Andy McNab - Brute force

'I always thought "Italian taxpayer" was a contradiction in terms. Who carries out the wiretaps?'

'The newly privatized Italian Telecom – which the press has been having a go at for years for working hand in glove with the secret services.'

The two-lane autostrada cut straight through the mountains on its way to the sea. Everyone was driving at 160km an hour and about a metre apart. A mother with a cigarette in her mouth still managed to bollock her kids and her husband as she pulled into the fast lane to overtake us. A motorbike somehow cut her up, and she went berserk. Italians really do talk with their hands.

Lynn didn't bat an eyelid. He was now in full university lecturer mode. 'A former director of security at Telecom, who had close links with the secret services, was sent to prison not so long ago, together with a former anti-terrorism chief, as a result of a wiretapping scandal.

'Private conversations of politicians and public figures are taped wholesale. Prosecutors and judges routinely leak details to journalists.'

We went into a tunnel that seemed to go on forever. Not long after we emerged, Lynn pointed ahead at a small service station cut into the mountainside on the right. 'Groceries are cheaper here than down in the town.'

Typical officer.

Alad with a bumbag was filling petrol tanks and taking payment. He was chatting away with the driver in front of us but it looked like they were about to come to blows. There was a small car park to one side for the Autogrill.

We weren't back on the road for long before the Rapallo turn-off, which was actually past Santa Margherita Ligure. Paying our two and a bit euros at the toll, we drove into a neat little coastal town, and then stayed by the sea for the next five or six Ks. As we drove over the last hill and Santa Margherita spread out below us it was like a scene from a French Riviera movie of the fifties or sixties. I was half expecting David Niven to come over the crest in an open-top Austin Healey.

'Mussolini used to come here for his holidays.' Lynn waved his hand at the palm trees and grand old hotels and villas. 'A lot of northern Europeans retire here.'

I wasn't surprised a fascist dictator came here with his bucket and spade. The whole place looked so well behaved even the flowers stood to attention. But fuck that. 'If everything goes to rat shit in the next ten minutes, what are the escape routes?'

Lynn looked and sounded a bit more lively. Maybe he thought that because we were out of the UK, we were out of danger. 'Back to the airport at Genoa, or the one at Pisa's about a hundred and fifty kilometres.' He was getting the hang of this. 'Portofino's just down the road. If we have to dump the car, the train station is near the centre of the town. It's on the main line to Genoa, Pisa and Rome. Buses run from outside the station. From the harbour, passenger ferries connect the town with other resorts up and down the coast, even off-season.'

I looked at him. 'You buy or rent?'

He waved his hand again. 'There's no need to worry about traceability. I wouldn't be here with you now if there was any chance of that.'

'Lots of cash about?'

'Property here is now the dearest in Italy, outside of central Rome. It's the only place where the market's gone up every single year since the Second World War. No more building has been allowed and the only thing they can do is dig into the mountains and build car parks in the countryside. But everybody wants to be here. The Russians and oil sheiks are sending prices through the roof.'

I had to remind myself that this was the man who'd shopped at a service station out of town instead of the local Co-op because his cornflakes were half a euro cheaper.

My impression that Santa Margherita Ligure was like a film set was holding out. The place seemed to be entirely populated with stars or extras. Even on a winter day, the sun was strong and everybody had their Gucci sunglasses on. A glamorous woman glided past on a moped. As she turned to flick ash from her cigarette, I caught the Chanel logo on the back of her leopard-skin helmet.

Every shop we passed seemed to be selling either shoes or pashminas. There wasn't an amusement arcade, Mr Whippy machine or hoodie in sight. Maybe I should have gone to university like Lynn and become our man in Tripoli, rather than fucking about at the bottom of the pond.

We passed a taxi rank on the seafront. All the cabs were white Q7 Audis and big, over-the-top Italian estate cars or Mercedes. I wondered what had happened to mine – or rather, Avis's. Had they done all the forensics and returned it to them yet, or had it been reported as stolen and my credit card maxed out in non-return charges?

'That low hill above the waterfront is an interesting place. The castle was built in 1550 as defence against the Saracens.'

He wasn't the only one pointing. We passed a big statue of Christopher Columbus with his arm stretched out to sea. One bit of pub quiz trivia I'd remembered from school: he'd set sail from Genoa.

The harbour was small and obviously catered for smart yachts, but it still had a fishing fleet. Several boats were unloading opposite a market. A breakwater stretched about three or four hundred metres into the sea, towards a cluster of massive floating gin palaces. I got the system: the bigger the boat, the further out it parked.

We found a space along the seafront. It was lined with more beautiful old buildings. The arches underneath were inset with cafes, ice cream parlours, bars and restaurants. At the front, elegant Italians in sunglasses and overcoats sat drinking coffee. Behind them, in what looked like caves, were dining areas lined with dark wood panelling and bottles of wine.

Lynn nodded up at one of the apartment blocks. 'That's me. Great view of the harbour one way, the Basilica the other. Well worth a visit, Nick, to view the gilded chandeliers. Come on, we can see them while I pick up the keys.'

A tour of the Basilica? Just what fucking planet was this guy on?

'The British Embassy is in Rome, yeah?'

'There's a consulate in Genoa, but yes, that's where the embassy is.'

'How far by road?'

'Three hundred miles, just about spot on.'

'How long would it take to drive it?'

'Five and a half hours, maybe a bit longer this time of year. Why, do you want to go to Rome?'

I shook my head. 'It's how long it would take them to drive here I'm worried about.'

The Basilica, it turned out, was stunning. Fifty-metre-high ceilings, massive chandeliers, and more saints' relics and old women on their knees than you could shake a stick at.

Lynn hadn't brought me here for the view. He headed straight for the furthest confession box, felt under the seat and pulled out two keys taped together.

'I make sure there isn't anything in the UK to connect me with here.'

The apartment had two bedrooms and was very simple and very white after what I could smell was a new lick of paint. The building was nineteenth century, with high ceilings and shutters on the windows. The furniture was modern and new. I doubted Lynn had chosen it. In the living room, a pair of high glass doors opened onto a small Juliet balcony overlooking the Viale Andrea Doria, the road that ran along the harbour front and carried on the four K or so to Portofino. Beyond it was the harbour and the Mediterranean.

I picked up a pair of binoculars. Lynn probably spent hours boat spotting.

'We still assuming it's the Firm?'

'What's to tell us it isn't? Who else had the resources to find me in Donegal so fast? Who else could have made and planted a device so fast? Who else knew about Leptis? OK, anybody could have bought a tracker and followed me to yours, but the other stuff still points in the direction of Vauxhall Cross.'