The shadowmaker, p.5
The Shadowmaker, page 5
Isabell didn’t have the luxury of being a world-class thief or sharpshooter. She couldn’t rappel through the roof of a museum or fend off attackers with her bare hands. She was a freelancer—a person the Ružaro clan referred to as a tour guide.
A graduate of Vanderbilt University, the stunning brunette spoke six languages, was an expert in Eastern European cultures, and had long ago mastered the art of modern tradecraft. Depending on her mission, she could either be the Duchess of Edinburgh or a shadow in a dark corner—the choice was hers.
As she drifted off into some brilliant trance, the Airbus began its final approach to Naples International Airport. The grinding metal of the landing gear clamored from beneath the plane. Isabell removed her earbuds and straightened in her chair, her hands gripping the armrest with paralyzing fear.
The aircraft touched down safely on the runway and taxied through the darkness to their gate.
“You okay?” Henry asked.
Isabell got up and snatched her bag from a bin at her feet. “I’m fine. Let’s just get off this death trap.”
After exiting the plane, they navigated their way through the concourse to the customs checkpoint, where their passports were stamped by a tired agent working the tail end of a night shift.
With no additional luggage to claim, they walked through a wide atrium to the transportation depot outside. As they were greeted by the crisp Mediterranean air, Isabell motioned to a waiting taxi, which promptly pulled up beside them.
A ten-minute ride brought them to Napoli Garibaldi Stazione where they boarded the Circumvesuviana—a local commuter train that wove along the coast connecting Naples to the small, upscale town of Sorrento.
It was nearly six o’clock in the morning as the empty train rambled southbound through the Italian countryside, offering glimpses of the gulf through the hazy darkness. Finally, they arrived at the last stop on the line. Henry and Isabell shouldered their bags and stepped out onto the concrete platform. He followed her through the station and down a series of concrete stairs to the street below. As dawn began to break, they strolled the sidewalk along Corso Italia until they reached Piazza Tasso.
“That’s it, over there,” Isabell said as she motioned toward Hotel Palazzo Guardati looming from across the main square. They made their way across the street and stepped through the grand entrance into the lobby.
Isabell walked to the counter and shared a few pleasantries with the concierge. After the man checked them in, the two jet-lagged “investors” trudged up a flight of stairs to a white hallway with red carpet.
Isabell stopped halfway up the corridor and slipped her keycard into a door. “I’m going to sleep,” she proclaimed. “You’re the next room down.”
“Sweet dreams,” Henry said dryly. “Just come get me when you’re ready.”
But she’d already closed her door.
He continued to his room where he found a perfectly made bed and an ensemble of spotless furniture. Through the large glass window, the first slivers of sunlight rose over the Picentini Mountains. Henry set his bag onto a dresser and shuffled into the bathroom. He splashed some cold water on his face before retreating to the bed, taking off his clothes, and crawling beneath the sheets.
He slept for several hours until there was a sharp knock at his door. He lifted his head from the pillow and, with a tired yawn, got up and made his way across the room. Through the peephole, he could see the top of Isabell’s brown hair, bobbing impatiently, as she waited to be let in. He threw on a pair of slacks and opened the door.
“It’s almost noon,” she pointed out while brushing quickly past him. “Let’s get some fresh air and something to eat.”
He pretended not to hear her as he retrieved a blue polo shirt from his bag and pulled it over his head. He searched the floor for a pair of sneakers, then slid them onto his feet.
They left the room and descended through the lobby, then out onto the sidewalk.
Not far from the hotel, they found a table at the outside patio of a wine bar and ordered a plate of local meats and cheeses and warm bread. And after a couple slow glasses of pinot, they paid their tab and strolled the surrounding blocks.
It was an opportunity for Henry to familiarize himself with the operational zone. From behind his sunglasses, he carefully studied the alleyways and fire escapes and other nooks that could serve as an escape route—should he ever need one. He took mental notes of which churches kept their doors open during the day and which businesses had storefront security cameras. It was a task he’d grown used to over the years.
They circled the sidewalks along Porto di Sorrento, overlooking the sea, as a light breeze blew in from the waters below. Henry stared out to the horizon. He couldn’t help but feel the romantic energy that swept through the picturesque coastal town.
“What are you thinking so hard about?” Isabell asked.
“Nothing. Just admiring the beauty of this place. It’s gorgeous.”
“I’ve always enjoyed coming here. Is this your first time?”
His mind reeled back through an avalanche of memories. “No. I was here once before. But I didn’t stay long.”
She pushed a strand of loose hair from her face. “Well, hopefully, this op is more fun for you.”
“I’m sure it will be.”
“Are you worried about tonight?”
“No. Are you?”
“Not really. I just know that these things rarely go as planned.”
Henry cut his eyes to the sidewalk beneath his feet. “Well, that’s precisely why they sent us and not some new recruits. We’ll be fine.”
“That’s what you said in Monaco,” she teased.
“Monaco was different.”
“How?”
Henry stopped walking and grabbed her gently by the arm. “Listen, that was a long time ago. And things were very different then.”
“You’re right. They were.” With a swing of her arm, Isabell continued along the sidewalk.
As they reached the marina, she turned up a narrow staircase that brought them to a paved, winding road on the east side of the city. They continued in silence back to the square at Piazza Tasso. There, Isabell ducked beneath a row of hanging vines, emerging onto the patio of a tiny café.
Henry followed her in. “What is this place?”
“It’s the best espresso in town,” she said as she sat down at a cast-iron table against a stucco wall.
Henry took a seat next to her and folded his arms. “You get one espresso. I don’t need you getting jumpy tonight.”
She rolled her eyes and signaled the waitress.
They sat quietly for the next half hour as Isabell sipped from her tiny cup. Satisfied, she set four euros on the table and got up from her chair. “I have some work to do,” she announced, sliding her sunglasses over her eyes. “I’m going back to the hotel.”
Henry nodded without looking up at her. “I’ll see you in the lobby at five thirty. I’d like to get to the restaurant early and grab some dinner.”
“Are you trying to trick me into a date?” she chided playfully.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you at five thirty.” She turned and walked away, crossing the piazza back to the hotel.
Henry sat for a moment, leering out at the processional of tourists parading through the main square. He eventually got up and circled the block one last time before retreating back to the hotel for a short nap. By five thirty, he was standing in the lobby, waiting patiently with his hands tucked into his charcoal peacoat.
Isabell descended the staircase in a knitted sweater and fuzzy scarf that cascaded down to a pair of designer chinos that hugged her hips perfectly. She’d worn her hair down tonight, he noted with a devious smile. The young brunette played along, winking at him as they came together in the middle of the lobby.
“You look quite dapper,” she granted.
“Thank you. But we’re business partners, remember?”
Isabell scowled. “We’re in Italy, remember? The least you could do is pretend you’re having a nice time.”
“I’m sure I will,” he remarked as he turned for the large glass doors.
He accompanied her up the block and across Piazza Tasso to the front of Ristorante Syrenuse, where they were greeted by a small woman in a blue dress.
“Due per cena,” Henry informed the hostess.
“Cognome?” the woman asked.
He shuddered, frozen by the simple question.
“Carlotto,” Isabell promptly responded.
The woman flashed a courteous smile and ushered them to a table in the main dining hall.
“Sorry,” he apologized under his breath.
Isabell chuckled. “It’s fine, you did good.”
“Don’t let me talk anymore.”
“We’re American entrepreneurs,” she reminded him. “So act like it; mess up your Italian, insult someone by mistake, whatever… it’s all perfectly normal.”
“I’ll do my best,” he said as he sat down and glanced at the menu in front of him. “I’m absolutely starving.”
“Me too. So where is this private room we’re supposed to meet our contact in?” Isabell wondered, craning her neck around the restaurant.
“Behind me, to your right. The hallway leads to at least two private rooms.”
“Got it.”
His eyes wandered the restaurant, taking note of the patrons and the flow of the room: how many waiters were on staff, the locations of kitchens and bathrooms, which diners were most likely to be members of Hassani’s advance team.
It didn’t take long to spot them.
“The gardeners are here,” he alerted quietly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
It was a two-man team, and he was happy to see them. Their presence was a sign things were on schedule. Anything otherwise would have been peculiar. And Henry didn’t like peculiar.
“Now that we’ve got that solved, let’s eat some proper Italian food,” he suggested.
“In Italiano, per favore,” she challenged.
Henry scrunched his face. “Mangiamo cibo Italiano,” he managed after a moment.
“Very good.”
As their eyes met briefly above the table, a waiter slid up beside them. “Ciao,” the man offered.
Isabell ignited into a frenzy of Italian—a nauseating volley of conversation between her and the dashing young waiter. Henry watched with disdain. She was just showing off now. Finally, the guy smiled and walked away.
“I hope there was a vodka in there,” said Henry. “I don’t think I heard vodka.”
“The Italian word for vodka is vodka,” she teased. “And yes, I ordered you one.”
“Good.”
Henry sat quietly until their drinks arrived. He cast his gaze beyond Isabell’s right shoulder to Hassani’s men sitting at a table at the front of the restaurant. The big one he named Larry. The smaller one, Moe. The goons were obvious professionals and had quickly identified Henry and Isabell as well.
“Okay, looks like they’ve made us,” Henry whispered as his eyes returned to the table. “The bigger guy is making a phone call.”
“Good. Hopefully, we can get this over with sooner than later.”
“We’re just the couriers,” he reminded her.
“I know. But this part always gives me the creeps.”
“Hassani will be here soon. Just chill out and enjoy your dinner.”
“Fine.” Isabell sat back and relaxed her shoulders. “So… what have you been up to?”
“Working, mostly. Trying to keep the dream alive. And you?”
She’d always admired his casual confidence. It was the thing that originally hooked her. “Same. Just working,” she answered. “I took a gig with XT Security.”
“So, like, what… you’re a mercenary now?”
“No,” she corrected. “A linguistics instructor.”
“Not bad,” he said after a sip of vodka. “You’ve always had a way with words.”
“It’s stable work. In addition to the rare instances I hear from Darius.”
“Did you know I was going to be part of this op?”
“I had a feeling you might be. But I’m a big girl, Henry. I would never let my personal life get in the way of work.”
“Of course not,” he said with a hint of sarcasm. “Are you gonna quit your gig with XT after this?”
“I have no expectations of Darius coming through with the money,” she confided into her wine glass. “Something about this job doesn’t add up.”
He tightened his brow. “You’re talking in circles.”
“Am I? This is a ridiculous amount of money just to come here and act as mid-level couriers. Something’s not right.”
“This is only the first stage; there’ll be plenty more for us to do down the road. Besides, if you don’t expect to get paid, what are you doing here?”
“I’m a slut for curiosity,” she boldly admitted.
Henry dipped his eyes, unable to argue the fact. He unfolded his napkin and placed it on his lap as their food arrived. Isabell had ordered him a plate of tortellini, which she knew he liked. She, however, opted for a cioppino seafood bowl, adorned with fresh herbs and gremolata toast. They ate their meal in comfortable silence, the way they always had, with the light sounds of classical Italian music drifting overhead.
Henry chewed his tortellini and stared at her. A slight movement in the background—just over her shoulder—caught his attention. Larry and Moe were on the move. His eyes shifted to the front of the restaurant where a group of men in tailored suits had just entered. One of them stopped to speak with Larry, who whispered something into the man’s ear.
The newcomer was a large Middle Easterner with a short haircut and broad shoulders. He darted his eyes to Henry.
“They’re here. I think I just made eye contact.”
Isabell shook her head. “Why would you do that?”
“I might’ve even smiled.”
She set her fork on the table and slowly reached for her wine glass. “You’re impossible.”
As Larry and Moe exited Syrenuse, the four well-dressed men walked toward Henry and continued past, making their way to the back hall.
“Hassani was the third from the front,” Henry noted. “Blue suit, white shirt.”
“The bartender’s with them too,” she added. “That makes seven in total.”
Henry glanced at his watch. It was three minutes until seven. He wiped his mouth and dropped a hundred euros onto the table. Isabell rose to her feet and joined him in a slow yet determined walk to the back of the restaurant. As they pushed up the hallway, Henry arrived at a door on his right. It was wide open, and the bulkiest of Hassani’s men halted them before they could enter.
“You know who we are,” Henry said in a light, forceful tone.
The man eyed them cautiously. “Hold out your arms,” he instructed. Henry stepped forward and allowed the guard to grope him from chest to ankle. Satisfied, the bruiser moved on to Isabell. “Ma’am, I’m very sorry.”
Isabell huffed, then held up her arms. “Make it quick.”
The man gently patted her rib cage and waist, swept his hands up her legs, stopping just short of her crotch. He stepped to the side and extended his arm into the room.
Hamad Al Hassani sat at a table in the middle of the large private dining area. In addition to the door man, two other bodyguards lurked threateningly around them.
“Thank you for coming,” Hassani greeted. “I’m always happy to hear from Anton Krunoslav and his friends.”
“We appreciate you taking time from your busy schedule,” Henry replied. “And Anton sends his regards. I can assure you he values the relationship.”
Hassani was a bristly, unpolished man, well into his sixties. His thick neck and scarred knuckles revealed a lifetime of backroom deals and street brawls. “So,” the billionaire began as he eyed Henry, then Isabell. “Who is the girl?”
“My name is Isabell DiMarco,” she answered. “I’m the tour guide.”
“I see. And what have you two brought me?”
Henry could feel the prying eyes of Hassani’s men bearing down on him. He slowly reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the small capsule, and gently set it on the table.
With a look of disdain, Hassani reached for it and quickly twisted off the top. He pulled a tiny scroll from inside and discarded the metal pill on the table. Slowly and methodically, he began to unroll it.
Hassani took a moment to read the message, then retrieved a Zippo from his pants pocket. He set the small papyrus on fire and tossed it onto the table where it disintegrated into black dust.
“I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to tease me,” Hassani apprised.
Henry cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Is the item secure? It is in Anton’s possession?”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I cannot speak to that.”
Isabell stood like a statue, keeping close tabs on the wandering guards.
“Where did it come from?” Hassani asked.
Henry smirked. “You know better than that, Mr. Hassani.” He could sense one of the guards drawing closer, slithering up behind him like a snake in the grass.
“I think it’s time we go,” Isabell requested firmly.
Hassani’s grin grew wider. “Please, stay and have a drink!”
“No, thank you,” Henry refuted. “We have a plane to catch. Anton sends his best wishes and he’ll be anxious to hear back from you.”
Hassani’s smile suddenly vanished and his face was now flush with anger. “You have no idea what it is, do you?”
“We’re just the couriers,” Henry assured.
But before he could explain any further, the cold, steel barrel of a nine-millimeter was pressed into the back of his head. Henry calmly raised his hands.
“I asked you a fucking question!” Hassani roared.
Isabell shook her head in disappointment. “Respectfully, sir, you’re making a huge mistake.”
The billionaire raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Yes,” she said with a sharp nod.
An awkward silence hung in the air.
