The Milan Contract Page 11

  The two men entered the barn shortly after and Kadin watched himself hugging his father before being led away. For a long time after his departure, Issam remained sitting against the wall. Every few minutes, he checked his watch and Kadin guessed his father was waiting for the time of the murder to pass.

  When the clock on the recording read 08:30, his father rose slowly, his image swapping to the camera at the rear of the barn. He heaved the ladder from the wall and leant it against the beam directly in front of the lens. He went behind the pallets and returned holding a thin nylon rope.

  The panic that gripped Kadin’s stomach was excruciating. He wanted to switch off the recording, wanted to run back to the barn and save him. Stop him doing what he’d always planned to do but could never tell his son. Kadin bit into a cushion and sobbed as his father slowly climbed the steps, his face suddenly filling the screen. He was smiling. With trembling fingers, Kadin reached out to touch the screen. Issam looked at him and spoke. Gone was his fear, and Kadin knew he was trying to tell him that he’d finally found peace.

  “You will not use me anymore and I will never be able to betray my family again. I’m not worthy of them, and I’m sorry that it has taken me so long to feel the love of a father. All of my life, I’ve been searching for something, if only I’d known that I’d already found it. Please forgive me, Kadin.”

  His son’s hurt, anger, love and despair erupted in a long and painful wail.

  The bottom left quadrant of the screen turned black as Issam disconnected the feed, and a few seconds later, in the top right image, Kadin watched a shadow rolling backwards and forwards across the floor of the barn.

  36

  Guardia di Finanza Headquarters, Milan, Italy

  Conza needed to do something to reduce the adrenaline-fuelled anxiety induced by his attempt to keep Amadi Abebe alive. He also had to do something to prevent his thoughts from being overwhelmed by the distinct possibility that the dying man’s daughter had been kidnapped, and like Sami Ricci, may end up floating in a river somewhere. ‘She’s a good girl’, had become a perpetual echo.

  He made a fresh pot of coffee and tried to focus on the recently delivered case notes. He needed to find something to repel the dread.

  There was a memo confirming Katherine Harper had positively identified her brother’s corpse. Another memo told him the tortured body pulled out from the Ticino river was indeed Sami Ricci. There was also a grainy photograph taken on Sunday, by a security camera in Milano Centrale station. Peter Salterton had left Milan by train.

  Sergeant Moretti was on his way over as Conza fought to make sense of the past three days. He took up his notebook and walked over to the whiteboard. Using a thick black marker, he drew four columns, labelling them, ‘Lukas Stolz’, ‘Nyala Abebe’, ‘????’ and ‘Peter Salterton’. Using magnetic strips, he hung the photocopied passports of Stolz and Salterton next to their names. In the Stolz column he added the words ‘Contract killing?’, ‘Robbery?’ and ‘Skyguard?’. He also added ‘Chauffeur’, ‘Sami Ricci’ and ‘Tortured to death?’.

  In the ‘Nyala Abebe’ column he wrote ‘Knew killer?’ and drew an arrow between Nyala’s name and the four question marks. He wasn’t yet ready to write ‘Kidnapped’.

  In the ‘????’ column he added the word ‘Vespa’.

  Under Salterton’s name, he wrote ‘Known criminal’ and ‘Stolz’s double’. Underneath he added the question ‘Milan Associates?’.

  “I can help you with that one,” chirped Sergeant Moretti, as he knocked on the open door of the office.

  “What have you got, Georgio?”

  “Before I answer that, how are you?” he asked, nodding at the bloodstains on Conza’s shirtsleeve.

  “I’m OK. Nyala’s father is touch and go, however. He lost a lot of blood and the medics took ages to stabilise him, but they managed to get him back to hospital alive. I’ve sent a couple of uniforms to watch over him.”

  “Forensics gone in yet?”

  “Yes, they’re there now. They’ll have no trouble finding evidence. I think one of them got a whack round the head. Every policeman in Milan is on the lookout for the Alfa Romeo. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Funny you mention luck. I’ve got some news about Salterton and his associates.” Moretti took over writing on the board as he talked.

  “Better than associate, actually. Salterton’s brother-in-law is one Giuliani Zeffirelli aged forty-three, born in the city, married Salterton’s sister Margaret, in the nineties. Been in and out of jail since he was a kid. Assault, GBH, fraud, gun running. He even did time for passing off horsemeat as beef and selling it to the British Army.”

  “Really?”

  “Hey, don’t knock it, the scam may have been worth more than four million euros, although the prosecution could only secure evidence for less than one mill.”

  Conza tutted.

  “Anyway, word on the street is that he’s still involved in cross-border rackets. Only difference is that this time it’s humans instead of horses.”

  “What? People smuggling?”

  “Looks like it, although no one seems to know too much. My contact heard that Zeffirelli recently started arranging transport for fee-paying men, women and children from North Africa through Italy and France to England and maybe Scotland. It’s big money too. Poor sods are asked to pay up to twenty thousand each.”

  “Is Salterton involved?”

  “My contact has never heard of him. But maybe he runs the English end of the operation. Manchester Police know all about Peter Salterton, however. He’s been under their surveillance twice in the past three years, but they’ve never been able to dig up enough evidence to make anything stick. He’s always managed to stay one step ahead of them. Apparently, he’s known as ‘Lucky Pete’ to his family, and he’s been living up to his name.”

  “Well, I think last Sunday, ‘Lucky Pete’ had the fright of his life. Either he recognised Stolz and was somehow tied up with him – which seems unlikely. Or he saw Stolz getting gunned down and assumed he must have been the intended target. I have to admit, they do look very similar and he was due to check out the same day. I reckon he got spooked and ran.”

  “Maybe, and it would explain the torture of Sami Ricci.”

  “It would. If the target was meant to be Stolz, why murder Ricci? They could have killed him at the hotel. No, Ricci was killed because someone thought he knew something. I think they were trying to find out who carried out the hit. The only alternative is that someone associated with Stolz thought Ricci was involved and took revenge. But, given Stolz’s background, that’s a little far-fetched. My guess is Ricci had his fingers broken to see what he knew. Stolz’s murderer is not the same person who tortured and killed Ricci.”

  “OK, so someone is trying to find out who killed Stolz before we do. Which would explain why the guys turned up at the bakery. Either Stolz’s friends are trying to find out who killed him, or Salterton is doing the same because he thinks the bullet was meant for him.”

  “I think we can rule out Stolz’s friends being behind this, given his background. I think it was Zeffirelli’s men who tortured Sami Ricci to see if he knew who ordered the hit they thought was meant for Salterton.”

  “Exactly. The same guys turned up at the bakery looking for Nyala. The father wouldn’t cooperate, he gets shot and they take the girl,” said Conza flatly.

  Moretti’s face tightened and he looked puzzled. He walked over to the board and drew a line under the word ‘Robbery’.

  “So, you think Salterton believes the bullet was meant for him. If that’s true, he must have known it was a planned hit rather than some random robbery.”

  “We don’t believe it was a robbery, Georgio. Neither would he. But go on.”

  “OK, let’s say Salterton was on his balcony and saw Stolz take a bullet to his brain; it spooks him that they look alike. But he’s got to take a pretty big leap of imagination to go from there, to believing he was the intended tar
get.”

  “I see your point but just look at their photographs. Salterton couldn’t miss the resemblance and maybe he’s paranoid. Maybe he’s in Italy for the first time and watched The Godfather once too often. He sees a killing outside his window, recognises himself in the dead man’s face and panics. Or maybe he’s nervous because he’s just started working outside of his home patch. Who knows?”

  “In that case, if it was a contract killing, why go to the effort of trying to make it look like a robbery? It doesn’t make sense. Contract killers don’t rob their victims. They wouldn’t bother asking for the guy’s cash and mobile. They want the world to know that the victim was killed to order. It sends out a message.”

  Conza was irritated, but knew Moretti had a point.

  “Look, I can’t see the whole picture yet. I know there are holes. Regardless, I am pretty certain that this wasn’t a random robbery, and someone is hell-bent on finding Stolz’s killer. My money’s on Salterton and therefore Zeffirelli.”

  “I grant you; it looks that way, albeit with some unanswered questions. But there’s something else bothering me. Why try to get to the girl? She told Corporal Sigonella she hadn’t seen the killer’s face. Why go after her? As far as everyone knew, she didn’t know anything.”

  Conza leant back on the desk and shook his head.

  “You’re asking the wrong questions, Georgio. First, you should be asking how the thugs knew the names and addresses of the only two witnesses when their details hadn’t been released. Second, Sami Ricci made a statement saying he couldn’t identify the killer, but it didn’t stop them breaking his fingers to see if he’d told us the truth. And third, I wrote a report last night, in which I stated my belief that Nyala Abebe almost certainly knew the identity of Stolz’s killer. Less than twenty-four hours later, two thugs pitch up looking for her at an address that I’d only just discovered.”

  “Yes, but Raffy, witness details, their statements and your reports are filed and stored in a restricted-access incident room, in a secure office, inside the most heavily guarded police station in the country.”

  Moretti’s expression suddenly shifted. “Shit, Raffy, you don’t think someone at work…”

  “Why do you think I asked you to come over here, Georgio?”

  37

  Abebe Family Apartment, Milan, Italy

  When Nyala felt the fingers clutch at her ankle she instinctively kicked out. She felt her foot strike bony flesh and heard the man yell as his nose erupted across his face.

  She had stopped screaming by the time she reached the end of the road and turned to look back in wide-eyed panic. The man was not chasing her. She wheeled around twice, not knowing whether to go back to her father or to continue running away from the men with their knives, their guns, and their hatred. She’d decided they weren’t policemen as soon as she saw the knife, but who were they? What did they want? Whatever it was, it was to do with Kadin and the murder outside the Hotel Napoli. They were trying to find him. The image of Kadin’s face swept across her thoughts and she screamed again. The Alfa Romeo was still parked outside the bakery, but she turned away, pulling out her mobile as she ran.

  “Police…please send police – they have my father. Two men are there. They have guns and knives. Please hurry.”

  Nyala tried to respond to the operator’s questions, but her mind was imploding, and she could only talk in short breathless bursts between gasps of mucus-filled sobs. She ran up the steps of the block and burst into the kitchen. Her grandmother stared at her in shock.

  “Nana, we need to go now,” she shouted.

  “Nyala, whatever is the…”

  “Nana, now,” yelled Nyala as she rifled through the kitchen drawer and snatched at the blue zip-bag in which her father kept some cash and all their important documents. Her grandmother had never seen Nyala like this but recognised abject fear. Something terrible had happened, her questions would have to wait. She shuffled quickly into the hall and grabbed her winter coat.

  “Do we have time to…” she began to say, but Nyala’s anguish-ridden eyes stopped her in mid-sentence.

  Supporting her under one arm, Nyala steered her grandmother out of the block’s rear door and across the narrow strip of grass that ran beside the main rail track. Helping her to climb, Nyala led the way over the embankment, across the rails and down the other side. They followed the line of the railway in the lee of the grass mound and Nyala kept looking back to see if they were being pursued. Her grandmother, pale-faced and breathless, clung to her but didn’t protest and didn’t ask any questions. Nyala looked back one last time as they reached the rail bridge across the Via Bovisasca. They clambered down and followed the road north until they found a café just past the main postal sorting depot.

  38

  Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy

  It was late afternoon by the time Kadin stopped staring at the image of his father’s shadow. Something deep within him had changed and he no longer feared them. He may die fighting, he told himself, but he would not allow his father’s sacrifice to have been in vain. Kadin knew his father had died so that they could never find out from him where his son was hiding. In ending his life, Issam had also ended the possibility of betraying Kadin again. He had saved his son’s life.

  Kadin rose from the sofa and went to the bathroom to shower. He needed to wash away the pain, cleanse himself of their hatred. His anger had transformed into fierce resolve and, like his father, he would surrender no longer.

  He dried and brushed his hair back with damp fingers.

  “Now we fight Papa, together,” said Kadin to his reflection. “We are not like them. We are capable of love and we won’t let hate win.”

  Kadin grabbed the pile of euros from the kitchen table and sprinted down the stairs.

  He headed towards town. He had a plan, but he needed to buy a mobile phone.

  39

  The ‘Postbox Café’, Milan, Italy

  They sat down at a table at the rear of the café and ordered coffees. Nyala’s face was puffy, her eyes bloodshot and she was still shaking. Her grandmother grasped Nyala’s fingers and waited in silence.

  Nyala needed to speak; to confess, to unburden. She couldn’t shake off the dread when she pictured her father and she was terrified of telling her grandmother that she’d abandoned her son, her only son, to men with knives and guns. But Nyala knew she could no longer face any of this alone.

  So, slowly, in whispers, she began to tell her grandmother everything that had happened since she stood on the Via degli Imbriani, watching a Vespa speed past. Her grandmother listened without comment, glassy eyes fixed on her granddaughter’s face. Even when Nyala began to cry in anticipation of telling her about her son and the two men in the bakery, she tried to comfort her with a supportive smile.

  But before Nyala could confess, her phone rang, and she snatched it from her pocket. The number was from an ‘Unknown Caller’, and for a second, Nyala wanted to hang up, but somehow not answering it seemed infinitely worse, so she pressed the green telephone icon and listened without speaking.

  “Nyala. Is that you?” she heard Kadin ask gently.

  40

  September 1989

  Leipzig, East Germany

  The university in Leipzig hadn’t reopened in September and Lukas Stolz, the third youngest faculty head in its five-hundred-year history, found himself without a class to teach.

  As a child, Stolz’s tutors had been astonished at his ability to solve complex mathematical puzzles. When the other children played with their toy cars or kicked a football around the park, young Lukas would play with prime numbers and quadratic equations. He had grown up with numbers, lived with numbers and had learned to love them.

  But now he’d been thrust into the midst of a rebellion and he would never again hear the claps and cheers of his students as he solved the Rubik’s cube puzzle in a matter of seconds. He’d always lived life in discernible and wholly predictable patterns. Now, nothin
g was predictable.

  He recognised the faces of his students amongst those holding banners or lighting candles to friends who had fallen in their attempt to win the ‘freedom’ that had been so obviously absent in their lives. At first, he’d remonstrated with them, but it was clear that he’d suddenly become the personification of everything they had come to detest.

  One night he found himself surrounded by baying students in Wilhelm-Külz-Park and some of the demonstrators recognised him. An argument resulted in him being been punched so hard, that he blacked out for a few seconds. When he came round, he was being dragged out of the park by two young female students who’d seen fit to save him from a further beating. His nose was bleeding profusely and when he tried to thank them, they hadn’t hidden their scorn.

  “You’re running out of allies, Professor – your time is over. Soon there’ll be nobody left to save you.”

  He went back to his college rooms and washed his face. His nose was broken. The blue-red swelling had already spread around his eyes and along the top of his cheeks.

  ‘They don’t know how lucky they are – they never will.’

  Spoiled as children by a state that had provided them with a first-class education and intent on spurning the opportunity to make their country better, stronger, smarter. They didn’t feel compelled to give back, they had no loyalty, no conscience. Like the Americans they were desperate to emulate, they just wanted to take, to gorge, to waste, to value nothing.