The Milan Contract Page 16

  57

  Valbona Valley, Albania

  Alexander Kurti was born in Albania in the 1960s, the third son of a butcher. He was an oversized baby and by the time he was fourteen years of age, he towered over the rest of his family. In later life he was told he’d been born with profound dyslexia, but such diagnoses were rare in the 1960s, especially in a small village nestled in the Valbona Valley, on the border of what is now Macedonia.

  His mother died when he was eight and Alex found himself without a protector when his school friends mocked and taunted him because he couldn’t read, write or count. Alex’s father stopped sending him to school, so he spent his days wandering the foothills with his father’s old twelve-bore, picking off rabbits and shooting ducks as they fed from the streams that ran into the River Drin.

  At fourteen he began helping local shepherds round up the goats that roamed as far as the grey, flint slopes of Zla Kolata. Alex was fit and very strong, but the shepherds were nervous of his temper, which would flare without warning if he perceived he was being mocked or ridiculed.

  His short career as a goatherd ended the day he was told to bring a family of goats down from a steep-sided rocky outcrop. The goats were nimble and surefooted, and Alex became increasingly frustrated at his inability to catch them. The shepherds gathered at the foot of the scree, whooping and laughing at his desperate efforts. Higher and higher the goats climbed, leaping between slender ledges and scrambling up shifting stone in their effort to escape. Alex bounded after them, balancing on his toes, grasping at rocks with bleeding fingers and jamming his skinless knuckles into jagged splits. The higher Alex climbed, the more the shepherds cheered, until at last on a narrow plateau, he cornered the leader of the flock, a large male ram. It was panting and pawing at the rockface, bleating pitifully in fear and exhaustion.

  Alex kicked it to death and threw the carcass over the edge of the escarpment. The corpse tumbled and rolled down the hillside until it came to a stop just a few metres from the feet of the now silent herders.

  Thereafter, Alex Kurti was shunned by the local villagers, so he made his way on foot, east to Pristina. He was close to starvation by the time he made his mark on the papers that made him a soldier in the Yugoslav People’s Army, aged just fifteen. After basic training, he served in the elite Mountain Brigade and in 1982, was sent to Monchegorsk near the Finnish-Russian border, on an exchange tour with the Soviet infantry. Army life suited Alexander Kurti; he was fed, given a warm bed and enough money to get drunk and pay for a prostitute at weekends. He’d found a new home and his violent temper and significant physical strength earned him respect rather than disdain.

  Kurti didn’t return to Yugoslavia after the exchange tour and a year later, travelled with his new-found Russian comrades to Afghanistan. He quickly earned a reputation for being a fierce and cruel fighter. He was always the first to pick up a weapon, even a shovel or fence post, and would not stop killing until the last of his enemies lay broken and bleeding from his brutal and unrelenting onslaughts.

  The brigadier soon identified that Corporal Kurti’s lack of emotion made him an ideal candidate to carry out interrogations, and the mujahideen guerrillas soon spoke of a giant who would cut off the hands and feet of his captives if they refused to talk. Almost overnight, Alexander Kurti became the ‘Afghan Hound’.

  He left the army just in time to witness the collapse of the Berlin Wall. He took jobs acting as a bodyguard to various politicians, the famous and the rich, but more than once he was seen on television beating up a reporter who’d stepped too close to his charge or unwisely pushed a camera into his face. His brutality and short-temper had made him unemployable – at least overtly.

  Since then, he’d remained in the shadowy fringe between organised crime and various state-sanctioned ‘black ops’.

  Whilst he remained an efficient executioner, in recent years, he’d spent most of his time getting people to do things that they didn’t want to do. He operated under a plethora of perfectly documented identities and was a consummate torturer. He knew people, knew how to hurt people, and he got things done on behalf of those who were willing to pay and were important enough to protect him from the attention of the law.

  ◆◆◆

  Just as Conza and Moretti stepped off the train in Genoa, fifty kilometres down the coast, Alex Kurti was sitting on the balcony of his sparsely furnished apartment, drinking coarse red wine from a copper tankard. The sun over the Ligurian Sea was still warm, and he turned his acne-scarred face to the sky.

  The phone in the lounge rang and after the third iteration, he swore, got up and went inside.

  “Yes.”

  “Alex, you’re losing your touch.”

  Kurti said nothing.

  “I ordered a hit. Clean, simple and definitely without fuss.”

  “And?”

  “And? You ask and? I will give you some ‘ands’. How about the shooter going missing? And the chauffeur being tortured and killed? And the father of the only other witness getting shot while his daughter runs off to God knows where. And the gun used was not being where the tip-off said it would be. And just about everything else about this so-called clean, simple hit is screaming that it was anything but. Need I go on?”

  Kurti thought of fat, bald Marco and his fidgety hands. Kurti gripped the phone, his scarred knuckles white with fury.

  “No, I get the picture.”

  “Good, then punish them Alex. And Alex, clean this mess up or sadly, I will get someone else to clean it up for me.”

  The phone went dead and Kurti returned to the balcony to finish his wine and contemplate that for the first time since he was fourteen, someone had just threatened to kill him.

  58

  Genoa, Italy

  He was sitting on one of the marble blocks at the base of the great white Columbus statue when they stepped out of the station. They weren’t in uniform, but he knew they were policemen. They looked nervous, their eyes darting around looking for potential traps or ambushes.

  “He once cut off the ears and nose of a man who’d stolen some corn,” Kadin said, looking up at the marble figure as they approached.

  “I think we’re a little more forgiving these days,” said Conza. “Are you Kadin Bennani?”

  “Yes. Is my family still safe?”

  The two policemen could not avoid noticing the tired eyes and pallid complexion. He hadn’t slept much recently, they concluded, independently and without comment.

  “They’re safe, Kadin. I saw them this morning. Youssef and Soraya miss you,” Sergeant Moretti responded.

  “And my mother?”

  “She’s worried sick. We’ve told her very little about all this. Thought it best until we’d heard your story.”

  “We need to take a taxi.”

  “We’re right behind you, Kadin,” replied Conza, taking up position close to his shoulder while Moretti took Kadin’s other flank.

  “Are you carrying a weapon?” Conza asked when they’d moved away from the crowds.

  “No, I was told to dump the gun in a garage in Milan. As far as I know, it’s still there.”

  “We received a tip-off about that this morning, the garage was empty, no gun.”

  “That’s because they were looking in the wrong place, they need to search the garage next door. But all of this will become clear back at the apartment.”

  ◆◆◆

  In the foyer of Villa Nuova, Sergeant Moretti took the key from Kadin so that, revolver in hand, he could go ahead to check out the building. A few minutes later, he shouted down the stairwell, and Conza followed Kadin up the steps to the top floor. The policemen sat on the sofa and Kadin pulled up a chair.

  “First, I’m going to tell you about my father’s disappearance last Tuesday and my abduction. Then I’ll show you a film and I’ll tell you what happened at the Hotel Napoli and my escape here to Genoa. After that, you can ask me questions, I know you will have many. And then my life is in your hands.”
<
br />   The policemen nodded simultaneously.

  “We’re ready,” said Conza taking out a new notepad.

  “Before we start, just one more thing,” said Kadin, his face pained, torment in his eyes. “I killed a man, in cold blood. My action was evil, and I could have chosen not to pull the trigger. I didn’t make that choice and I’ve regretted it ever since. Whatever happens to me, a man I didn’t know has died, and his family will never see him again. I will have to live with that for the rest of my life. What I’m about to tell you does not seek to excuse what I did, but I hope it will at least explain why I did it.”

  Conza and Moretti stared at him. Kadin’s will had been broken and his heart torn apart, of that they had no doubt.

  59

  Birmingham Airport, England

  Ephrem was Nyala’s uncle on her mother’s side; she recognised the same eyes from her father’s photographs. He was brash, loud and happy and found a reason to laugh at just about everything. His two children, aged eight and six, ran around the concourse in their excitement and Ephrem only encouraged them.

  In any other circumstance, Nyala would have cherished this moment. But she could not rid herself of the memory of her father, fighting for his life, alone. Nevertheless, for a few brief minutes, Ephrem’s laughter and the children’s happiness carried her away, and she discovered a sense of relief and comfort that she hadn’t believed possible.

  Suzie, Ephrem’s wife was beautiful. Slender and petite with a bob of chestnut hair and freckles that ran from the bridge of her nose to the corners of her dark brown eyes. She pushed Nyala away, holding her by her shoulders.

  “You are as gorgeous as your mother, Nyala, and look at the size of you. I haven’t seen you for fifteen years. You were a baby.”

  Nyala blushed and pulled Suzie towards her.

  “Thank you, Aunty, and thank you for coming to meet us. We’re so grateful.”

  “No thanks needed,” said Ephrem laughing loudly once more. “You’re family.”

  With that he grabbed Mazaa and hugged her until she begged him to put her down. Suzie stepped in when Ephrem launched a barrage of questions about his brother-in-law. Nyala was avoiding answering and Suzie sensed she was shielding something, something grim and dark. She quickly changed the subject and herded them all towards the car park.

  ◆◆◆

  At the house, they had drinks and snacks, while Nyala was shown around the house by her enthusiastic cousins. Mazaa seized the opportunity to take Suzie and Ephrem into the garden.

  With trembling lips, she told them that Amadi had been shot as a result of Nyala being caught up in a terrible event. She also explained they needed to stay away from Milan for a while, and it was really important they didn’t ask too many questions.

  “Nyala has gone through enough over the past few days, she needs to feel safe. She’s very scared. We have a plan, but we need your help.”

  “Whatever it takes,” said Suzie with concern.

  “Anything!” added Ephrem.

  “First, we have almost no money, so I would be grateful if you could let us have a little, just to help us get by.”

  “Easy,” said Ephrem opening his wallet. “How much do you need, Mazaa?”

  “Just enough to get a few clothes, toiletries that sort of thing.”

  Suzie pulled five £20 notes from Ephrem’s wallet.

  “Here, take this. I can give Nyala some clothes and what doesn’t fit, we can buy in town. We have spare toiletries; I will make up washbags for you both.”

  “Is that enough?” said Ephrem, pulling out another £40.

  “I’m sure this will be more than enough. Thank you, Ephrem. Also, Nyala needs to buy a new mobile phone. We lost ours,” Mazaa said with a wry smile.

  “I have a spare,” said Ephrem darting off into the kitchen. “I will go online and buy some credits.”

  “Thank you, Ephrem. Tomorrow, Nyala needs to call a policeman in Milan. Can you help? She’s nervous about speaking to the authorities.”

  Suzie and Ephrem looked at each other.

  “We’ll be there, Mazaa, don’t worry.” Ephrem exclaimed.

  Suzie’s lips tightened, and she gently wiped a stray hair from her husband’s forehead.

  “I will sit with Nyala when she makes the call, my love, you need to work tomorrow. You get frustrated with the police. You know you do.”

  Ephrem started to speak but laughed instead.

  “You see what I have to put up with, Mazaa? Ordered around in my own home!”

  “I think she’s wonderful.”

  “Then it’s all settled. I will call the hospital tomorrow to see if my lazy brother-in-law has dragged his backside out of that bed.”

  Suzie rolled her eyes, but Mazaa was already hugging Ephrem and they were laughing together.

  60

  Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy

  It was nearly one in the morning when Conza finally sat back and closed his notebook. He was physically and emotionally spent. At times, they’d asked Kadin to rewind the film so they could make notes and ask questions. Conza used his mobile to take photos of the men calling themselves Alex and Marco as well as Max and the two other unnamed bodyguards. Finally, they believed they’d seen and heard enough to understand.

  When they watched Issam Bennani climb the steps with a rope and turn off the camera, Conza sat with Kadin as he wept. For the first time since meeting him, he saw Kadin as a child. A heartbroken and frightened child.

  Sergeant Moretti watched Kadin sobbing into Conza’s chest and went for a walk along the marina. When he returned he brought beers and raised his bottle as he spoke Issam’s name, simply because he didn’t know what else to do.

  Conza told Kadin to get some sleep and sat with Moretti in the lounge.

  “I’ve never seen anything like it,” admitted Conza, “it’s like watching an autopsy for the first time – compelling but innately quite disturbing.”

  “It made my flesh creep. It will take a long time for him to recover. I think Kadin will have nightmares for the rest of his life.”

  “I think you’re right, but I’ll be damned if he has them behind bars.”

  They finished their beers and Conza fetched some blankets from the cupboard. They decided to get a few hours’ rest before returning to Milan. They sat on the sofa and reflected.

  “We need to get a techie down here, get a trace on where the barn is located,” said Moretti after a while.

  “I agree, but right now, I’m trying to work out what to do with Kadin. I can’t take him back; they’ll throw him in a cell. He could be locked up for weeks while the legal arguments go round and round the court system. It will turn political. These things always do.”

  “I don’t think we have much choice. We can’t cover this up. A man’s been murdered, and we have his killer. The investigation must be completed, and Kadin will have to tell his story to a judge. It won’t be us deciding what happens to him after that.”

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, then Conza went to the bathroom. When he returned, he switched on the desk lamp.

  “House arrest,” he exclaimed.

  Moretti sat up and shielded his eyes against the sudden brightness.

  “We place him under house arrest, pending further enquiries. God knows we have enough evidence to suggest there’s a leak at the station and we have a duty to keep Kadin safe, especially as he’s a minor.”

  “We could move him in with his family,” added Moretti, excited by Conza’s suggestion. “It’s where he should be right now. He needs to be with his mother.”

  “And if he’s near the station, it would make it easier to take his statement, that’s going to take a day or two.”

  “But Raffy, Brocelli will have a fit. I can’t see him letting us hide a confessed murderer in a location he’s not even allowed to know the address of.”

  “I agree, but I could get the colonel to grant jurisdiction of the case to Finanza, that would take Brocelli ou
t of the picture.”

  “And place it all in your lap. Is that wise?”

  “Problem is, I’ve never run a case as complex as this,” confessed Conza biting his cheek. “The colonel would never let me do it. Especially if Brocelli or the commissioner kick up a stink.”

  They both contemplated the problems that were about to arise.

  “Maybe that’s one for the morning, Georgio. I’ll head back to the city first thing to kick-start the search for Alex, Marco and the others. I’ll send a tech team down here. You stay with Kadin until I clear the way with the colonel.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Raffy,” Moretti replied, trying to sound cheerful.

  61

  Camogli, Italy

  After the phone call, Alex Kurti finished his wine and got behind the wheel of his immaculately clean, American Oldsmobile. He needed to find Marco Fanucci and had little doubt that he would have to kill him. On the way, he called ahead to arrange a meeting, but Fanucci wasn’t answering his phone.

  “Little shit,” muttered Alex, speeding up.

  As he reached the bridge over the Torrente Borbera, north of Precipiano, his mobile rang. He answered without speaking.

  “Alex, I got your message and I know you’re pissed off right now, but you need to listen to me.”

  “Speak.”

  “Things have happened that I can’t explain. It’s a mess and I know you’re after my blood. I’m not stupid and I’m not brave. I can’t say I blame you, but before you decide to blow a hole in my head, you need to answer one question.”

  “What?” said Kurti impatiently. He’d heard many men, women and children beg for their lives, but none had ever managed to change his mind.

  “Did we take out the right guy?”

  “What the fuck do you mean?”

  “Alex, what I mean is, did we hit the guy we should have hit? I know you think I’m crazy, but did we hit the right target?”