Detonator (32 page)

I thought I saw movement up there, and ducked back under cover.

But when I looked again, I realized it was simply my vision being blurred by the falling water.

I repeated the process, one hand gripping the outer strut of the balcony rail, the other the pipe, toes scrabbling for purchase on the masonry, and managed to reach the next balcony down without separating myself or the pipe from the wall.

A light sprang on as soon as I stepped on to the handrail of balcony number three. I didn’t wait to see who had just come into the room, or how many. One call to the
carabinieri
was all it would take to really fuck up my night.

For the second time in the last hour I had to make a move without being able to check in advance where I was going. I renewed my grip on the pipe with my left hand, placed the tip of my left boot against the rendering on the far side of it, slid my right hand behind it, and walked two paces further down the wall.

I would have been fully visible to anyone stepping out on to the platform I’d just vacated but, again, the virgin goddess of weather stopped that happening.

Two more paces.

Then two more.

Although the fixings weren’t firm there either, the lack of leverage between the joints worked in my favour, and I was able to drop the last couple of metres to the gravel forecourt.

Much as I liked the idea of the takeaway team consoling themselves over their pizzas, I figured they’d be working their way round to intercept me on the downward path, or possibly to come and pick up what was left of their mate.

The moped was strictly a solo machine, so I reckoned I’d got there a fuck of a lot quicker than they’d be able to. But that didn’t mean I could piss about. I dodged and wove my way through the warren of passageways and cul-de-sacs that linked the blocks to the main, passing a surprising number of people who didn’t seem to want to kill me, and were also sorry they’d forgotten to bring an umbrella.

I twisted as much water as I could out of my jacket and hung it on the passenger seat of the hire car before feeding the ticket machine at the parking garage a day’s worth of euros.

I slotted a SIM card and a battery into my last Nokia as soon as I’d gone through the barrier and punched in Luca’s office number as I drove.

‘
Pronto
…’

‘I was pinged coming out of the alley.’

‘Pinged?’

‘Spotted. Then followed. Fuck knows who they were. Two youngish bald guys, and a hairier one with a moped. Ring any bells?’

He gave it some thought. ‘I’ve seen a couple of bald guys in the street outside the office … yes … and the moped. I thought they were just stealing handbags.’

‘I think there’s more to it than that. Mafia, probably. Your mate’s mattress shop is obviously a known location. So don’t go there again. Unless you want your kids in the orphans’ basket.’

‘I don’t have any kids.’

‘The same goes for your sister’s kids.’

‘I get the message.’

‘You OK, mate?’

‘Sure. But thanks for the warning.’

‘I’ll call you.’

I pressed the red button and threw the phone out of the window as soon as I hit the flyover out of town. All the arrows pointed to Brindisi, and not just the ones on the
autostrada
. Rexho Uran had been spotted there. Hesco had gone very still when I mentioned Italy.

Frank was killed on the road to Turin.

His boy had been wearing Città di Brindisi football strip.

They’d been to their villa three times this year.

A bad business, Nick … A bad business …

Minerva
was on its way there from Odessa, via Istanbul.

And I was now almost certain that wherever
Minerva
was, Dijani and the Uran brothers would be too.

If a stripy pole and a downhill rollercoaster hadn’t rattled my brain, maybe I’d have made this journey earlier. But I was where I was, and still alive. That was all that mattered.

If I put my foot down, I reckoned I could be at the port before first light.

The rain started to ease when I was halfway to Bari. By the time I veered south, with the dark waters of the Adriatic on my left, it had stopped. I opened all the windows. The wind noise was outrageous, but it would blast some of the dampness out of my ki t. I’d tried turning up the heater when I left Naples, but all it did was fog the windscreen and fill the Seat with steam.

I passed the sign to Brindisi airport, then another to the football stadium, and focused hard on following directions to the port, partly because that was where I needed to go, and partly so I could ignore the kid in the blue and white Città di Brindisi strip who was suddenly sitting beside me.

But Stefan couldn’t be ignored. I should have learnt that fucking ages ago.

‘Nick …’

I tried to lose myself in the noise of the wagon’s tyres against the untreated scars in the road surface. Once you left the toll road, the tarmac went to rat-shit around here. Maybe the Ferrari owners stuck to the
autostrada
, or the west-coast Riviera.

It didn’t work.

‘
Nick …
’

I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do that. I didn’t know why. Normally I had no problem letting people know when I’d had enough of them. Even ghosts.

‘
I like it very much in Italy, Nick. My dad is … was … always happy in Italy. Except the last trip
…’

‘
Mate, I’m pretty sure I’m about to find out why. It’s a bit late for you, but I need to get myself out of this shit and find the fuckers who killed you and your dad at the same time. Not all bad, eh?
’

That was my voice. Inside my head.

Or not.

Maybe I said it out loud. Who cared?

He seemed to like what he heard, though. He turned and gave me a slow smile. ‘
Know your enemy, Nick. Know your enemy
…’

And then he disappeared.

But his words still hung in the air.

Know your enemy …

He wasn’t wrong. Sun Tzu hadn’t been either. And I found myself thinking that if Frank had taken his own advice we wouldn’t have been in this shit in the first place.

I hit the town centre and carried on going, bearing left wherever I could, and took the first exit off a roundabout, which pointed me towards something that called itself the Sant’ Apollinare quay.

I passed what had once been a public park but had morphed into a migrant camp. Families in rags stood round the kind of pop-up tents you see at Glastonbury, or makeshift structures cobbled together from wood, wriggly tin and blue plastic tarpaulins. The human nightmare was shrouded in a haze of woodsmoke as they tried to cook whatever the charities had given them. And these were the lucky ones. The only ones laughing were some of the kids in the swing and slide enclosure.

The only light source on the road down to the quay’s entrance was the massive sign to its left, which announced that this was the place to be if you wanted a ferry to or from Greece.

I parked fifty metres short of it and walked up to the gate. Another sign on each pillar told me there was a strong chance my wagon might end up in the water if I wasn’t paying attention. And that wasn’t the only reason to fuck off out of there. Yet more signs warned me that the complex was crawling with police and Customs officials, and that I was approaching
SECURITY LEVEL 1
.

Before I had a second to wonder what that meant, a guard with a big nightstick and an even bigger gut emerged from his hut and stationed himself on the other side of it. I had my answer. There was only one of him.

He gave me the once-over with his torch, and it didn’t feel like the warmest of welcomes. I didn’t have a problem with that. The quay was deserted, and the pictogram above my head made it pretty clear that, even when it wasn’t, it catered for cars and pedestrians only. I raised my hand to let him know that I’d come to the wrong place, and wasn’t going to climb over the fence and shake up his pasta dinner.

The next exit off the roundabout looked more promising: Turkey, Greece and Albania. And the road was lined with containers, stacked two and three high. The lighting was more generous here, but there were still plenty of nice, comfortable shadows to get lost in.

A big brown panel welcomed me in five languages, but everything else in the main access zone to this part of the docks yelled, ‘
Fuck off!
’ Men in uniform carried pistols on the hip, automatic number-plate recognition cameras clocked every vehicle on entry, and if you drove your wagon off the quay, the water was even deeper than it had been at
SECURITY LEVEL 1
.

I kept my distance and swung the wheel towards the terminal building instead. It promised coffee and a restaurant for anyone going to Greece or Albania. I guessed that the Turks had to bring their own.

A couple of lads in an MPV pulled up in front of a row of artics and container-lorries, opened their boot and started to hang out a display of blue and white football gear for sale. It wasn’t yet 04:30. They were obviously keen to make the most of the early trade. A white Fiat stopped alongside them. The blue stripe across its door panels said
SECURPOL PUGLIA
and the lettering on its windscreen –
ISTITUTO DI VIGILANZA
– reinforced the message. But these guys were obviously old mates who shared a bit of banter every morning.

I cruised the length of the parking area, scanning my surroundings for another route into the docks. A covered conveyor, mounted on pylons, dominated the skyline in front of me. It took grain or gravel or cement or whatever to the quay from a storage facility across the dual carriageway that bordered the complex. Some of the pylons had rungs from top to bottom, to allow maintenance engineers access to the working parts. If all else failed I’d climb one and get inside that way.

I turned on to the dual carriageway. The conveyor ran alongside me for a couple of hundred, on a gradual downward slope, then took a sharp left to the loading bays.

From what I could see in the wash of my headlamps the chain-link security fence beneath it was a whole lot more secure than the one I’d wandered through in Naples. It was reinforced every so often with prefab concrete panels, and there wasn’t a hole or a tear in sight. But after another two hundred it seemed to come to an abrupt halt by some kind of currency-exchange kiosk, which wasn’t as eager for business as the lads in the MPV.

I parked up further along the road and grabbed my binos. After I’d checked in front and behind for approaching vehicles, I put on my jacket. It was wet and cold and heavier than I needed it to be, but the less skin I had on display, the better. I chucked the day sack in the boot, locked the wagon and crossed the central barrier.

The turning beside the kiosk was a dead end, and I wasn’t wrong about the fence. It stopped at the top of a bank, covered with bushes and scrub, which ran steeply down to a train line. The track emerged from a tunnel to my right and paralleled the road to my left. A spur curving towards the dockside was still under construction.

The open ground between it and the water was only illuminated by the ambient glow from the main cargo quays to my half-right, the world’s biggest gantry to my half-left, and the lamps running along the top of the conveyor that divided this side of the port from the heavily manned access point.

The railway was sporadically lit as well, but once I’d crossed it there would be plenty of cover. Earth from the freshly dug cutting had been piled up on the far side of the conveyor. A pair of king-size mobile hoppers towered above stacks of sleepers and lengths of track waiting to be laid.

There were endless stretches of that orange plastic netting too; the stuff that’s meant to warn you about a big hole in the ground, then does fuck-all to stop you falling into it.

I always felt safer when I’d had the opportunity to do a close target recce, but I was here now, the sky had already turned a couple of shades paler than it had been when I got there, and if
Minerva
had arrived at its parking space, it wouldn’t just sit and wait for me to come aboard.

Fuck berthing: I liked parking.

The soles of my Timberlands were clogged with soil as soon as I’d taken a couple of steps down the slope, and I slithered most of the rest of the way, grabbing the odd branch to steady myself. My plan was to start looking at the far end of the port, and work back through the forest of cranes and gantries until I was as close as possible to the sector patrolled by the police and the Vigilanza.

Union regs or punishing overtime rates meant that the place wasn’t exactly crowded. I spotted a bit of movement on the decks of three or four of the boats, and not much on the machinery above them.

There was no sign of
Minerva
on the quays closest to the harbour mouth.
Diana
was safely parked on the fourth one I came to, pointy end out towards the water. When I got nearer, I could see
Vesta
immediately in front of it. They were both piled high with cargo. Two containers had been lifted straight on to flatbed artics. A third was in the process of being lowered into position.

I couldn’t stand by the gangplank this time round, waving at random crew members and pretending I was there to meet a mate before first light. I stayed out of sight, in the shadow of a gantry.

As the leading artic pulled away from me towards the port entrance, the darkness beyond the overhead conveyor was suddenly ripped apart by blue flashing lights and sirens. The truck driver put his foot down. I didn’t hang about either. I legged it away from the metalwork, aiming to keep the moving container between me and the approaching
carabinieri
as I crossed the open ground.

When I was still thirty away from the railway line, the driver spun his wheel into opposite lock. The cab veered back towards me, headlamps blazing. I kept on running. I didn’t have a choice. And I already had a feeling that the driver was about to lose control.