“But Silvestri’s protected, too!” said Valerio. “I’ll have the same trouble getting a warrant for his place. Besides, searching Silvestri would tip off Luca.”
Federico’s eyes were huge behind the thick lenses. “Then don’t get a warrant. Don’t let him guess he’s been searched.”
Valerio was starting to understand. He thought it through. He was willing enough to kick in doors alongside his team, but those skills didn’t transfer well to cat burglary.
“How would I get in?”
“You’re a clever man. Figure it out.”
They talked for hours, examining the photos Valerio had taken when he’d reconnoitered Silvestri’s place. There was a high fence and cameras along three sides of the property, steep cliffs on the fourth. Had Valerio been a much younger man, he might have attempted a scrabble along the cliffside, but hisMission: Impossibledays were behind him.
“They didn’t really look at the delivery guy, did they?” said Federico, inspecting the picture.
“I can’t go through the front gate,” Valerio protested. “If Errichiello’s men are there, they’ll recognize me.”
“The Ghost might recognize you,” said Federico. “If you see him there, then get out. But nobody ever sees me when I’m making deliveries. I’m just a guy in a hat and coveralls. Besides, you said that Luca’s security team was only visiting. They might not even be there.”
“They frisked the driver,” said Valerio, straining to remember thedetails of that interaction. “And they searched his vehicle. They’ll know I’m armed.”
“So don’t bring a gun.”
—
They worked out the details. To pose as a deliveryman, Valerio needed to deliver something—and a lot of it—to justify loitering in Silvestri’s house.
Not wanting to waste good wares on a reconnaissance mission, they loaded items Federico had rescued from the trash: wine and olive oil dumped by a beach club after spoiling in the heat; cases of sardines and tuna past their expiry dates; velvety boxes with Belgian chocolates long since melted into misshapen wax.
Federico hummed discordantly, seeming to relish the task. He bustled around crowded storage rooms, yanking out this or that item.
“I knew these would come in useful,” he said with a grin.
“Give me some bottles of good wine,” said Valerio. “And a few other items. I’ve got to have something nice, in case they want to sample the goods.”
In his shop, Federico picked through and prepared a box of cheap—though not spoiled—wine, twenty eggs, a thick slice of shrink-wrapped pancetta, and two bags of fresh mozzarella. He nestled a demijohn of local brew among the goods, and prepared a full sales receipt for Valerio to carry for signature on a clipboard.
This complete, Federico located a set of zippered jumpsuit, and a cap with a wide brim.
The thick blue canvas coveralls were clean, but stained in paint, suggesting their use in a previous incarnation.
—
Valerio slept fitfully on Federico’s threadbare sofa, which, no doubt liberated from some junkyard, smelled unpleasantly of mildew and dog.
He woke when it was still dark, and made espresso on the stove. He drank this down with a generous helping of sugar and checked his phone.
Orlanda had written several texts, demanding information.
He typed back,I’m fine.
Maurizio had written about his continued search on the identity of the Ghost. Two words:No Joy.
But where Maurizio had failed, he was surprised to see that Nikki had succeeded. She sent several photos of the white-haired man, and the text:Yasen Lazarov. Former Bulgarian special services. INTERPOL has a RED notice on him—cop killer. Dangerous. Be careful.
NotIvan, Valerio noted with interest. He sounded out the name: “Yasen Lazarov.”
Despite his fatigue and worry, Nikki’s message made Valerio smile. He loved that she’d managed to squeeze drops of precious information from this dry stone.
“Little devil,” he muttered.
