Марк Грини - One Minute Out

“What’s that?”

“The Consortium . . . they serve a purpose. They help my firm with . . . how do you say it, securing some of our earnings.”

Shit. The Consortium launders money for Alfonsi.

“Apparently they are quite good at that part of the equation, too,” I remark.

Ricci shrugs. “It’s a big business.”

I am dead certain Ricci’s organization makes a lot of money from prostitution; he and his boss are probably just as bad as the men I’m after. But frankly, I’ve got a pretty full to-do list right now, so I’m not going to worry about that.

I spend a lot of time with strange bedfellows when I work in the private sector. It’s pretty much my modus operandi.

I need to convince him I’m not going to disrupt his organization’s money-laundering needs, so I say, “This has nothing to do with the Consortium. This has to do with Mala del Brenta. I figured your boss wouldn’t have any problem with my screwing around with them. You and your staff have plausible deniability. I was never here, and I certainly was never working for you.”

He regards me a long time before asking, “Why do you want to know where the trade will happen?” When I don’t answer immediately, he smiles. “You want to rescue one of the girls, is that it?”

That’s a good story, let’s go with that. I nod. “For her father. An old friend from my days working in Russia.”

Ricci’s eyebrows rise again, and I can’t tell if he believes me. Finally he says, “If I give you the location of the sale, what will you do with it?”

Holding intense eye contact, I reply, “My plan is to wait for my girl to be sold, then separated from the others. And then I’m going to get her back from the people who bought her. I am assuming security will be easier to manage once she’s moved.”

“You will act in Venice, or once the girl is taken to her final destination?”

“I will act at first opportunity. No matter where that is.”

He takes this in for a minute. I know that telling him I would wait till they were out of the area before I start kicking ass would have earned me more favor, but I’m hoping he regards my comment as honesty, and he’ll offer up some brownie points to me for not insulting his intelligence.

Giancarlo says, “So . . . though you may act here in the city, it will only be against the buyer, and only for the purposes of recovering your missing property.”

Yeah, he just called the victims property. I’m in bed with a prick, but I knew that going in, and what choice do I have? He’s like Vukovic, and probably like all the others involved in human trafficking. The dehumanization of the women and girls is absolute, a necessity for the twisted minds who scout them, take them, smuggle them, and abuse them.

And this motherfucker in the five-thousand-euro suit in front of me is no better.

But I’m in character here. I say, “I’m not trying to make life more difficult here for anyone. I just want the property back.”

He presses, “You can assure me there will be no disruption of the Consortium’s work itself here in Venice. You have no plans to target the organization, that is what you are saying.”

He wants to help me, that much is evident.

Without batting an eyelash, I say, “None whatsoever. I just want to bring a nice girl home to her father.”

Ricci nods thoughtfully. “If I give you information, you must do a job for me. A difficult job.”

And this is, of course, why he wants to help me.

I ask, “Where is this job?”

A pause. “America.”

Shit. I don’t know the job, the target, the location, or the threat . . . and I certainly have my doubts about the morality. There’s no way in hell I’m killing some dude in the United States for the Italian mob.

But I need a break here. I say, “The moment I have the girl back to her father, I will go to the States and do whatever you want me to do.”

This is going well, and just as I think this I recognize that Ricci is suspicious of how well it is going. Finishing his coffee and putting the cup down, he says, “The story going around about you, as I’m sure you are aware, is that you double-crossed your masters in the CIA.”

I reply flatly, “They started it.”

He laughs, surprising me. “Maybe so. Maybe so. But you know my brotherhood is not like the CIA. I will find you if you double-cross me.”

“As you’ve told me before.”

“And as I will remind you again. You do not want me as an enemy. You do not want Luigi Alfonsi as an enemy. Is that clear?”

I have every intention of double-crossing the man across the table, but I also happen to be a pretty good liar. “You can count on me, sir.”

“Well, then.” Ricci sticks out a hand and I shake it. “I will give you information.”

“Tell me about the market.”

“It’s held by the Consortium for their best customers. Six times a year or so.” He nods. “And you are correct. It is tonight. It begins at midnight.”

“The location?”

“It’s in a building that adjoins the Casino of Venice. It’s invitation only, needless to say, and invitations are scarce and well checked.”

“How much security will be there?”

Ricci shrugs. “Mala del Brenta men, two dozen or so the last time I heard. The Consortium will have their own security.”

That’s a lot of guns, but I imagine that’s not all of it. I assume security will be well beefed up after what I did in Bosnia and Croatia and out on the Adriatic Sea.

It sounds like a no-go zone for me, and my heart sinks. His next words do nothing to assuage my frustration.

“It will be incredibly difficult for one man to get inside the event. I can’t help you there.”

I’m desperately thinking about sewers, air ducts, rooftop access, and the like, and I’m thinking about stealing credentials and uniforms from employees of the venue. Hell, I’m even thinking about finding a way to steal or forge an invitation.

None of it sounds promising, especially because I know the opposition will be checking all these avenues of approach to make sure some jackass isn’t trying to slip into their party tonight.

But then Ricci brightens up. “There is a bar, it’s two blocks away. I can get you in there. If I remember correctly you’ll be able to see the building where the market is being held. You will be an employee, just for tonight. No one will bother you. Just do a little work, then run off and do what you need to do. You won’t be able to get close to the casino, but it’s along the route anyone leaving the building will take to get to the main street.”

This probably looks to Ricci like a completely safe option for me to get some reconnaissance tonight, but I know what he doesn’t.

The Consortium is looking for me, and they’ll be ready.

Still, I don’t see any better opportunity for getting real eyes on and getting pictures of the buyers and sellers.

I stand and extend a hand. “That sounds perfect, signore.”

It’s not perfect, it’s not even close, but it’s as good as I’m going to get, and again, I have to look like I know what I’m doing.

THIRTY-FIVE

The pilot of the Dassault Falcon 50 lined its nose up between the runway end identifier lights beaming out of the dusk, checked his adherence to the glide path, and listened while his computer told him he was one thousand feet above the ground.

The pilot worked for Air Branch, the CIA Special Activities Center’s air wing, and this meant he was one of the best fliers on Earth.

Before qualifying to fly the relatively sleek and advanced Falcon 50 he’d flown fat and slow Twin Otters off muddy and rocky jungle strips in Central America and Southeast Asia, so big, wide, and flat that runway 04 Right, dead ahead and a half mile out, was a piece of cake.