Before making the phone call to da Baggio, Belmonte decided it was the right moment to bring Tristan and Lorenza together, face-to-face. He was certain that would be the key. It would ensure that Tristan would do his bidding when the time came to play his part. Lorenza of course knew nothing of Tristan’s abduction, nor was Tristan aware that she was being held in the underground chamber next to his. Belmonte, a master manipulator and meticulous planner, knew how to use fear and hope, despair and gratitude to bend even the most stubborn personality to his will. All he needed was a little more time – but time was running out.

  The cellar of the remote fattoria had been modified to provide secure “accommodation” for the combatants as they were called, while they were being groomed for the game. It was also a safe and practical location for the mobile surgery unit used to harvest the precious organs. The valuable cargo could be transferred to Florence airport and be on a plane within the hour.

  Belmonte was satisfied that Nazir was ready. A cocktail of drugs, intimidation, outrageous promises and fear had done its usual job. However, it was the drugs that had worked so well in this case, but it didn’t really matter because Nazir was going to be liquidated as part of the climax of Ars Moriendi that everyone expected. He would be dramatically killed during the game, but not before huge amounts of money had been wagered, and lost, to pay for the ultimate thrill. Belmonte would see to that. He knew exactly how to rig the game and when to introduce the fatal shot. It was all about anticipation, excitement and timing.

  Nazir was the perfect victim. No-one knew he was in the country, no-one would miss him or come looking for him. No-one even seemed to know he existed. And besides, he was young and healthy, with a strong heart that would fetch a small fortune on the black market. The heart had been promised to Prince Khalid to save a prominent member of his family. In return, he would wager huge amounts and attract other high rollers eager to participate in the game, accessible only to the privileged super-rich always on the lookout for the next exciting excess. In short, an excellent fit.

  Tristan, on the other hand, was a different case altogether, and Belmonte knew he had to proceed with caution. It was vital to keep Tristan alive and release him and Lorenza unharmed when the time was right. To make them disappear would blow the case wide open and propel it into the spotlight, resulting in a major police operation and international media frenzy. It was also essential that Tristan play his part as a serious combatant convincingly. The success of the entire venture depended on that.

  The only possible sticking point was the doctor. So far, nothing appeared to have worked to get her to cooperate. As a courageous, intelligent and principled woman, Amena had been exceedingly difficult to deal with. Belmonte could also foresee problems when Amena was faced with a dead Nazir on the operating table and be expected to remove his heart, which only moments before had been alive and beating. Despite all this, Belmonte wasn’t too concerned. He would force her, at gunpoint if necessary, to perform the operation. After that, he had already decided to eliminate her as well. A loose cannon like her couldn’t be allowed to stay around. Belmonte couldn’t take the risk. She would join the other body parts in the acid vats used to dissolve the damning evidence. She too, wouldn’t be missed by anyone and would therefore vanish without a trace. Problem solved. It all came down to meticulous planning and never losing one’s nerve.

  Belmonte put on his mask, tricorne hat and black cloak, unlocked the door to Lorenza’s cell and stepped inside. Lorenza sat on the edge of the narrow bunk and looked up, unable to suppress the shiver of fear making the fine hairs on her neck tingle every time she faced the strange man behind the golden mask.

  ‘There is someone here who wants to see you,’ said the man, speaking softly, his voice sounding distant and faint. Then he turned slowly around and pointed to the open door. ‘Send him in,’ he said, raising his voice ever so slightly. Lorenza kept staring at the door. Suddenly, a shape materialised out of the shadows. ‘Tristan?’ she whispered, not trusting her eyes, and stood up, her legs shaking. Tristan came towards her and embraced her without saying a word. Lorenza began to sob uncontrollably – hot tears running down her wan cheeks – as the floodgates opened, letting her pent-up emotions run free. Tristan just held her in his arms and pressed her to his chest, letting his presence do the talking.

  ‘This is the prize I mentioned,’ said the man behind the golden mask. ‘You know what you have to do if you want to see her again. If you fail ...’ The man paused, letting the threat find its mark. ‘It’s in your hands. Don’t disappoint me, Tristan. Take him away!’

  Two men also wearing masks, hats and black cloaks stepped into the room.

  ‘Stay strong. This will soon be over; promise,’ whispered Tristan, brushing his lips against Lorenza’s burning forehead before the men pulled him roughly away and dragged him outside.

  ‘There is one more thing we have to do before I go,’ said the man. He reached into his cloak, pulled out a mobile phone and handed it to Lorenza. Lorenza wiped the tears from her cheeks and looked at him, the question on her worried face obvious. ‘Call your father; now,’ said the man. ‘He will ask you how you are, and you will tell him that you are unharmed and well. He may ask about Tristan. If he does, you will tell him that he is here with you and that he too is well. That’s all. Nothing else. Clear?’

  Lorenza nodded.

  ‘Now dial the number – and don’t disappoint me.’

  Lorenza punched in the number and listened to it ring as the connection raced towards Venice. What she couldn’t have known was that some of the most sophisticated military monitoring devices were listening too.

  Clara stared at her computer screen, a jubilant smile spreading across her face. It was quite late but the entire Squadra Mobile was standing by. ‘Yes!’ she called out and took off her earphones. Then she scribbled down the coordinates on her screen and hurried to Conti’s office on the floor above.

  ‘It worked! We got it,’ she said, holding up a piece of paper. ‘Lorenza’s father has done an excellent job. He asked all the right questions, took his time, and didn’t lose his cool.’

  ‘Where is she?’ asked Conti, taking a deep breath. The moment of reckoning had arrived.

  Clara walked over to the map of Florence hanging on the wall. ‘Right here, sir,’ she said, ‘at the country property we have under surveillance ... And there is more good news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Tristan appears to be with her. Here’s a transcript of the conversation.’

  This is too good to be true, thought Conti. All his instincts told him to be extremely careful. Too often, when something was too good to be true, unexpected disaster was never far away.

  ‘Well done, Clara,’ said Conti, heading for the door. ‘Let’s join the chief prosecutor and the others and put them out of their misery.’

  The mood in Grimaldi’s office was electric. At first, the news was greeted with a mixture of subdued incredulity and scepticism, but when Clara calmly explained the details of the intelligence report, the room erupted.

  Grimaldi held up his hand, trying to silence his exuberant team and bring everyone back down to earth. ‘Jack, we must congratulate you. This was your idea,’ said Grimaldi, ‘and we must also congratulate Clara for pulling it all together. Excellent work! But we mustn’t lose sight of the fact that in many ways this is just the beginning. We have valuable information, yes, but how we now use it is critical. I don’t have to tell you that we cannot afford any mistakes here. Too much is at stake, and there will be no second chances. Let’s take stock and see where we’re at.’ Grimaldi looked at Conti. As the head of the Squadra Mobile, it was now up to him to take charge. ‘Fabio, please take us through the next steps.’

  Conti stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. Then he turned around and faced the others. ‘As you know, Prince Khalid left this morning on his private jet. He was allowed to return home, effectively shutting down our investigation into the brutal assault on the young prostitute. Because the young woman is alive and likely to recover, his immunity is legal and working. There is nothing we can do about that. But as you know, this isn’t the end of the matter. In many ways, it’s just the beginning, and the most important missing link has just been handed to us. We must use it wisely.

  ‘This brings me to the – let’s call it an “understanding” – between the prince and the chief prosecutor and what this means to us right now. It’s all about one man: Gambio, and his evil empire that is corrupting this city. It’s time we put a stop to it, and I believe we can do just that. All of you here have a critical part to play in this, and we will only succeed if we work together as a team.’

  Grimaldi looked at his friend, impressed. He saw in him a passion and confidence he thought had been buried in tragedy and grief a long time ago. It was obvious that the others in the room were equally inspired by Conti’s words.

  ‘Naguib and Cesaria, it begins with you,’ continued Conti. ‘It’s almost time for you to go. Prince Khalid’s jet is on its return journey right now and is due to land in less than two hours. The prince’s secretary will meet you at the airport with his driver. You know what to do.’

  Haddad looked at Cesaria and nodded.

  ‘Naguib, we are all indebted to you for taking this on,’ said Grimaldi. ‘We couldn’t do this without you.’

  ‘Tomorrow will be all about timing and a great deal of improvisation,’ continued Conti. ‘We have commandos in place and air support is standing by. No-one can go in or out of the fattoria without us knowing about it. We’ll have all the resources we need. However, we’ll have to meticulously synchronise everything and make decisions on the run. We have no choice but to go in blind and feel our way, and you all know what that means ...’

  ‘Thanks, Fabio. That’s probably as far as we can take this tonight,’ said Grimaldi. ‘Now go home, all of you, and get some sleep. We’ll regroup in Fabio’s office at six am sharp. Ars Moriendi is scheduled for tomorrow night. As you know, everything will have to work around that.’

  Conti held up his hand. ‘Before you go, there’s one more thing,’ he said quietly. ‘When my wife was murdered by the Mafia two years ago, I made a promise,’ said Conti, his eyes misting over. ‘Please, help me keep it.’

  ‘May I say something?’ asked Cesaria.

  Conti nodded.

  ‘When my father was abducted and tortured by the Mafia, and later died a broken man, I too made a promise ...’ Cesaria paused and looked straight ahead at something only she could see. ‘I thought you should know this,’ she added quietly, and stood up to leave.

  47

  Just outside Florence: 6 June

  The tiny office set aside for Haddad and Cesaria belonged to the airport police. Conti had made sure they wouldn’t be disturbed. Haddad stood by the window and stared at the empty runway. It was well after midnight. It should have arrived two hours ago, he thought, trying to stay calm. What if they changed their mind? Haddad knew that Grimaldi’s daring plan was like a house of cards. If only one card fell, the entire structure would come crashing down. The arrival of the plane was critical.

  Cesaria was on the phone speaking to the control tower again. She put down her mobile and looked at Haddad. ‘Prince Khalid’s jet has changed its flight path and taken a detour to skirt around a sandstorm blowing in from North Africa, but is now en route and should arrive shortly,’ she reported, relieved.

  ‘I hope so. If it doesn’t ...’

  ‘I know. The entire operation depends on this. Without it ...’

  Then a bright light appeared at the end of the runway and moments later, the jet landed, the welcome roar of the engines cutting through the tension in the room.

  ‘It’s here!’ said Haddad. ‘Let’s get ready.’

  He reached for the neatly folded kandoorah on the back of the chair and put it on. Next came the ghurtah, the head scarf, followed by the black agal to keep it in place. Finally, Haddad put on a pair of dark glasses and turned to Cesaria. ‘How do I look?’ he asked.

  ‘Like an Arab prince, Your Excellency. Let’s go.’

  Instead of meeting the plane, the black limousine driven by Prince Khalid’s bodyguard pulled up in front of the customs building at the end of the runway. The prince’s secretary got out and opened the back door. Haddad and Cesaria got in quickly. The limousine then turned around, left the airport and headed back to the hotel. Haddad reached for Cesaria’s hand and squeezed it. ‘So far so good,’ he whispered. Apart from that, no-one spoke a word until they reached the Medici Grande.

  The hotel manager was waiting at the entrance with the liveried doorman to welcome the distinguished guest they had been expecting for hours. Gambio will be pleased, thought the manager as he opened the back door of the car. Haddad got out, spoke a few words in Arabic to the secretary and, ignoring the manager, followed the secretary to the lifts with Cesaria walking demurely a few steps behind him.

  This was all part of the elaborate “arrangement” proposed by Prince Khalid. It had been agreed that Haddad would take the place of the prince’s uncle, who hadn’t left his country. This would provide the police with a valuable opportunity to infiltrate Ars Moriendi and, it was hoped, expose Gambio and his deadly game. In return, the prince’s entourage would be allowed to leave and return home on the private jet and the entire assault matter would be buried and kept away from the media. The prince’s staff had been briefed accordingly and were all part of this ingenious charade. In the prince’s household, his word was law, and to question it was unthinkable.

  Gambio was on a high. He had just received the call from his hotel manager he had been waiting for. Prince Khalid’s uncle – the high roller – had arrived, Ars Moriendi was on track and could now go ahead as planned. The additional monies promised by the prince had been deposited, and all the other players had also arrived and were looking forward to the “game” with anticipation. Everything was ready to go. It was time to tell Belmonte the good news.

  Gambio took another sip of cognac, reached for his encrypted Blackberry and called Belmonte. ‘How’s everything at your end?’ he asked, leaning back in his chair.

  ‘We are ready.’

  ‘What about the doctor?’

  ‘Under control.’

  Gambio knew this was the weak link. ‘How did you manage that?’ he asked.

  ‘I told her that Ars Moriendi is a play, part of a unique charity performance for well-heeled socialites and that we are expecting large donations for Médecins Sans Frontières – your favourite charity.’

  ‘She bought that?’ said Gambio, unable to keep the scepticism out of his voice.

  ‘Not at first, but when I showed her our mobile operating theatre, she became quite excited. I told her that if the “fundraising” reaches a certain target, the operating rig will be donated as well and made available for use in the refugee camp she came from. I also told her that this was the reason she and the young man had been brought here in the first place. To help us make sure the theatre is fully equipped and has the necessary supplies to do the job at the frontline. I think that did it.’

  Ingenious, thought Gambio, impressed. ‘And the boy?’ he asked.

  I told him the same thing. If he plays his part convincingly and the “fundraising” is a success, the mobile operating theatre will be sent to the camp in Turkey. I think they both want to believe this—’

  ‘And the game? What about that?’ interrupted Gambio again.

  ‘Blanks. We’ve assured him the gun can’t go off because it will have blanks. After all, as far as he’s concerned, this is a game; a performance; make-believe. And don’t forget, he’s on drugs. Serious stuff, like all the others before him.’

  ‘What about the heart, the operation?’

  ‘I’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,’ came the somewhat evasive reply.

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘I know.’

  Amazing, thought Gambio. He’s pulled it off! ‘And the arrangements for tonight?’ he asked.

  ‘All in place. Our cars are standing by to pick up the punters exactly as planned. After that ... well, you know the drill. The main thing is, we hold the money. I’ll take care of the rest.’

  ‘And you will cover your tracks?’

  ‘Trust me, I will.’

  ‘Excellent! Well done, Luigi. Pity men like you are so rare.’

  ‘You are not coming to the game?’

  ‘No. I think it’s better I stay away this time.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘Good luck!’

  ‘It’s not luck we need, but balls,’ said Belmonte, laughing. ‘You told me so yourself.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that; salute!’

  48

  Ars Moriendi, Florence: 6 June

  ‘They’re in!’ said Conti. ‘It worked. “Prince” Naguib and his girlfriend can now relax in the Imperial Suite before the fireworks begin.’ He slipped the phone back into his pocket and looked at Grimaldi. ‘Haddad’s just been told Ars Moriendi is definitely on tonight.’

  ‘Do we know where?’ asked Grimaldi, and lit another cigar.

  ‘Not yet. Gambio is sending a car to pick them up. I can’t see it being very far out of town, do you?’

  ‘I agree. They’ll use one of Gambio’s properties, for sure.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ Conti paused and looked at his friend. ‘That’s why you brought me back, didn’t you? For a moment just like this?’

  ‘Would you want it any other way? After all that’s happened?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We have unfinished business, you and I.’

  Conti nodded. ‘Do you think this could put it all to rest?’ he asked quietly. ‘Once and for all?’

  ‘Perhaps. It’s as good a chance as we’ll get. That’s why it’s worth the risk.’

 

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