The Milan Contract Page 7

  Conza’s thanks went unheard.

  He quickly scribbled down the name and address, checked his watch and, throwing twenty euros on the table, hurried off to hail a taxi.

  22

  The Abebe Bakery, Via Enrico Cosenz, Milan, Italy

  Nyala spent the first few hours of Monday helping her father rearrange stores in the cellar. Together, they manhandled an old chest down the steps and Nyala helped him fill it with drums of oil and sacks of salt and yeast from the pallets that were strewn across the dusty floor. But her father noticed she was unusually distracted and continually checking her mobile for messages.

  “Waiting for something?” he asked as once more, she fished the phone from her pocket. Nyala shrugged and her father decided that Kadin’s absence the day before, along with his daughter’s low mood today, could only mean that she was experiencing ‘boy trouble’ for the first time.

  Just after ten-thirty, Nyala was brushing the cellar stairs when the man appeared. He smiled when he said, “Good morning,” but Nyala knew he was police. Nervously, she glanced back over her shoulder to see her father emptying bottles of oil into a barrel. She mounted the top three steps in a single bound and stood before the man without speaking.

  Conza showed his badge.

  “Nyala Abebe?”

  She nodded, clasping her hands around the broom handle.

  “You spoke to a policeman on the Via degli Imbriani yesterday.”

  She nodded again, desperately trying to dispel the image of Kadin, with his Vespa and balaclava and look of terror.

  “You gave the policeman a false name and address. Why did you do that?”

  She shifted her weight onto one leg and grasped the edge of the iron railing.

  Conza looked past her and through the open door of the bakery.

  “That’s your father I take it?”

  “Yes,” said Nyala weakly.

  “Does he know you lie to the police?”

  ‘Too far – too quickly,’ he thought to himself as he saw tears well in the girl’s pale and frightened eyes.

  “Look Nyala, I don’t care about what you said to the policeman. I think you lied because you were frightened. Am I right?”

  She nodded slowly but looked down at the stairs, turning her eyes away from his.

  “What matters is what you saw. The Vespa,” Conza said gently, stepping forward to place his hand on her head, tilting it back so that she had to look at him.

  “I didn’t see anything. It all happened so quickly. It was a Vespa. He was wearing black. That’s all I know.”

  “So, the rider was a ‘he’?”

  “Yes. I think so,” Nyala stammered without conviction.

  “Did you recognise him, Nyala?”

  Conza saw fear rising in her throat and across her lips.

  “Nyala, are you frightened of him?”

  “No. Of course not!”

  “So, you did recognise him. Do you know him well?”

  A man’s voice rose from the cellar.

  “Nyala, come down here and help me, would you?”

  She clasped her hands together in prayer.

  “Please go, please. I don’t know anything else. Please.”

  Conza heard the blonde woman say, ‘she’s a good girl’.

  He stepped back and lifted her chin gently so that she could see his face. He took a small white card from his jacket and placed it between her long trembling fingers.

  “You need to talk to me, Nyala. He’s in more trouble than maybe even you realise. He’s done a terrible thing, but right now, he’s the one whose life could be in danger. And because of what you know, maybe your life too.”

  Her eyes closed tightly shut.

  “My number’s on the card. You need to call me. This isn’t going to go away. If you care for him, you need to believe that you and I may be his only hope.”

  Conza turned and stepped across the road just as Amadi Abebe climbed the steps.

  “Who was that? What did he want?”

  “He was looking for someone.” Nyala whispered sadly, as pangs of relief and fear washed over her. She wiped her face in the crook of her sleeve and squeezed the white business card into her back pocket.

  “He looked worried. I hope he finds him.”

  23

  Apartment 3, Villa Nuova, Genoa, Italy

  Kadin woke in darkness and for a fleeting moment, imagined he was home. But an early morning ferry sounding its departure from Genoa harbour shattered the illusion. He sat on the edge of the bed, the sickly-sweet smell of dried urine filling his nostrils, and fought the urge to retch. His head throbbed and sleep still hung heavy around his shoulders and through his thighs. His kidneys ached and he wanted to go back to sleep, but he dragged himself to the bathroom.

  The warmth of the shower ran across his face, down his chest and over his crotch. The physical evidence of the past few days disappeared in a whirlpool of pale froth and grey bubbles. He took two paracetamol from the cabinet, washing them down with cold water.

  In the bedroom, he found a pair of jogging trousers in a drawer and put on a clean white shirt from the wardrobe, folding the cuffs back along his forearms. He felt empty, hollowed out and totally alone. Every sound offended him, and his thoughts whirled in uncontrollable spirals. He considered whether he was any longer sane. ‘I killed a man.’

  He wasn’t hungry and still felt sick but forced a couple of slices of prosciutto into his mouth. The meat tasted bitter and clammy, so he returned to the bathroom, cleaned his teeth and rinsed with mouthwash. He finished the meat with a slice of bread before wandering back down the corridor to the door he had not yet opened.

  The room contained a sofa, coffee table, four chairs and a long four-door cabinet on which sat a television. In the corner, an office chair had been placed in front of a workbench that was covered by a green cutting mat. On the bench there was a lamp, soldering iron, plastic box of pull-out compartments and a rotating storage unit full of tools. He ran a finger over the well-maintained screwdrivers, pliers and wire snips. In the box, he found clips, screws and various electrical connections that he didn’t recognise. Kadin knew his father had once worked as a communications technician, but he had no memories of that time and had never seen his father work on anything more complicated than changing a light bulb. He wondered if he’d ever really known him.

  Once more, questions cascaded through his tired mind. Had his father been working from here? What did he make? For whom? Kadin thought of the two thugs in the barn and shuddered. Next to the table, two large stackable bins were filled with batteries, electrical wire, switches, and components of what Kadin thought could be cameras, microphones, and light sensors.

  Too many questions. He slumped onto the sofa.

  Using the remote control, Kadin flicked through TV channels aimlessly. He avoided lingering on news programmes, afraid that at any second, his photograph would appear and a reporter standing outside the Hotel Napoli would relate details of the vile murder and the search for a youth on a Vespa. He selected a movie, turned down the volume and drifted back to sleep.

  When he awoke, his back was damp and cold with sweat. The television was showing an old black and white Western.

  Kadin had been dreaming of his father, sitting on the barn floor, smiling, as Kadin raised the gun to shoot him in the face. Kadin panicked, desperately trying to separate dream from reality. The grey-haired man’s eyes flashed across his memory and Kadin buried his face in his hands.

  His thoughts turned to Nyala, but her image couldn’t dispel his depression. He went to the bathroom and emptied the pockets of his filthy clothes before stuffing them into the washing basket.

  In the kitchen, he removed the elastic band from the roll of notes he’d found in the garage and bent them backwards until they lay flat. To the pile, he added the dead man’s money which comprised euros and English pounds. As he separated the notes into currencies, a passport-sized photograph fell onto the table. It was a picture of a
n Alsatian dog, ears pricked, eyes bright, lips slightly parted in anticipation. ‘Looks friendly,’ he thought, causing another stab of guilt to pierce his chest.

  He tossed the photograph to one side and resumed counting; 14,940 euros and £160 sterling. He had never held such an amount of money before and for a moment, considered fleeing the apartment and catching a flight to somewhere remote; a place without cameras and guns. Then he thought of his mother, brother and sister, and knew that he could never run, never leave them.

  He picked up the photograph of the dog again. ‘It must have been between the notes in his wallet.’ On the back of the picture was written, ‘Fideccio’. Using a drawing pin, Kadin stuck the picture onto the corkboard.

  ‘Who the hell calls their dog Fideccio?’ he wondered.

  24

  Skyguard’s Regional Office, Milan, Italy

  Sergeant Moretti didn’t look at all as Conza had imagined. He was of medium height, round and balding with a permanent look of cheerful surprise in his eyes and on his rounded cheeks. Conza estimated his age to be early thirties. When they shook hands, Moretti grasped his arm with his free hand and grinned, his clear, sharp eyes holding Conza’s until they’d finished making their introductions.

  The pair set off to walk the short distance to the Skyguard offices, chatting about the missing evidence along the way. Moretti’s hands moved in rapid animation whenever he spoke, and Conza found himself smiling as Moretti described the inquisition the commissioner had already begun. As head of the investigation, Captain Brocelli had been subjected to a tirade of accusation, insult and abuse. Conza was glad he had not yet been called to provide an account of the brief moments he’d spent in the company of Stolz’s missing belongings.

  Suddenly, Moretti stopped and grasped Conza’s arm, his eyes narrowing with concern.

  “Something stinks, Lieutenant. This isn’t a case of someone leaving Stolz’s stuff in the wrong place. It’s really gone, and it didn’t walk out of the evidence room on its own.”

  Almost as soon as he’d finished speaking, the warmth returned to the sergeant’s eyes and he smiled.

  “We’re here,” he said nodding to a glazed aluminium door, recessed between two shop windows.

  In the first-floor reception area, Conza recognised an enlarged version of the Skyguard logo from Stolz’s security card. The walls were covered with photographs of missiles; on launchers against cloudless blue skies or at the moment of launch – streaks of orange flame and white smoke signalling their imminent departure. High up in the corner, a CCTV camera silently watched over them.

  They were met and signed in by a tall, slim man with immaculate hair and manicured nails; the head of operations, Lanfranco Pisani. He confirmed Lukas Stolz had worked for Skyguard Industries before taking them through a heavy reinforced door which he unlocked by swiping a red security card across a slim, black box.

  They were shown into his glass-walled office but declined refreshments. The meeting lasted around two hours and was of some use. Sergeant Moretti led the questioning in polite, friendly and encouraging tones and much to Conza’s satisfaction, made detailed notes and followed up with quick, relevant questions when something new or interesting was disclosed.

  Moretti began by asking about the company. ‘Good start’ thought Conza, as Pisani launched into an enthusiastic précis of the work undertaken by his employers. He explained that Skyguard Industries was a tri-national enterprise involving Britain, Italy and Germany. The company undertook national and NATO procurement projects, primarily as providers of battlefield defence systems. The policemen were shown a slick and no doubt expensively made film on a giant screen that took up most of one wall. There were images of sleek grey and white missiles on the backs of specially adapted vehicles being dragged into position and firing at unseen targets, and short, grainy clips of recent conflicts in Afghanistan, Iran and Syria. The film also contained graphics depicting the ‘Skyguard II Defence System’ as a stylised umbrella over a fictional battlefield. The narrative was delivered in English. The deep, dramatic voice spoke in short, powerful phrases littered with technical and military jargon, unfamiliar to the policemen.

  When it was over, Sergeant Moretti modestly admitted that much of the film was, “interesting, but quite technical”. The manager smiled and nodded sympathetically.

  “So, what’s your role in all this, Mr Pisani? I mean, where does this office fit in to all that?” Conza asked.

  Pisani crossed his arms.

  “Much of the Skyguard system is highly sensitive, top secret, as I’m sure you’ll understand. But as you’ve seen, we design and manufacture battlefield and point defence systems.”

  “You shoot down hostile aircraft?” Moretti offered.

  “Yes, and other threats. Missiles and RPVs for instance. Skyguard II acts as a shield against anything that may strike whatever it is we’ve been asked to protect.”

  “Hence the umbrella,” said Moretti, deciding to pass on an explanation of ‘RPVs’.

  “Exactly. Skyguard Industries is divided into several offices, manufacturing plants and assembly facilities. The Milan office is primarily responsible for event analysis and logistic support.”

  “Event analysis?” Conza asked.

  Pisani smiled again.

  “Each missile firing is called an event, it’s our job to analyse the technical data recorded by the system before, during and after each event.”

  “And logistic support?”

  “That’s simpler to explain. We manage the contract for all printed materials used by Skyguard II operators.” Pisani swept his hand towards a twin-shelved wooden bookcase running half the length of his office.

  Pisani told them Lukas Stolz had visited the Milan office last Friday. Stolz’s job was essentially technical, and Pisani couldn’t elaborate on the reason for his visit, other than to say he’d spent time reviewing the operator manuals. Stolz had hardly spoken to other staff and declined to join them for drinks after work on Friday evening. When asked if Stolz had visited the office on Saturday, Pisani punched a few characters on his keyboard and leaned over his desk to retrieve a print-out.

  “Yes, he was in the office, alone, between 07:42 and 15:11 on Saturday.”

  Pisani didn’t think this was an unusual occurrence, so Conza made a note and gestured for Moretti to move on.

  The head of operations confirmed that Stolz was a bachelor living in England, but he confessed to knowing very little about the German who’d only visited the Milan office once before and who’d never engaged in more than the briefest of conversations with the office staff, of which there were only three. Moretti took down the employees’ contact details but assured Pisani it wouldn’t be necessary to talk to them today.

  Conza showed Pisani his notebook and the characters ‘DLR-EAC1 4D/9C/555’.

  “Mean anything to you?”

  “No – sorry.”

  “Do you recognise the term ‘FC-Auto’?”

  Pisani’s face lit up.

  “Yes, of course. That’s one of the settings for the Skyguard II system.” He crossed quickly to the wooden bookcase to retrieve a manual comprising punched, plastic-coated cards bound together with black zip ties.

  Pisani turned a page towards them. In English, under the heading ‘Fire Control Settings’ was a series of bulleted instructions. The final entry was headed ‘FC-Auto’. Pisani provided an explanation.

  “The fire control, ‘FC’, of the Skyguard II system has various modes, the setting of which depends on the prevailing environment.”

  Conza looked at Moretti but he shrugged, and Pisani continued.

  “Most of this is highly classified and off-limits I’m afraid. Suffice to say that ‘FC-Auto’ is one of the modes that the missile system can be set to. Where did you hear the term?”

  “It was written in Stolz’s notepad.”

  “How odd,” was all that Pisani offered, but didn’t seem too concerned.

  “Was that where you came across
the other characters, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, Mr Pisani – why would you ask that?”

  “Curious mind, Lieutenant – that’s all.”

  “Stolz also had a Skyguard key fob that doubled as a USB stick. It’s small, square and has the Skyguard logo on it.”

  Pisani smiled as he pulled out of his pocket a set of keys attached to a key fob identical to that discovered in Stolz’s attaché case.

  “We call them ‘gimmes’,” Pisani explained, “marketing trinkets. We’ve all got one.”

  Conza took Pisani’s keys and twisted the fob so that the USB bayonet protruded.

  “Would Stolz’s fob likely to have anything secret or confidential saved on it?” Conza asked.

  Pisani’s back stiffened as he snatched his keys back.

  “Absolutely not, Lieutenant. Skyguard is practically anal about security. Our computers aren’t fitted with USB ports, so it would be impossible to use this to download anything sensitive. In any event, Herr Stolz would never compromise security.”

  Moretti brought the meeting to a close, and after responding to Pisani’s questions about the murder, they thanked him, and were shown out.

  They walked in silence until they were back at the piazza. Moretti was first to speak.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?”

  Conza gestured towards a bench.

  “Truthfully, Georgio, I was pretty certain it was a contract killing, but there are too many inconsistencies.”

  “The cash and mobile being taken, you mean?”

  “Exactly. That doesn’t fit the pattern of a hit. Also, Stolz doesn’t have the background for a mob contract.”

  “I must admit, that bothered me too. Why would anyone want to bump off a maths professor?”

  “Stolz worked for a government-backed agency. If he had access to state secrets, he would have been vetted, which presumably means he’s clean and not likely to get mixed up with criminals or piss them off enough to get taken out.”