“Like dogs. Using them only to procreate, and that they do in abundance. Like…like…”
“Rabbits.”
“Indeed!” said Borgia, now that themelanzanewas out of earshot. “Sometimes I feel as if we are surrendering to them, not just the immigrants but to all of them: the academics, the media, the communists, the entire left-leaning political mess of the eurozone. Can’t they see what they are allowing to happen right under our very own noses? The destruction of the world’s greatest culture, the abdication of Western democracy, the infiltration of a lesser religion, one that seeks only to dominate all others. Christ, our savior, preached that we must turn the other cheek, to be tolerant, that our first duty is to love all mankind. Their prophet preaches to blow us all to kingdom come.” He mimicked pressing his thumb on a detonator switch. “Allahu Akbar! God is great!If this continues, there will be none of us left. Soon we will be forced to call our land ‘Eurabia.’ Think of it.Eurabia.”
“We cannot allow it,” said Melzi.
“I will not allow it.” Borgia finished his espresso as a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. “Ah, here is our guest.”
A short, fit man dressed in the crisp uniform of the Italian paratroops crossed the salon, cap held under his arm. General Massimo Sabbatini commanded the 9th Paratroopers Assault Regiment, also called the Col Moschin, Italy’s most elite special forces. He was an athlete to look at. Borgia had read something about him running a twenty-four-hour race in the Swiss Alps, covering a hundred kilometers or more. He read that commitment in his taut, tanned face as the general held out a hand.
Sabbatini sat perched on the edge of his seat, bristling with energy. “So,” he said, “it is finally time. How I have been waiting.”
“Soon, Massimo, soon,” said Borgia. “A few days yet.”
“In the nick of time,” said Sabbatini. “You’ve driven through the city. You’ve seen this crime to our country.Basta!”
“Complaining will get us nowhere. Now, gentlemen, listen closely. The shipment is arriving tomorrow in Naples. I’ll be there to pick it up.”
“Luca, please, let my men. We have experience with this.”
“No, no. I do not want the army anywhere near these types. You know them—there are bound to be last-minute difficulties.”
Sabbatini and Melzi shrugged in agreement. They knew who controlled the docks in Napoli. Unsavory types. Gangsters.
“As soon as I have the goods, I will contact you to make the transfer. Then the rest is up to you. Massimo?”
“My men are on standby. They are only awaiting my signal.”
“And Lampedusa?” asked Borgia.
The tiny island one hundred seventy-four miles south of Sicily housed the immigrant Reception Center, a processing and holding facility for refugees streaming from northern Africa. It had been built to house no more than eight hundred persons at any one time. Over one hundred thousand had poured through the facility in the last year alone.
“I have everything in place,” said Sabbatini, then sotto voce: “Don’t worry, Luca, our actions will be justified—welcomed, even—especially after what will have transpired the night before.”
“Let us not speak of that,” said Borgia. “Not yet. And you, Bruno?”
“My men control the police in Milan, Turin, and Naples. Rome is a different story, but I am hopeful that with the proper impetus, they will follow suit.”
Borgia nodded grimly. “Impetus they will have. Oh yes, they will not lack motivation. Personally, I do not see how they can sit on their hands and allow the city to be so despoiled.”
“Now they will have a reason to clean the streets,” said Melzi.
“What more can we do, gentlemen?” Borgia stood. “I am pleased that all is in readiness. Two days, then. A spark to light the fire.” He looked each man in the eye. “Prato Bornum.”
“Prato Bornum,” each responded.
Chapter 33
Pattaya, Thailand
Simon arrived at the seaside resort city of Pattaya at three p.m. Leaving the highway, he made his way toward the ocean, past shiny new hotels and soaring condos and seedy bars, past guesthouses and massage parlors and outdoor cafés and restaurants. The roads were uneven, potholed, sparkling with beach sand, kids running here and there, tangled gobs of wire looping from telephone pole to telephone pole, tin roofs, garish neon signs, and the occasional stray dog.
He knew the city by reputation only. A hotbed of sex, drugs, and vice of every imaginable variety. The world’s largest bordello. In short, a hub of organized crime, or as Ben Sterling had told him without a hint of sarcasm,“Sodom and Gomorrah with a double dash of sriracha.”
It was a sunny day, the sidewalk cafés filled with tourists drinking more than their fair share of beer, young women on their boyfriends’ laps or walking the aisles looking for a lap to sit on. Music blaring, the ’80s greatest hits to cater to the middle-aged clientele. He looked past the bustling tables and into the shadows, to the toughs loitering inside, street-smart runners ready to do their boss’s bidding. Buy this. Deliver that. Pay off this guy. Teach that one a lesson.
Without leaving his car, he knew he’d come to the right place. In Pattaya, everything was for sale.
