‘Ars Moriendi; the art of dying. Ironic, isn’t it?’ said Conti. ‘After all the death and mayhem we’ve seen, it should come down to something like this.’

  Grimaldi nodded and watched the cigar smoke curl towards the ceiling. ‘How do you want to run this?’ he asked.

  ‘We form two teams. One for the fattoria, and one for Ars Moriendi – wherever it may be held. The tricky thing will be to synchronise the raids. We must go in at the same time in both places. That’s absolutely critical. If we stuff that up ...’ Conti shook his head. ‘Unthinkable! It would be a disaster. The commandos are standing by. Seasoned pros under the command of someone reliable we both know well and can trust, absolutely.’

  ‘Aren’t you worried about the hostages, Lorenza and Tristan?’

  ‘What do you think? Of course I am. But can you see a better way? We’ve both made mistakes before, and it was all about waiting too long – remember?’

  ‘True. What about Rogan?’ asked Grimaldi. ‘Will you involve him in the raids?’

  ‘Yes. Amazing guy. I want him at the fattoria. He knows both Lorenza and Tristan. To have him there could be useful. I’ll be there too. The hostages ... top priority.’

  ‘I understand. As Haddad and Cesaria are both putting their necks on the line with Ars Moriendi, I think I should too ...’

  ‘Good. I was hoping you’d say that.’

  ‘It’s all settled then?’ asked Grimaldi.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘A little sleep? Big day ahead.’

  ‘We should.’

  ‘What did Rogan call it? A moment of destiny?’

  ‘He did,’ replied Conti. ‘You’d expect something like that from a writer. But do you know what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think he’s right. Come here; give me a hug.’

  Grimaldi put his cigar into the ashtray, walked over to his friend and embraced him.

  ‘Thanks for bringing me back,’ said Conti.

  ‘Back from where?’

  ‘The brink.’

  Haddad and Cesaria were picked up from their hotel at eleven pm. As soon as they arrived at the property hidden behind tall hedges and wrought-iron gates twenty minutes later, they were handed their mandatory masks, cloaks and tricorne hats to put on. Several other guests had already arrived and were drinking champagne in a marquee, the chapel ruins lit up with laser lights in the distance forming a spectacular backdrop, suggesting mystery and danger.

  Cesaria checked her gun and slipped on the cloak, which was a little too big for her. Haddad did the same, and made sure his radio transmitter was within easy reach. It would be up to him to give the signal for the raid to begin. He still had his doubts about Ars Moriendi. What he had been told about the event so far sounded almost too fanciful to be true. Looking around, it was difficult to believe that all the people laughing and chatting casually with each other and enjoying the freedom of anonymity behind their identical masks, had come to witness the tantalising possibility of brutal death and wager on its outcome.

  ‘Let’s go and mingle,’ said Haddad, his voice sounding strange behind the golden mask. ‘Stay close to me at all times.’

  ‘I’m number four,’ said Cesaria, pointing to the number pinned to her cloak.

  ‘I’m three,’ said Haddad. ‘Come.’

  Cesaria took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters in front of the marquee and walked inside.

  Haddad was chatting to a man with a heavy Slavic accent, when the lights abruptly went out, the music stopped and a clock began to chime somewhere in the distance. Everyone fell silent and an uneasy hush descended on the marquee as the clock announced the midnight hour. Then, a shaft of blue light pierced the darkness and a tall shape dressed in the same costume as all the guests but wearing a red mask, materialised out of the shadows. As the shape came closer, the music returned – stirring organ music this time – suggesting piety and prayer and conjuring up images of kneeling altar boys, statues of bleeding saints, and holy relics in glass coffins.

  Belmonte, the consummate performer, doffed his tricorne and took a bow.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the enchanting world of Ars Moriendi, where everything is possible and limited only by your imagination.’ Belmonte paused and slowly turned towards the ruins behind him. ‘Come, follow me,’ he said, and pointed to a stone arch leading into the chapel. ‘Let the journey begin.’

  Cesaria felt a shiver of fear race down her neck as she followed Haddad into the chapel illuminated by flickering torches and dozens of tall candles, sending crazy shadows dancing across the marble floor worn smooth and shiny by the footsteps of worshippers long gone.

  After all the guests had taken their seats on the wooden church pews facing the stone altar, Belmonte explained the extraordinary rules of the deadly game.

  Haddad turned to Cesaria sitting next to him in the back row. ‘Can you believe this?’ he whispered. She squeezed his arm in silent reply, mesmerised by what was happening around her.

  An excited hush descended on the spellbound spectators when Belmonte announced it was time to meet the combatants. Belmonte turned around with a flourish and pointed to a gap in the wall behind the altar like a magician introducing his next act. Two young men wearing only loincloths, their faces covered in heavy, almost theatrical make-up, moved slowly into the circle of light in front of the altar, the beads of sweat covering their pale bodies glistening in the candlelight like the tears of weeping angels.

  Cesaria gasped and squeezed Haddad’s arm so hard, he almost cried out. ‘Tristan!’ she whispered, barely able to speak.

  Haddad looked at her, surprised. ‘What are you saying?’ he hissed.

  ‘It’s him; Tristan. The tall one ...’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Good God, thought Haddad, his mind racing. This changes everything! Then he reached under his cloak and put his hand on his gun, the reassuring touch of cold steel helping him think.

  Conti reached for his binoculars and looked at the fattoria lit up by moonlight down in the valley below. All appeared quiet. The entire farm was surrounded by commandos waiting for his signal to enter and secure the buildings. Everyone realised that in a hostage situation, extra care had to be taken; timing was everything.

  Grimaldi and his team were also ready to go.

  Conti’s men had followed Haddad’s car to the remote property and had pinpointed the chapel ruins where Ars Moriendi was about to take place. After assessing the terrain, it had been decided that the most effective way to execute the raid on the chapel was from the air. There was sufficient space for the helicopters to land, and the element of surprise and speed could only enhance the chances of success of the delicate operation.

  Grimaldi and the Squadra Mobile were standing by and waiting for the signal to enter the property. They would secure the area once the helicopters had landed.

  Conti looked at his radio and took a deep breath. It was now all up to Haddad and Cesaria.

  49

  Just outside Florence: 7 June

  Belmonte held up his hand to silence his spellbound audience like a conductor about to begin a performance, paused for effect, and then turned around to face Tristan standing behind him. ‘Remember what I told you,’ he whispered. ‘His gun isn’t loaded. Only yours will be; when I decide. Now go and play your part, and don’t disappoint me ...’ Nazir stood on the other side of the altar, glassy-eyed like a zombie and pumped full of drugs. Belmonte knew he would do exactly as he had been told.

  Ars Moriendi needed a loser; everyone was expecting it and all the betting depended on it. Someone had to die, but it couldn’t be Tristan. The kidnapping strategy needed him; alive. To ensure that Tristan remained unharmed and survived the evening, Belmonte had come up with an ingenious way to rig the game.

  He had two identical .357 magnum Colt Python revolvers. One was loaded, the other – which he kept concealed in a pocket inside his cloak – wasn’t. After going through the ritual with the bullets, loading the gun and the drama of spinning the drum for effect, Belmonte would exchange the guns as he turned around to face the combatants. This was quite easy-to-do and wouldn’t be noticed in the heat of the moment when everyone was filled with excitement and anticipation. It was a simple, but effective trick that not only made sure Tristan wouldn’t be the one to be killed, but would have a significant impact on the betting, as Belmonte controlled the outcome and could decide when it was time to hand the fully loaded gun to Tristan for the kill.

  Belmonte turned around again and held up the loaded gun for all to see. ‘Remember, ladies and gentlemen, we start with one bullet. I give you ten to one if the gun goes off. One bullet in a drum of six. These are good odds. Please place your bets. Call out your number and the amount you would like to wager. We will begin with number one. Your bet, please.’

  Haddad knew it was almost time. He couldn’t risk waiting much longer. He had to make his move before the first round of the potentially fatal exchange began.

  Haddad turned to Cesaria. ‘Ready?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes.’

  Haddad waited until number two had placed a bet and it was his turn. ‘Now!’ he said and pressed the button on his radio transmitter, which sent the prearranged signal to Conti. Then he reached for his throat, stood up and began to tear furiously at his collar. Crying out and gasping for air, he ripped the mask off his face and began to stagger about before collapsing on the ground.

  Cesaria jumped up and knelt down beside him. ‘Heart attack!’ she shouted. ‘Help, someone!’

  ‘CPR,’ said someone in the first row. ‘He needs CPR!’

  Shit! It’s the prince, thought Belmonte, as he watched Cesaria pump Haddad’s chest and apply CPR. Everyone stood up as well and gathered around Haddad and Cesaria, forming a morbid circle of curiosity. Belmonte realised Ars Moriendi was over and he had to move quickly into damage control. But how? Calling an ambulance was out of the question. He had to somehow get the prince to a hospital without one.

  Belmonte was desperately looking around the chapel to find one of his men, when he heard the roar of an approaching helicopter. As the chapel had no roof and was open to the sky, the noise was deafening. Suddenly, a bright searchlight illuminated the inside of the chapel as the helicopter hovered above and a voice called out through a loudspeaker: ‘Stay where you are and put your hands up.’

  Belmonte realised at once what was happening and knew he had to get away; fast. He turned around and headed for the gap in the wall. As he rushed past Tristan standing at the altar, Tristan tackled him from behind and put his arm around his neck. ‘You are not going anywhere!’ he shouted as they both fell to the ground. Belmonte reacted quickly. He rolled to his side, trying to shake off his assailant, but Tristan wouldn’t let go. Belmonte still had the gun in his hand and realised that time was running out. He raised his hand, pressed the gun against Tristan’s chest and pulled the trigger. As he pushed Tristan away with both hands he dropped the gun. Moments later, desperate and covered in blood, he ran through a gap in the wall and disappeared into the dark.

  When Cesaria heard the gunshot, she stood up and pulled out her gun. Shouting, ‘Police! Stand back!’ she ran towards the altar. Haddad got up as well and hurried after her just as the commandos stormed into the chapel with Grimaldi following close behind.

  As soon as Haddad saw Tristan lying on the ground – convulsing and bleeding profusely out of a large chest wound – he knew instantly the injury was life-threatening. He pulled out his radio and called Conti.

  The fattoria raid had gone off like clockwork. The commandos had entered from three sides at once. The surprised guards had been drinking, and offered no resistance. The place was secured within minutes without a shot being fired.

  ‘How bad is he?’ asked Conti.

  ‘Bad.’

  ‘I’ll call an ambulance.’

  ‘No time.’ said Haddad.

  ‘Jesus! Wait! There’s some kind of mobile surgery truck in one of the sheds here. Amena was locked inside it.’

  ‘Amena is with you?’ asked Haddad, surprised.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Close.’

  ‘How close?’

  ‘Very. Minutes ...’

  ‘This could work! Amena has treated more gunshot wounds than an entire college of surgeons combined. If anyone can keep him alive, she can.’

  ‘Get him over here! Find Grimaldi, he knows the way. Hurry!’

  ‘Done! What about Lorenza?’

  ‘Still searching. This is a rabbit warren ...’

  ‘Say a prayer.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Me too.’

  The police car turned into the long driveway leading to the fattoria and pulled up in front of the big barn. The barn doors were wide open and the inside was lit up with lights so bright, they were blinding like a landing site of an alien spaceship. Jack and Conti hurried over to the car and opened the back door. Haddad sat in the back, holding Tristan. He was pressing a towel against the large chest wound, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood. Cesaria sat next to him, cradling Tristan’s head in her lap.

  Wearing a surgical gown, face mask and gloves, Amena ran out of the barn and helped Jack lift Tristan out of the car. ‘Careful,’ she said, and looked at Haddad. ‘You do turn up in unexpected ways,’ she said. ‘Good to see you; Fabio told me. You can assist me; there’s no-one else. I’m sure you’ve seen more of this than I ... Come, I’ll tell you what to do. Quickly!’

  Haddad, Jack and Amena carried Tristan into the barn and then up the ramp and placed him on the narrow operating table inside the semi-trailer.

  ‘I’ll take it from here,’ said Amena. ‘Naguib, scrub your hands, put on the gown over there and the gloves. Essential supplies and equipment are missing here. We have to make do with what we have and improvise until the ambulance gets here.’

  A police officer walked up to Conti. ‘We found something, sir,’ he said. ‘In the cellar ... You should come.’ Conti looked at Jack, concern on his face. Things were going from bad to worse. ‘You stay here,’ he said, and hurried after the officer. Jack nodded without taking his eyes off the operating table.

  ‘Let’s have a look,’ said Amena, slowly peeling away the blood-soaked towel. She always felt a pang of dread every time she was faced with a situation like this. The next few seconds would reveal if the patient had a chance, or not. Life and death, hanging in the balance. Haddad too, realised what was happening and was watching intently as Amena put aside the towel and began to gently probe the deep wound. Jack held his breath, Haddad did too.

  After a moment that seemed an eternity, Amena straightened up. ‘He’s one lucky young man,’ she said. ‘Somehow, the bullet missed the vital organs and main arteries and went cleanly through his side, leaving a huge exit wound; right here. What kind of bullet was this? Judging from the size of the wound, it could have killed an elephant.’

  ‘Point 357 magnum,’ said Haddad, ‘fired point-blank.’

  ‘Ouch! A little to the right and he would have been killed instantly. The main problem we have now is catastrophic blood loss. We have to stem the flow.’

  For the next fifteen minutes, Amena worked feverishly to limit the blood loss and stabilise her patient until the ambulance team arrived. It was all about skill, improvisation, hope and luck. Especially luck.

  ‘Stay with me,’ she said, pressing the wound and blood vessels together with her fingers. Then a smile lit up her face as she heard the distant siren of the approaching ambulance. Not long now, she thought. The guys will have everything we need.

  The ambulance raced through the open barn door and came to a sudden halt behind the semi-trailer. Two paramedics jumped out and looked around. Amena was shouting instructions from inside. One of the paramedics opened the back of the ambulance and climbed inside to get some equipment. The other ran up the ramp with his kit.

  During the next twenty minutes it was touch and go. After that, the drugs kicked in and the crisis appeared to be over, for now. ‘He’s young and a fighter,’ said Amena, and stepped back. ‘He’ll live.’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything like this, ever,’ said one of the paramedics, shaking his head in disbelief. He looked at Amena with amazement. ‘I don’t know how you did it,’ he said.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Amena, a hesitant smile creasing the corners of her mouth. She pointed to the operating table behind her. ‘Lucky we had all this,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t have done it without it. Let’s get him to a proper hospital, give him some blood and sew him up. I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Haddad, and took off his blood-splattered gown.

  Jack walked over to Amena and embraced her, tears in his eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, overcome with emotion. ‘You are one very special human being.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard from Dr Rosen, you’re not too bad yourself,’ replied Amena, and hurried to the ambulance.

  50

  Florence: 7 June

  Conti followed the commando down the stone stairs leading into the cellar.

  ‘There,’ said the officer, and pointed to a steel door at the end of a damp, dimly lit corridor. ‘This was hidden behind a movable wooden partition we broke down earlier.’

  ‘Can’t you open it?’

  ‘Solid steel with an electronic digital lock; there. We would need heavy equipment; lots of noise. If there’s someone in there ...’

  ‘Good point. Go and lean on one of the security guards. Someone must know the combination. Do what you must; quickly!’

  ‘Pleasure, sir.’

  Conti hurried back upstairs to get Jack, who was still in the barn. ‘How is he?’ he asked.

  ‘The ambulance just left. Dr Algafari saved him. It was incredible. She went with them to the hospital. All going well, Tristan should be all right.’

 

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