The Milan Contract Page 13

  Conza could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Moretti punched the air.

  “OK, does he want me to phone him or meet him somewhere?”

  “No, he’ll call you. He has your number, but there are three conditions.”

  Conza took out his notepad.

  “Go on.”

  “One, you must promise that as soon as this call’s over, you place his family under some sort of protection. Two, when he calls you, you must give me your word that you won’t try to find him until you’ve investigated what he has to say. Three, you must swear you won’t try to find me or my grandmother.”

  Moretti mouthed, ‘We can’t.’

  Conza ignored him.

  “OK Nyala, I promise you I won’t ask where you are, or where you’re going, but you must promise me something.”

  “What?”

  “You must promise to call me when you get to wherever you are going. I won’t trace your call and I won’t contact you unless I believe your life’s in danger, but we need to stay connected.”

  Conza heard her hand cover the phone mouthpiece and he guessed that his demand was being discussed with whoever she was with. ‘Is Stolz’s killer with her?’

  “OK. I agree, but what about the other two conditions?”

  “That’s fine. I agree, Nyala, but I need to tell you I’m not happy about it, his life’s in grave danger.”

  “Lieutenant, please don’t talk to me about what makes you happy. I really couldn’t care less. My father may die, and I’m running for my life. Your happiness doesn’t come into it.”

  “I’m truly sorry, Nyala. I arrived at the bakery just after your father was shot.”

  He could hear her crying.

  “Don’t let him die, Lieutenant, please.”

  “From what I can make out, your father fought off those guys so you could escape. He’s strong. You both are.”

  “Thank you, I don’t feel very strong right now, so I hope you’re right.”

  Conza listened and took detailed notes as Nyala described the men who’d shot her father at the bakery. Moretti was listening and suddenly waved a beer mat at Conza; on it he’d written a name ‘Leo Calpresi’.

  Just before the call ended, Conza heard a tannoy announcement in the background. He made a symbol of an aeroplane. Moretti gave him the thumbs up.

  “OK, I have to go now,” said Nyala. “I hope to God I can trust you, Lieutenant Conza.”

  She paused to take a final deep breath.

  “The man you are looking for is Kadin Bennani.”

  46

  ‘The Manor House’, Hatchmere, Cheshire, England

  Salterton was adjusting the security cameras from the console in his office when the phone rang. “Talk to me, Giuli, what did you find out?”

  “We got a name. Kadin Bennani.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Maybe. I know an Issam Bennani. Could be related. I’m having it checked out.”

  “What’s Issam Bennani’s background?”

  “Libyan immigrant. He’s a technician. Bugging, wiretaps, surveillance stuff. Pretty good at it by all accounts. In recent years, he’s done work for a guy called Marco Fanucci.”

  “Fanucci. What’s his story?”

  “Runs covert stuff. Blackmail, extortion, bringing down security, that sort of thing.”

  “So, do you think this Fanucci wants me dead?”

  “We’re on it Salt, believe me. I’m working every hour on this. I’m trying to track down Fanucci through a mutual contact.”

  “If this fuck wants me dead, I want to know why, Giuli. And if it turns out it’s down to your new operation, I swear…”

  “Come on Salt, give me a break. I’m not behind this and neither is the operation. I’m as pissed off about it as you are. If they want you dead, I’ll be next on their list.”

  “OK, so remember that when you speak to this Fanucci. Now, where did the girl say this Kadin Bennani was hiding?”

  “The boys didn’t get that far. They were pretty badly beaten up.”

  “Which boys? Leo?” Salterton asked in amazement. “Beaten up by a girl?”

  “It was the father. Leo has a broken arm and Paolo’s got a cracked skull. They’re in bad shape.”

  “Where are they? Not in hospital? Please don’t tell me they’re in a hospital.”

  “I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid Salt. I sent them up north. They’ve got a private doctor. He’s on the payroll.”

  “Where’s the girl now?”

  “She made a run for it. She knows the shooter, which is why she ran, but she won’t get far. I’ve got people asking her friends where she might go. Her flat’s empty, but we’re on it. My guess is when we find her, we’ll find the boy.”

  “Any other leads?”

  “No, but neither have the police. The shooter’s disappeared.”

  “For Christ’s sake, Giuli, my wife’s gone to stay with her sister, the floodlights are on all night and I’m paying three ex-marines nearly five thousand a week to play hide and seek in the flower beds. When are you going to find out what the fuck is going on?”

  “Salt, I swear I don’t know what’s happening. I’ve got people asking around about Issam Bennani and once I confirm he’s related to the shooter; I will find him.”

  “Well, you’d better find him – and quick. In the meantime, we should stop trading.”

  “No, no, we don’t need to do that Salt, I’m sure this is just some misunderstanding. I’ll sort it out. I am sorting it out.”

  The phone slammed down and Zeffirelli knew it was just a matter of time before his wife’s explosive brother started taking matters into his own hands.

  47

  Central Police Headquarters, Milan, Italy

  As soon as Nyala’s call ended, they hurried the short distance to Police HQ, from where Sergeant Moretti, with the blessing of the duty captain, organised the collection of the Bennani family.

  Moretti chose two officers who were known to him but hadn’t previously been involved in the Stolz case. He told them they were being deployed under the instructions of Lieutenant Conza, and that Captain Brocelli would be informed. They were ordered to take the family to a small chalet in Cambiago, a village between Milan and Bergamo; a Finanza-funded safe house. Nobody was allowed to write the address down.

  Conza stopped the guards as they were rushing out of the station.

  “Just to be clear, no one enters that house unless you see me or Sergeant Moretti standing next to them.”

  The two young policemen nodded and ran off to collect an unmarked SUV from the garage. Conza and Moretti sat in an interview room to decide what to do next.

  “I need to call Captain Brocelli,” said Moretti anxiously.

  “I know,” we’ve just got to work out what to tell him. This station leaks like a sieve, and we have to assume everything we tell Brocelli will get back to Zeffirelli.”

  “I know you made promises to the girl, Raffy, but we can’t keep this to ourselves. If the girl’s story turns out to be a pile of crap, we’re guilty of assisting a self-confessed murderer. The commissioner would have our guts.”

  “She’s not lying. Why would she? She’s just seen her father get shot and she’s running scared.”

  “We only have her word for who put a bullet in her father. What if it was Bennani who shot him, and she’s trying to buy time for him to escape?”

  “But you recognised Calpresi from her description.”

  “True, but what’s to say that Bennani wasn’t with him?”

  “That’s stretching it a bit far, Georgio.”

  “All right, I accept it’s unlikely, but we’re still taking a big risk by basing everything on the word of a runaway with a track record of lying to the police.”

  “I was there, Georgio. I saw with my own eyes the aftermath of a fairly big fight. I think the father landed some blows on whoever it was who attacked him and at least one of them has a bent skull. There was blood on
the stairs. All of it matches Nyala’s story of how she escaped.”

  “And I agree that she may be telling us the truth, but we can’t take everything she says as gospel.”

  “So, Georgio, answer me this, why burden yourself with the grandmother? If Nyala was trying to escape and buy time for Bennani, why would she take an old lady with her?”

  “That’s just a neat solution to a practical problem. She’s a minor and wouldn’t be able to get through border control on her own.”

  Moretti showed Conza his notebook.

  “These are the flights that left Malpensa within two hours of the phone call.”

  Conza read the page. Nine flights: Munich, Ibiza, Bari, Paris, Vienna, Düsseldorf, Birmingham, Abu Dhabi, and Palermo.

  “I’ve asked for a check on all of them,” Moretti said without making eye contact.

  “OK Georgio, I agree we have a duty to find out where she’s headed. But trust me, I’m not going to try too hard.”

  Moretti shrugged.

  “And as for Kadin Bennani, he hasn’t confessed yet, at least not to us. He’s calling us tomorrow and even if we do nothing until then, we won’t be losing anything. We have no idea where he is and the only person who could tell us, is already halfway to Dubai or Spain. Let’s face it, Bennani’s just a suspect who has been brought to our attention. We’ll follow it up tomorrow and if he doesn’t call, I’ll be the first to tell Brocelli. But until then, Nyala’s phone call stays with you and me. Agreed?”

  Reluctantly, Moretti nodded.

  “In any case, we’ll soon have Bennani’s family in a safe house, so that has to count for something when it comes to persuading him to give himself up.”

  “What about the safe house?” asked Moretti.

  “It’s been cleared by the colonel, and he agrees that in the circumstances, Brocelli doesn’t have to know the address. He said he’d call the commissioner to tell him what’s going on and get retrospective authority for sending two guys up there as protection.”

  “In that case,” said Moretti standing up, “all we can do is wait for Bennani to call.”

  “Georgio, do me a favour, go out to the safe house in the morning, talk to the family. See if the parents can shed any light on things.”

  “Will do Raffy,” Moretti said, sighing as he checked his watch. “I’ll be able to make an early start, I’m in the spare room again tonight.”

  48

  Malpensa Airport, Milan, Italy

  Mazaa and Nyala Abebe sat in the sprawling airport concourse and devised a plan of their own. Nyala was genuinely shocked at her nana’s conspiratorial attitude, and how quickly she’d embraced the necessity of putting distance between Nyala and her son’s attackers. She’d gained strength from her grandmother’s resolve and although they’d wept together, they seemed to enter into an unspoken pact; a mutual understanding that grieving for Amadi would have to wait.

  They counted the money in the zip-bag and checked their passports. They soon realised that they didn’t have enough cash for a flight and accommodation for more than a couple of nights.

  Mazaa looked up at the departures board and read aloud the names of the destinations as they clicked and whirred into view.

  “Birming – ham,” she said suddenly, pronouncing it as two words.

  “Birmingham,” she repeated as if remembering the name. She grabbed Nyala’s arm.

  “Your Uncle Ephrem. He lives in Birmingham. We took you there once, don’t you remember?”

  Nyala knew she had an uncle living in England but had no recollection of visiting him.

  “Are you sure, Nana? I’ve never been to England.”

  “Yes, you have. We all went, just after the funeral.”

  “Whose funeral?”

  “Your mother’s,” she announced, suddenly realising her mistake.

  “Of course, Nyala, you were just a baby, you wouldn’t remember.”

  Nyala could see her grandmother’s eyes start to fill again as the memory of yet another family tragedy came flooding back.

  “It’s fine, Nana, don’t worry. I don’t remember, but it’s not important. Do you know if Uncle Ephrem still lives in Birmingham?”

  “Your father’s phone. Ephrem’s number may be saved in it.”

  “Shit,” Nyala gasped, her hands clasped to her mouth. “Wait here,” she shouted, and ran off down the concourse.

  She returned a few minutes later, the phone in her hand.

  “Kadin told me to get rid of it after we talked to the policeman, so I turned it off and threw it in a bin.”

  They looked at each other and spontaneously erupted into a laugh so loud that other travellers turned to look at them.

  Nyala grinned when she found her uncle’s number and for a few seconds, Nyala and Mazaa Abebe hugged each other and laughed again.

  49

  3rd January 1990

  Berlin, Germany

  Lukas Stolz’s life in Germany after the wall fell seemed surreal. He couldn’t ignore the widespread sense of optimism, nor fail to hear the talk of ‘hope’ and ‘opportunity’. They were all deluded, of course. The people had surrendered. Confessed their collective failure. They need only prostrate themselves before the altar of the holy trinity: ‘money, choice and liberty’. Absolution was the gift of the west. And the west’s sanctimony in pardoning them of their sins was unfettered.

  Everything he’d once held important was suddenly ‘prehistoric’ or ‘prohibitive’. Achievement, invention, progress, imagination; if it emanated from an ex-Soviet state, its importance was reduced to nought. Stolz knew that history was written by the victor, but these victors were tearing out entire chapters. ‘East Germany’ had been reduced to a footnote. No one listened to him anymore. His was a whisper amidst a cacophony of betrayal.

  But faced with the overwhelming optimism of his countrymen, he was forced to admit the battle had been lost. He was compelled to come to terms with the reality of a unified Germany.

  In early January, and despite persistent snow showers, Dieter Stolz asked his son to drive him to Berlin so he could visit an old friend. Lukas knew his father was dying; that he was starting to say his goodbyes. But they didn’t speak of such things. For much of Lukas’s life, they had rarely spoken about anything.

  Stolz dropped his frail and jaundiced father near the Brandenburg Gate and parked his Trabant on Französichestrasse. It was snowing again, and the red bands of the Fernsehturm tower were obscured by a dense white curtain. The buildings took on a dull, grey hue in the half-light and people shuffled along the grit-strewn streets, heads down, collars raised. His shoes were leaking at the seams, and his toes ached. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. It still hurt whenever the weather turned cold.

  At the end of the road, he turned right and gingerly picked his way down Niederkirchnerstrasse, which was bordered on one side by the now broken, graffiti-covered wall. The ragged gaps in the concrete and steel offended him, and he imagined rivers of corruption flowing through the holes and settling in septic pools across the east.

  He found the house near the U-Bahn station in Spittelmarkt. Like his father, he also wanted to visit an old friend.

  ◆◆◆

  Four hours later, Lukas Stolz sat in a tourist café on the Unter den Linden and thought about the conversation he’d just had with the retired Stasi major. It seems that not everyone in East Berlin had rejoiced when the wall was breached.

  He was not alone after all.

  50

  Wednesday

  Milan, Italy

  In the early hours of Wednesday morning, Conza took a call from the safe house. Mother, brother and sister of Kadin Bennani were safely ensconced in the chalet.

  “No father?” asked Conza sleepily.

  “No. Apparently, he’s been missing for a week. The wife flagged it up at the same time she reported her son’s disappearance.”

  “OK thanks,” said Conza as he turned over in bed.

  “Is there anyone in th
is case that hasn’t gone missing?” he asked himself before drifting back to sleep.

  ◆◆◆

  He was showered and dressed before seven. He grabbed a coffee on the way to the office and went straight in to report to Colonel Scutari, a short, blond-haired man in his late fifties who Conza thought looked more Scandinavian than Mediterranean.

  The colonel was shrewd, smart and spoke only when necessary. He had a reputation for not abiding laziness or stupidity, but he did encourage initiative provided it did not extend to ill-discipline. Nevertheless, he was a ferocious advocate for justice and believed it was best served by following procedure. In the two years Conza had worked for him, he was thankful that he’d never been on the receiving end of one of the colonel’s infamous admonishments. Conza worked hard to keep it that way.

  The colonel fixed him with his bright, green eyes as Conza apprised him of the events of the past seventy-two hours. Conza had already decided to tell the colonel about Kadin Bennani, but when he repeated what Nyala had told him, the colonel raised his hand.

  “Does Captain Brocelli know all of this?”

  “Most of it. I filed a report last night, all except the part where Nyala Abebe named Kadin Bennani as the killer. I also haven’t disclosed the address of the safe house.”

  The colonel seemed satisfied.

  “Good, carry on.”

  Conza completed his report with how the Bennanis had been taken to the safe house and the list of flights that Nyala may have taken the previous evening. The colonel sat back in his large, red leather armchair which, Conza thought, made him look smaller. He thought for a few seconds, one index finger pressed to his thin, tight lips.

  “So you believe Stolz was mistaken for Salterton and was shot in a pre-arranged assassination?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Odd that they tried to make it look like a robbery though, don’t you think?”