction to his hair, which was grey and neatly trimmed. Lean, angular, middle-aged, dressed in light-grey, woollen suit trousers, plain white double-cuffed shirt and narrow red tie. His jacket, which he must have been carrying, lay next to a lifeless hand. One arm of his shirt had turned dark red where it had soaked up blood from the pool that had formed beneath his shoulder. A brown leather, bi-fold wallet lay open on the man’s still and lifeless chest.

  Recognition and dread arrived simultaneously.

 
; The watcher on the balcony retreated into the bedroom, stood in front of the mirror and frowned. Sweat was creeping down from his hairline, filling an opaque teardrop on the end of his sharp-chiselled nose. He took a pair of thick-rimmed glasses from the side-table and slowly fitted them to his face. A chill started in his neck, ran down his spine and merged with the pool of perspiration that had collected between his buttocks.

  Except for the ugly brown bullet hole, the corpse could have been the image of the man in the mirror.

  He sat on the bed, picked up his phone and stabbed at the keypad, waited, cursed and dialled again.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Salt.”

  “Yes boss, was your hotel –”

  “Fuck the hotel. What car were you sending this morning to pick me up?”

  “A Mercedes. Brad hasn’t left yet. Do you want to –”

  “Shut up, you moron. What type of Merc were you sending?”

  “E-Class. Nothing but the –”

  “Colour?” barked Salt.

  “Black, it’s black.”

  “And it’s still there with you, you can see it?”

  “Yes boss, it hasn’t moved. He was just about to leave. I’m looking at it.”

  “Have you got something to write on?”

  “Er, yes boss…shoot!”

  Salt took the phone from his ear and looked at it with loathing.

  “Get hold of Giuliani. I just tried him but he ain’t answering. Leo has his number.” Salt spoke slowly and carefully. “Tell Giuli, there’s a black Mercedes C-Class outside my hotel with a dead body lying next to it. Got that?”

  “Outside your hotel, there’s a stiff lying next to a Merc.”

  “Black Mercedes – that’s important.”

  “Black Mercedes. I got it, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t tell me not to worry, you prick.”

  Silence.

  “Also, tell Giuli about the plan to collect me today – have you written that down?”

  “Yes boss, I got it.”

  “Don’t forget to tell him about the car.”

  “OK, I’ll tell Giuliani about the car.”

  “And tell him to go take a look at the body at the morgue when they bring it in.”

  “Body at the morgue, right. What’s he looking for?”

  “Just give him the message, he’ll understand. Don’t screw this up.”

  With that, Pete ‘Salt’ Salterton closed his eyes and contemplated what the hell he should do next.

  3

  Lieutenant Raphael Conza suspected the case allotted to him that morning would probably be a waste of time. State Police were at the scene of a murder and had ‘reasonable belief’ the killing was mob-related. In accordance with standard procedure, the attendance of a Finanza officer had been requested.

  He decided to walk the forty-five-minute journey to the Hotel Napoli in the Derganino district. On the way, he grabbed a sandwich and coffee at Gina’s and by the time he arrived at the Via Acerenza roadblock, he felt more disposed than usual towards his uniformed counterparts.

  Conza made a note; it was 11:03 when he climbed the steps and entered the rear of the black incident control van parked outside the Hotel Napoli.

  Captain Brocelli’s pale, blotchy face winced as a wave of warmth accompanied his arrival.

  “Shut the damned door.”

  The lieutenant’s smile went unnoticed as Brocelli went back to typing on his laptop. Conza remained standing and looked around. The van was divided along its length between electronics and monitors to his left and a map and whiteboard to his right. Above the blank screens, the computers were silent with inactivity. In the ceiling above, an air-conditioning unit spewed metallic-smelling cold air.

  In the van’s narrow corridor sat Captain Brocelli; flabby chest rolling over the edge of the pull-down desk, pale blue shirt blotched by irregular dark patches around his neck and armpits. Brocelli had a widely held reputation for laziness and a general lack of care. Everyone knew he was unashamedly marking time until the day he could draw his pension.

  Conza had heard the canteen gossip; how Brocelli had fallen from grace, despite once being the ‘darling’ of the Lombardy region. But Brocelli’s fall had happened so long ago, nobody could remember why anymore.

  Brocelli finally looked up and waved at a low wooden stool.

  “You’re Conza, I take it. They told me you were coming. What is it? Drugs, mob?”

  Conza smiled. “I don’t know yet. Depends what you’ve got for me.” He sipped lemon water from a bottle he’d bought at Gina’s and waited.

  Brocelli scowled. He knew Conza, knew his background. Father had been a big wheel in the foreign office. Rich. Private school. University. Fast track from civvy street, not ex-military. Never done the hard yards. A smartarse.

  He held out a claret-coloured passport, which Conza had to lean forward to take from his short, stubby fingers.

  “Victim’s passport is in the name of Lukas Stolz. Born 1952. Address in Heidelberg, Germany. Stated occupation, maths professor. A one-year visa for Venezuela issued in Berlin, now lapsed. Plus two entry and exit stamps issued in Riga last July.”

  Conza flicked through the passport trying to keep up with Brocelli’s narrative. He made a few shorthand notes in his pad. Brocelli clenched his jaw when Conza wrote the letters ‘LV’ next to ‘Riga’. ‘Cleverdick.’

  He passed Conza a thick sheet of paper embossed with the Hotel Napoli logo.

  “Stolz checked in on Thursday, alone. He was never seen with anyone, nor seen to talk to anyone. He checked out this morning. Paid his bill by credit card.”

  Conza continued to write.

  “Ate dinner in his room Thursday and Friday. Don’t know about last night.” Brocelli swiftly added, “We’ve asked for a trace on his bank cards.”

  He smirked as he watched Conza place a small tick next to ‘CC – check,’ in his notebook.

  “No alcohol, pay-per-view or external calls, although he ordered a German newspaper on Friday.”

  Conza scanned the bill and identified five lines, each annotated ‘SIC’ – ‘Servizio in Camera’ – and another line headed ‘Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung’.

  “It seems Stolz kept himself to himself,” Brocelli opined, before selecting a witness statement from the pile. His cadence quickened slightly.

  “On Thursday night, he stayed in his room. On Friday and Saturday morning, he ate breakfast in the restaurant and left the hotel on foot at around eight. He returned around six-thirty both evenings. Nobody knows where he went.”

  Brocelli had to wait while Conza converted his narrative into neatly ordered date and time entries.

  “Stolz asked the front desk to book a limo to take him to Malpensa Airport. Pick up at seven this morning.”

  Conza started a new page.

  “The car was booked through a local agent…” Brocelli said, picking up a statement. “A to Z Limos on the Via Copernico. We’ve sent someone to take a statement. Chauffeur’s a local kid by the name of Sami Ricci. Lives out in the sticks with his girlfriend.”

  “Address?”

  “Chalet 2, Riva al Lago, Via Macconago,” Brocelli read stiffly. Conza held up a hand until he’d finished writing.

  “We’ve got Ricci at the station. Claims when Stolz stepped out of the hotel door, a man dressed in black, wearing a balaclava, suddenly appeared. Stolz and the killer exchanged a few words before the shooting started.”

  Conza didn’t see Brocelli making the hand gesture of a pistol being fired.

  “So, Ricci said the assailant was a man?” asked Conza.

  Brocelli scanned the statement. “A figure.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ricci dived under the car as soon as he saw the gun. He heard three shots and then a small-engined motorbike heading off towards the city. Not much else.” Brocelli shrugged his shoulders in concert with his own conclusion.

  Over the next twenty minutes, Conza learnt that Stolz’s
body had been taken to the police mortuary and he was shown photographs of the murder scene, corpse, and close-ups of the dead man’s face and the injury to his forehead. There was no exit wound. He was told that one round had been recovered from the car’s headrest along with three bullet cases. They’d been sent to the police lab but had already been identified as .22LRs. Brocelli believed the pathologist would find the bullet that killed him, in Stolz’s skull. As for the third round, Brocelli could only confirm it hadn’t yet been found.

  Brocelli had to wait once again, until Conza had finished writing before tossing him a tan leather wallet.

  “It’s been dusted. It was lying open on the guy’s chest.”

  “No cash,” Conza muttered to himself, pulling the edges of the wallet apart.

  “There’s an old photograph in there – family presumably. Also, the return half of a round-trip air ticket to London leaving Malpensa 12:05 today and a ticket for a local tram. I’ve got a man at the depot asking about the tram ticket, but it wasn’t stamped, so we’ve no idea when it was used.”

  Brocelli watched Conza turn the tram ticket over, but there was nothing unusual about it. The photograph was of a woman and two young children sitting by a fountain. ‘They look happy,’ Conza thought.

  “Four bank cards: two debit and one credit issued by Deutsche Bank. One debit card issued by NatWest. I think that’s American or English.”

  “English,” responded Conza casually. Brocelli ignored him.

  “A couple of loyalty cards and two business cards. One in his own name and one for Hertz at Riga Airport.” Brocelli added with a grin, “That’s in Latvia.”

  Conza sighed but resisted the temptation to congratulate Brocelli on his ability to use Google.

  “There’s also what we guess is a security card for Skyguard Defence Industries. Ever heard of them?”