The Wolf (30 page)

He was in place.

Chapter 51

Vatican City, Italy

I spotted the Russian shooters long before I caught sight of Raza. They were spread out, a dozen if I made them right, two to a team, mingling among various tour groups, moving from one room to the next. I was wearing a small hearing device in my left ear and had audio contact with Angela, Brunello, and Manzo, the four of us spread throughout the Vatican exhibits. I also had a miniature video camera clipped to the collar of my black leather jacket, linking me back to New York and John Loo, who was working in a room that enabled him to see and hear what I did across the faces of six large computer screens.

“Anything?”
I asked.

Angela’s voice popped into my ear.
“No sign of him,”
she said.

“He’ll show,”
I said.

“Two of the Russians made me,”
Brunello said.
“So I won’t be there alone.”

“Don’t worry,”
I said.
“None of us are going to be alone for long.”

We made our way toward the Sistine Chapel, walking through the small entrance nearest
The Last Judgment.
I was the first one in and caught a glimpse of Angela with a cluster of teenage girls, chatting casually with one of them. She was wearing a black jacket, Nike running shoes, form-fitting J. Crew jeans, and was walking toward the center of the large room.

Brunello and Manzo took their positions, one against the wall closest to the exit, the other standing directly across, blocked from view by the guards stationed around the milling crowd.

I was facing the rear of the room,
The Last Judgment
at my back, Michelangelo’s ceiling above me.

I was in my place.

Raza stood in the center of a children’s tour group, eighteen boys and girls in the requisite camp outfit—matching T-shirts hanging loose over the tops of jeans or shirts, three female guides watching them. He smiled at the children, seemingly at ease in their company, chewing a thick wad of gum, an expensive camera hanging on a leather leash over his neck, a black cap on the lens. Then he paused, taking in the room. He gazed at all of it—the paintings, the centuries-old furniture, the sheer majestic power of it—and a smile came to his face. It was as if he were looking at it for the first time.

And for the last.

He was in place.

Chapter 52

Florence, Italy

“He’s in,”
Burke said.
“He’s slow walking from the main entrance, not stopping to look at anything, coming straight toward the target.”

“There are Russian guns in every direction,”
Malasson said into her body mike.
“They wanted to, they could spray this place and give him all the cover he needs.”

“He’s the suicide bomber,”
Burke said,
“the one who came in here to die. The Russians won’t want to join him. They must have an exit strategy.”

“Once that bomb goes, there’s no way out of here for anybody,”
Pierce said.
“Them or us.”

“Then let’s make sure it doesn’t go off,”
Burke said.

“I got four here with me,”
Anderson said.
“And they keep letting others get in front of them, which means they don’t plan on going in.”

“They’ll give cover fire from outside,”
Weaver said from the van,
“aiming at either us or any guards blocking the others making a break.”

“You get a visual on where they stashed their transport?”
Burke asked.

“Two streets past the Galleria,”
Weaver said.
“Two four-door sedans, no drivers waiting.”

Burke was twenty feet from Avrim and started to move in his direction.
“I’m going to go make contact,”
he said.
“If I’m not getting anywhere with him, I’ll give the signal and you take him down.”

“I’ll be ready,”
Kinder said.
“It’s going to be tighter than I’d like with all these folks around. If you could work him toward a quieter spot, be a big help.”

“If you can’t take the shot, don’t,”
Burke told him.
“Turn your attention to the Russians. Jennifer will take him with a blade.”

“I’m moving now,”
Malasson said.
“I’ll have him through the neck. Device will be covering his chest and back.”

“The rest of you, remember, drop the Russians,”
Burke said.
“But if you have to hit one of the guards, try for flesh wounds.”

Burke walked down the center of the hall and stopped in front of Avrim, startling the young man. “Hi,” Burke said with a smile and in a pleasant voice. “I was wondering if you could help me out?”

Chapter 53

Vatican City, Italy

I made eye contact with Raza, wanting him to see me, to know I was there, throw him off—if only for a moment. He looked back and I saw that he recognized me, probably from a photo somebody gave him. He looked younger than I thought he would, moved with deliberate motions, like a dancer rehearsing something he needed to learn. He was wearing a jeans jacket with a faded T-shirt underneath. He raised his right hand to waist level, waved the fingers at me and smiled. He moved away from the kids around him and began to walk in my direction, casual and relaxed, in total control of the moment.

A terrorist about to step through the door to paradise.

It was then I knew.

Raza wasn’t the bomber.

He was the decoy.

“The bomber’s in the room,”
I said into my mike.
“Find out who and where.”

“How will we be able to tell?”
Brunello asked.

“You won’t,”
I told him.
“Let the bomber tell you. Eyes, body language, nervous looks. The closer he gets to pressing the timer, the faster the adrenaline moves, the more exaggerated the gestures. They all say they want to die, but it’s no easy thing.”

“Once you spot him,”
Angela said,
“make your move. Target needs to go down without the device going off.”

I watched as Raza moved into a crowd of Japanese tourists, pushing his way toward the exit at the rear of the room.
“Looks like Raza’s not going to stay for the fireworks,”
I said.
“John, track him and make sure he doesn’t get too far from range.”

“He’s on my radar,”
John said.

“Manzo, the Russians belong to you until we get our sights on the target,”
Angela said.
“Don’t waste bullets. Drop to kill. There’s a badge in the room to help you take them down.”

“Does he have a name?”
I asked.

“Frantoni,”
Angela said.

Chapter 54

Florence, Italy

“I look at you and don’t see the eyes of a young man who wants to die here today,” Burke said to Avrim.

Avrim had been startled by Burke’s approach, especially given Burke’s size. Burke had the casual manner of a man who was good with both his hands and with a weapon, and Avrim did his best not to show either panic or bravado, to remain as calm as possible.

“I am here same as you,” Avrim managed to say, “to see the
David.
”

“You got two Russians drawing closer to your left,”
Pierce said.

Burke took note but kept his eyes on Avrim. “It would be so easy to prove me wrong,” he said to Avrim. “Wouldn’t take more than a few seconds.”

“What do you want me to do?” Avrim asked. He felt the crowd closing in tighter around them and was feeling light-headed and drained.

“Pop open that Yankees jacket,” Burke said, moving closer to Avrim, sensing the Russians coming at him from behind.

“Three more hitters coming straight at you,”
Pierce said.

“I have a clear shot on one,”
Kinder said.
“Once he’s hit, people might scurry for cover and give me a look at a second. Still leaves a bit of a crowd.”

“There are three more on my side of the statue,”
Malasson said.
“It’s starting to get tight.”

“I’m not going to open my jacket,” Avrim said.

Burke reached over and grabbed both of Avrim’s hands. The move startled the terrorist and made him flinch. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“You don’t need to open the jacket, the set button is in one of your pockets,” Burke said, gripping down tighter on Avrim’s hands. “I’m not going to let that happen.”

“You cannot hold onto me for the rest of the day,” Avrim said, regaining a fraction of his composure. “Some in the crowd have started to look our way. Soon the guards will sense something is wrong and come toward us. I only need a second.”

Burke looked over Avrim’s left shoulder and spotted two of the Russian hitters closing in. Each held a Glock, guns low, letting them ride against their legs.
“When I start to move with my new friend here, begin to clear out some of our company,”
Burke said into his mike.
“But stay silent. Take down as many as you can before we have to make some noise.”

“Who are you talking to?” Avrim said, confused, looking around and catching a glimpse of the two Russians coming for them.

“And if it looks like the target is giving me trouble,”
Burke said, looking right at Avrim,
“take him out fast, center of the head. And if I’m in the way, put me down, then take him.”

Burke turned Avrim around, bending his arms behind him and began to walk him toward the Galleria exit.

He estimated he had a fifteen second jump before the Galleria became a fire zone.

Chapter 55

Vatican City, Italy

I stood in the middle of the Sistine Chapel and looked for the face of the one person in the room eager to bring it crashing down. Raza would not select an innocent for such a monumental job; he couldn’t risk any last minute indecision or error. He would want someone to whom the destruction of the chapel would have a deeper meaning; someone who could override emotion with strength.

And someone who could squash his fears and zero in on the task.

I scanned through the crowd looking for the face of that person, the one face I needed to find. A face as marked by damage as by determination.

A face like mine.

John’s voice came through my earpiece.
“I’m not picking up Raza.”

“There are two cameras in every room,”
I said,
“keep looking. He’s not going to stray far. He’ll want to see this through.”

I turned to my left and spotted a man in a dark brown sports jacket and matching slacks. He wore thick glasses and a designer scarf hanging around his neck and kept both hands inside the flaps of his jacket. He was doing his best to act calm but could do little to disguise his nerves. He was in his mid-forties, with a well-groomed beard and a visible scar that ran from the corner of one eye down the length of his cheek, partially hidden by his facial hair.

“I have to go, John,”
I said.
“I think I found our target.”

I took a few steps closer to the man, waiting for him to look away from the panels on the far walls and turn to me.

“Keep your distance,”
I said to Angela and her team.
“And keep looking in case I’m circling the wrong guy.”

“There isn’t time for you to be wrong,”
Angela said.

I walked up to the man, blocking his view of the panels over my shoulder, catching him off guard. “A son?” I asked him. “Or a daughter?”

The man stared at me for several seconds, glanced at the crowd milling around us and then turned back to me. “One of each,” he said. “Two years ago this day.”

“How old?” I asked.

“My son was twelve, my daughter not yet ten,” the man said. “They were walking home from school along with some other friends when the bomb … A bomb sent by people who look like you.”

“You want your revenge,” I told him. “And you’ve been led to believe what you are about to do will get that for you. You’re wrong.”

“It is the only way,” the man said.

“No,” I said, “it’s not. All it will do is kill these innocents who wished no harm for your children. It won’t bring justice. It won’t give you the revenge you seek. If that’s all it took, then I’d be setting off bombs in as many crowded places as I could find.”

“Who?” the man asked.

“My wife,” I said. “Two daughters. A terrorist attack.”

“And did that not make you want to kill all terrorists?”

“Yes,” I said, “as long as they lead me to the one I need.”

“Is Raza the one you seek?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I still have two children,” the man said. “Raza will send them money. For education. To buy a home. To live a better life than I can give them.”

“That’s what he told you,” I said, feeling the man’s conviction starting to fade. “It’s what he tells anyone. Any up-front cash?”

The man shook his head.

I grasped his shoulder. “Your children will be without a father and there will be no money.”

“Who are you?” the man asked.

“I’m the one who’s going to stop you,” I said. “You’re different from them, and from me. But that changes if you push down on that button in your pocket. That will make you a hated man, despised even by your own country. Your own children. What you do here is how they will remember you.”

The man looked at me and shook his head. “Raza gave me his word,” he said. “And I left him with mine. What was meant to happen will happen. And it will happen now.”

I pressed my right hand against the one he had hidden in his jacket pocket, the one whose fingers were near the trigger point that would set off the bomb.

I fired three bullets into him at close range, two in his chest, one in his stomach. The sounds of the gunshots were partially drowned out by the crowd noise and the ringing of the bells outside. I wrapped my arm around the man and held him up as blood poured down on our feet. I heard a woman behind me scream and saw one hold her fingers to her mouth, her eyes frozen in fear. To my right a male voice shouted for help.