Марк Грини - One Minute Out

It was a textbook op; we shuffled the guy to a waiting Cessna Citation, and then we watched it climb into the Italian sky.

Never heard what happened to the lawyer, or even if he was, in fact, tied to AQ, but that was standard operating procedure back then. I was a sled dog on a team; nobody told me where we were going, and my job was simply to respond to the crack of the whip.

Now I have authority over my actions, and I have discretion to move forward or to pull back. But Venice seems so much more ominous today, while working on my own, than it did back then as part of a cell of American operatives.

THIRTY-FOUR

At two p.m. I step up to the nondescript door of an equally nondescript building on the Fondamenta Santa Caterina. There is construction going on around this building and those nearby, and I look over some of the workers and wonder if they are really who they purport to be.

I’m guessing not. I’m assuming a lot of them are armed, and I’m pretty sure all of them knew I was coming.

I really hate being looked at, but in times like these, it’s part of the job.

I’m frisked inside the door by a pair of young guys wearing coveralls. I know for certain they are Italian mafia, and they are just wearing the blue-collar work duds as a cover. They take my phone and wallet, but I’ve left my pistol and the rest of my gear at the rental unit so as not to get anyone excited. A woman descends a wooden staircase and shakes my hand, then escorts me back up. She’s all smiles, but I see the armed goon watching me from the mezzanine and feel the presence of one of the guys I met at the front door looming close behind me now as I ascend.

Soon I enter the library and find myself face-to-face with Giancarlo Ricci, the security chief for the Alfonsi crime family, one of several mafia concerns here in northern Italy. The Alfonsis aren’t as connected and don’t have as much reach as some of the Sicilian and Calabrian groups, and they are nowhere near as powerful in Venice as the Mala del Brenta organization, but regionally they are relatively big players.

I’ve spoken with Ricci before but never in person. I’ve done work for him, and he’s been happy with the service I provided, so as soon as I knew I was heading to Venice without any support from the Agency, I decided to reach out to him.

Still, I’m going to have to do one hell of a dance to get any assistance from the Alfonsi clan. Just like the CIA, the Italian mob doesn’t simply hand out favors for the asking.

I’m wearing the suit and I’ve combed my hair and shaved my face for one reason only. I can’t come in here looking like the flailing, scrambling, exhausted, beat-to-shit, lost puppy that I am right now. I need an air of control, a visage of power, and at least a modicum of authority. Ricci would have me tossed out on my ass here if he didn’t think I was in a position to do something in exchange for what I am about to request from him.

Giancarlo Ricci stands and shakes my hand, but I can see that his eyes are wary. More than once he flashes a glance in the direction of the two men standing nearby, and their hands are crossed in front of them, where they can quickly reach inside their jackets to pull a weapon.

I wait for Ricci to talk, showing him the respect I imagine he garners from all his subordinates.

When he does talk I’m reminded how good his English is. It’s flawless, in fact. He has the look and demeanor of a European who grew up not in his home country but in a Swiss boarding school, where he was no doubt taught five languages.

He doesn’t ask me to sit down. Instead he says, “I spoke with the Gray Man over the phone a few times, as I recall. But I’ve never met him in person, and I’ve never seen a photograph. How do I know . . . that you . . . are you?”

“I did a job for you three years ago. I can go into detail if that will help.”

“No need. Just tell me what I told you when it was done.”

“You gave me a warning, in no uncertain terms. Told me not to double-cross you. You said the Alfonsi family wasn’t the largest organization around, but you have a lot of friends, and the right kind of friends to settle scores.”

“Almost correct. My employer, Luigi Alfonsi, he has friends. I myself do not have any.” He shrugs. “It comes with this life. You certainly understand that, don’t you?”

I don’t answer. I am not prepared to agree that his life and my life have any points of connection beyond this meeting.

Instead I say, “Well, since I didn’t double-cross your employer, I hope you will consider me a friend now.”

With a smile and a dramatic shrug, Ricci says, “I must confess . . . I am confused. They say you are invisible.” A pause as he looks me over head to toe. “But I see you.”

The man may be a mafia security chief, but he’s also hilarious.

I reply, “When I want to be seen, I can make it happen. When I want to disappear, same thing.”

Ricci nods again; he appears more relaxed now, and he motions to a chair in front of where he had been sitting when I entered. “ Sí. Very good.”

We both sit while coffee is poured, and I don’t hesitate to drink down a hot gulp. Ricci makes no small talk, and I’m glad for this, because I don’t have a hell of a lot of time.

I say, “You want to know why I am here, right?”

With another flash to his security men, Ricci says, “I don’t think you are here to kill me. Most of the people who want me dead insist on trying to do it themselves. They don’t hire someone else. I have that effect on people, for some reason.” He smiled, at ease now, considering the situation. “So . . . yes, I want to know why you are here.”

“I need something from you.”

The man shrugged. “Maybe I need something from you, too.”

“Of course you do. I understand how this works, signore. You help me, and I help you. You will have my services at your disposal as soon as I’m done with the project I’m involved in now.”

“Who are you working with?”

I sip more coffee, and a man in a fitted blue suit refills my cup. I say, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“People lie to me all the time, so you may be right about that. But tell me anyway.”

“I am not working with anyone. I am on my own.”

“That seems hard to believe. You are one of the highest-paid assassins in the world.”

“I didn’t come here to lie to you.”

Ironically, that itself is a lie. I’ve come here to do just exactly that.

The man does not speak for several seconds. “ Bene. What do you need?”

“A group of trafficked sex slaves is in town. They will be sold at a market tonight. Here, somewhere in Venice. I’d like to know where this is.”

Ricci drinks coffee, then raises an inquiring eye to me. “You are speaking of the girls from the pipeline?”

He knows, as I knew he would. Now I can only pray he’s not involved with it. If he is I’m diving out the window in front of me, or else I’ll go after the closest armed man and fight to get his weapon out of his hand.

But I know both of these options would come with a very low probability of success.

Ricci puts his cup down and leans back. “The pipeline. Are you wondering if they are us? They are not. The Consortium is aligned with Mala del Brenta here. Bad men in that organization.”

I just nod and say, “I’m not a fan of the MdB.”

He says, “They are our competitors. Disrupting their operations, as long as it can’t be tied to us, would give us pleasure.”

I start to speak again, to tell him I would be happy to fuck with the MdB on my own, if he just gives me the intel I require.

But before I can tell him this, he says, “I’d like to help you, signore, truly. But there is one problem.”