Tristan couldn’t see who was driving the boat. He stood behind the cabin as he had been told to do when his phone rang again.

  ‘Now throw your phone into the canal,’ said the undertaker, and hung up.

  36

  Kilis Oncupinar Accommodation Facility:

  2 June

  Colonel Ali Riza, a senior officer in the Jandarma – the Turkish Gendarmerie – a military law enforcement unit responsible for investigating terrorist acts in south-eastern Anatolia, had arrived early in the morning from Ankara and took over the investigation into the bombing of the field hospital at Kilis. Trained in intelligence by the army, Colonel Riza had been involved in several sensitive counterterrorist operations in the area before and was therefore well-qualified for the task.

  The security officer who had spoken to Haddad the day before, took the colonel to the bomb site. ‘That’s the man I told you about,’ he said, ‘over there.’

  Haddad sat in front of his tent staring at the burnt-out ruins of Dr Rosen’s container surgery, deep in thought. It was now a crater full of twisted steel, wires, shards of glass and memories of innocent lives, snuffed out by a senseless act of fanaticism. The colonel walked slowly across to the tent and looked at Haddad. It’s definitely him, he thought. Amazing!

  ‘It never stops, does it Naguib?’ said the colonel, and lit a cigarette.

  Haddad turned around in his canvas chair and looked at the man standing behind him. ‘Ali?’ he said, his eyes wide with astonishment. For a while the two men just looked at each other in silence, their thoughts racing back to a time when they used to be inseparable, united by a common cause. Haddad stood up, walked over to his friend and embraced him. ‘I thought you were dead,’ he said, patting his friend on the back.

  ‘That’s what I thought about you, yet here we are.’

  ‘Wasn’t my time,’ said Haddad.

  ‘Still chasing shadows?’

  Haddad clenched his fist. ‘Yes; el-Masri. I haven’t given up yet. And to think I had him in the palm of my hand. I should have killed that monster when I had the chance.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I lost him. But that’s another story. What about you?’

  ‘The last time we saw each other was just before the Americans closed the “Academy” in 2009.’

  ‘Camp Bucca; they were all there, graduating ...’

  ‘Yes, in fanaticism and terror,’ said the colonel.

  ‘Camp Bucca; what a place,’ said Haddad. ‘What did you do after that?’

  ‘Many things,’ came the evasive reply. ‘You know how it is. Some of them I’m proud of, others not.’

  ‘Sounds just like me.’

  ‘There aren’t many of us left, you know.’

  ‘Still alive, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. And having seen it all, but with the fire still burning within. We were right there where it all began,’ said the colonel.

  ‘We were. What are you doing now?’

  ‘Intelligence. Counterterrorism.’

  Haddad pointed to the crater. ‘So, that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘That’s part of it ... This attack is bad; really bad.’

  ‘A cowardly act; completely senseless,’ said Haddad, shaking his head.

  ‘Desperate. As IS is pushed out of Mosul, and soon Raqqa, we’ll see more of this, I’m afraid. Here, and abroad.’

  Haddad and the colonel looked at the ruins in silence.

  ‘Looks a bit like our lives, doesn’t it?’ suggested Haddad.

  ‘True, but we can still give it some meaning. We can make a difference.’

  ‘That’s not easy, but I’m trying.’

  ‘So am I,’ said the colonel.

  ‘I can see that. You and I don’t know how to give up,’ said Haddad, a wan smile creasing the corners of his mouth.

  ‘I hear you wanted to make contact; with intelligence, I mean,’ said the colonel, changing the subject.

  ‘News travels fast. I only mentioned this yesterday to the officer in charge here.’

  ‘He reported it to me, and when he mentioned your name, I couldn’t believe it. I had to see for myself.’

  ‘Well, here I am.’

  ‘I could use someone like you.’

  Haddad pointed to his bandaged shoulder. ‘A wreck like me?’ he asked and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, someone I can trust. Interested?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘When do you want to start?’

  ‘How about right now?’ said Haddad, a sparkle in his eyes.

  The colonel extended his hand. ‘Welcome to the Jandarma,’ he said.

  ‘What rank?’

  ‘Trusted friend.’

  ‘That will do.’

  Sitting in the back of his chauffeur-driven car, the colonel began to relax. He had left one of his officers in charge of the investigation and was on his way back to Ankara with Haddad.

  ‘The suicide bomb wasn’t the real reason I came to the camp,’ said the colonel, turning to Haddad sitting next to him.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Apart from wanting to meet you, the real reason was this …’ The colonel reached into his briefcase, pulled out a photograph and handed it to Haddad. It had been taken the day before and showed Amena and Nazir getting into a car.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What’s your interest in this?’

  The colonel handed Haddad another photograph. ‘This man here.’ It was a close-up of a man talking to Nazir in front of Dr Rosen’s surgery.

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Someone we’ve been watching for some time. He runs a famous restaurant in Istanbul. He’s a high-profile celebrity chef with a murky past and lots of dubious contacts, internationally. His name is Kemal Bahadir.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s been coming to the camp regularly to “recruit” young men to work in his restaurant.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’ve suspected for some time that this is just a cover.’

  ‘A cover? For what?’

  ‘Transporting jihadists to Istanbul. Quite ingenious, don’t you think?’

  ‘Clever.’

  ‘On this occasion, he “recruited” four young men and one woman, a doctor. One of the young men and the doctor you know.’

  ‘Yes. Dr Algafari, and Nazir al-Kafri in the photo here. They both worked in the surgery.’

  ‘The other three are IS suspects.’

  ‘I met one of them – Ammar – I had my suspicions,’ said Haddad. ‘Something about him ...’

  ‘You and I can spot them. And your suspicions have already been confirmed.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘As soon as they arrived in Istanbul, they were picked up by members of a cell we’ve had under observation for some time. I think the three are suicide bombers on a mission. Needless to say, we are watching them carefully.’

  ‘What about Nazir and the doctor?’

  ‘That’s the really interesting bit in all this.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘They don’t fit, especially the doctor. Bahadir is using an agent in the camp. He’s one of our informers. This time, Bahadir was specifically looking for a doctor; a surgeon to be precise. Don’t you think that’s odd?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Haddad. ‘And I can tell you for certain that Nazir is not an IS sympathiser. He lost his whole family because of IS. He’s not a terrorist. Neither is Dr Algafari.’

  ‘I agree with you.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There’s more,’ said the colonel, and reached into his briefcase again. ‘This was taken yesterday at the airport in Istanbul,’ he said, and handed Haddad another photograph. It showed Nazir and Amena boarding a small jet.’

  ‘Now, that is interesting,’ said Haddad. ‘Did Bahadir go with them?’

  ‘No, but this man did.’ The colonel showed Haddad another photo. It was a close-up of Belmonte standing next to the jet.

  Haddad pointed to the photograph. ‘I’ve seen him before,’ he said. ‘He was right here, sitting in the car. Do you know who he is?’

  ‘No, but you are right. He and Bahadir came here together. According to our informer, he was the one interested in the surgeon. He offered our man a big commission to procure one. It was obviously very important. The question is, why?’

  ‘What do you know about the plane? Looks like an expensive private jet.’

  The colonel smiled. ‘It’s good to have you on board, my friend, asking the right questions. The jet is owned by an Italian corporation linked to a notorious businessman.’

  ‘Do we know who?’

  ‘Yes; Salvatore Gambio. He lives in Florence. And in Florence, Gambio stands for only one thing.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mafia.’

  ‘Human trafficking, you think?’

  ‘Could be. I don’t think this has anything to do with terrorism. The Mafia is not interested in causes, only money.’

  ‘So, your Mr Bahadir has his fingers in many pies?’

  ‘Just as you would expect from a masterchef, right?’

  ‘Where did to plane go?’ asked Haddad.

  ‘To Florence, of course.’ The colonel lit a cigarette and looked at Haddad. ‘And that’s where you’re going, my friend,’ he said.

  37

  Gordon Institute, Sydney: 2 June

  Alexandra returned to her lab after an early morning briefing with her team and was about to open her mail when the phone rang.

  ‘You have an interesting visitor, Professor Delacroix,’ said the receptionist, the tone of her voice conspiratorial.

  ‘Oh? I’m not expecting anyone. Certainly not this early. Who is it?’

  ‘A priest ... he says it’s urgent,’ added the receptionist, lowering her voice.

  Alexandra sat up as if poked with a hot needle.

  ‘Father Connor?’ was all she managed to say.

  ‘You know him?’

  ‘He’s Cardinal O’Brien’s secretary.’

  ‘Oh. You are full of surprises, Professor.’

  ‘I’ll come down.’

  It begins, thought Alexandra as she hurried to the lift, a rush of excitement making her heart beat a little faster.

  Father Connor was waiting in reception with a small parcel under his arm. Alexandra walked over to him and gave him her best smile. ‘We meet again, Father,’ she said, and pointed to an empty conference room. ‘Please; let’s go in here.’

  ‘I apologise for calling on you so early and without an appointment, but His Eminence insisted that you should receive this as soon as possible. Every hour counts ...’

  ‘No problem.’

  Father Connor placed the parcel carefully on the conference table in front of Alexandra. ‘This arrived from the Vatican early this morning by special courier; diplomatic pouch,’ he said, his melodious, sing-song Irish brogue bringing a smile to Alexandra’s face. ‘Very precious; I’m sure you know what it is.’

  Alexandra nodded and tried to stay calm. As she looked at the parcel in front of her, she noticed the Coat of Arms of the Vatican with the crossed keys of St Peter on top. It’s really happening, she thought, a lump in her throat.

  ‘Please thank His Eminence and tell him we will do everything in our power to ...’

  Obviously eager to get away, Father Connor stood up and looked at Alexandra. ‘It is impossible to put into words what is riding on this, Professor Delacroix.’

  ‘I know.’

  Father Connor bowed, walked to the door and opened it. Then he turned to Alexandra and said, ‘There is a lock. The combination is yesterday’s date: 1 6 2016. God be with you.’ With that, he left the room.

  Alexandra hurried back to her lab. She closed the door, placed the parcel on her workbench and for a long, tense moment just stared at it. If this contains everything I asked for, then we are about to make history, she thought, and began to peel away the tight plastic skin covering a shiny metal box inside. The custom-made container looked familiar and was just like the ones she had used many times before for transporting sensitive medical supplies. The only difference was the combination lock on the side of the lid. So far, so good, she thought. Alexandra put on a pair of plastic gloves and carefully began to punch in the numbers, her fingers shaking.

  It’s all here, just as I asked, she thought, after she had carefully examined the contents of the three separate compartments. Amazing. Montessori has done an excellent job and obviously followed protocol, just as I asked. Let’s begin.

  Alexandra picked up the house phone and called her two post-doc assistants she had briefed earlier that morning, and asked them to come to her lab. They were by far the two brightest young researchers she had worked with in years. She trusted them completely and knew she could rely on them not only for their professionalism, but also for their discretion.

  Due to the sensitive nature of the matter, it had been decided that apart from the CEO of the Gordon, the chairman of the board and Alexandra in charge, they would be the only research scientists in the institute who would know all the facts and the true nature of the extraordinary project they were about to embark upon. This had been gratefully accepted by the cardinal.

  As the project had potentially serious bioethical implications, it was agreed that the institute would treat the entire matter purely as a research project without any clinical application. All clinical aspects would be conducted by Professor Montessori at the Vatican, and therefore be subject to Vatican City State law. As a sacerdotal-monarchical state, the Vatican is ruled by the Bishop of Rome – the pope.

  Over five hundred scientists from more than thirty-five countries worked at the Gordon. It was therefore a totally international organisation bringing together the brightest and the most gifted from every corner of the globe. It was this aspect of the Gordon that had persuaded Alexandra to stay at the institute after receiving the Nobel prize, and continue Professor K’s work.

  Ayah Gamal from Oman was the first to arrive. Wearing a smart hijab – a headscarf that covered her head and neck, but left her pretty face open to the world – she was a gifted young Muslim woman specialising in genomics. And she adored Alexandra.

  Vimal Singh from Bangalore swept into the room next. Tall, good-looking and wearing a blue Sikh dastaar, or turban, to cover his long, uncut hair and sporting a dashing moustache, he looked more like a movie star from Bollywood than a groundbreaking immunologist with several articles published in Nature. Both still in their twenties, they were the very best the Gordon had to offer.

  ‘Sit down and listen,’ said Alexandra. She pushed the open metal container slowly across her workbench towards her protégées. ‘This is where we start.’

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ayah.

  ‘What does it look like? Look, but don’t touch.’

  Ayah pointed to a tube in one of the compartments. ‘A blood sample?’

  Alexandra nodded. ‘What else?’

  ‘Two bones,’ ventured Vimal. ‘How curious.’

  ‘Remember what I told you this morning? This just arrived from the Vatican.’

  Ayah and Vimal looked at each other and smiled.

  ‘The HH Project? No way!’ said Ayah, bending over the container.

  ‘It is. Exactly as I told you. If we succeed, this could turn out to be the most important research project of your professional lives. Treat it as such. We cannot afford any mistakes here; the stakes are too high. And remember, apart from anything else, this is a race against time. For that reason, we’ll divide up the tasks. Ayah, you will prepare the blood sample for DNA sequencing as soon as possible. That’s our starting point.’

  Alexandra turned to Vimal. ‘You will be in charge of preparing Illumina sequencing libraries from trace amounts of DNA you will extract from the bones here. As you can see, they have been clearly marked. HHP is part of a femur belonging to HH’s father – padre, the other femur marked HHM belongs to his mother. I don’t have to tell you that avoiding any kind of contamination is of the utmost importance.’

  Vimal nodded.

  ‘You know the procedure. We discussed it this morning. You will grind slices of the bones into a fine powder and then isolate the DNA for sequencing. Any questions, you come to me. From now on, we’ll refer to our subject as HH—’

  ‘HH, for His Holiness?’ interrupted Ayah.

  ‘Exactly. And one more thing ... we work around the clock; understood?’

  Ayah and Vimal looked at Alexandra and nodded, their faces flushed with excitement.

  ‘Good,’ said Alexandra, and ran her fingers through her red hair. ‘Now get cracking, guys! I have some serious thinking to do.’

  38

  Chief Prosecutor’s office, Florence: 3 June

  Instead of going home after another gruelling day, Grimaldi had spent the entire night in his office, worrying. He was trying to come to terms with the disastrous news from Venice. Tristan’s daring abduction had taken them all by surprise. Somehow, it just didn’t fit, which made Grimaldi even more anxious. Another kidnapping, he thought, right under our noses! Damn! Someone is toying with us ...

  Felt pen in hand, Grimaldi stared at the whiteboard behind his desk as he tried to unravel the puzzle. He had no doubt the Mafia was behind it all. The latest demand clearly pointed the finger at Gambio. He was the only one who would benefit from the property deal. However, the other demands were bizarre and made no sense, and proving it all and implicating Gambio was a different matter altogether. A set of old Ottoman recipes; why? he thought, tapping the whiteboard with the tip of his pen. What is it I cannot see here? At least the tracking device is working; it’s our only lead. We can always rely on good old Clara.

  Grimaldi listened to the familiar church bells greeting the new day. They never chimed on time, but he knew them all. First came the majestic bells of the Duomo followed by the sonorous voices of Santo Stefano al Ponte, followed by Orsanmichele and then Santa Croce, his favourite. From his office in the centre of Florence, he could hear them all distinctly that early in the morning before they drowned in traffic noise and the monotonous hum of the tourist invasion.

 

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