Zero Alternative (23 page)

‘Are we moving again?’

‘Just for a day or two.’

Layla looked unimpressed. ‘Nope, never been. Is it as overrated as this island?’

‘Funny.’ Walker sat down next to her and breathed out, trying to convince himself. Leaving Sardinia was dangerous, but they could take a ferry and he didn’t really have another choice. ‘Listen – this is something I
have
to do. Omega is stuck on Frankel, and it doesn’t look like it will produce anything useful soon. Those guys… they might be catching up to us. Mosha is my only option. If I can get him to help, maybe…’

Layla sighed, still unconvinced. ‘More maybes. And why would this guy want to help you, anyway?’

‘He’s an old acquaintance.’ Walker shrugged. ‘But that’s not the reason I trust him. He’s in trouble and he needs me, I think. And Deep.’

‘For what?’

‘Mosha’s business is a tad more complicated than your average hedge-fund manager. And he owes me big… honour debts must be repaid in his world.’

‘Honour debts? Have you lost your mind?’

Walker glanced at his watch, wondering the same. ‘Look, I’ve got to go but – I’ll tell you the story when I’m back, I promise.’

‘
Fine
.’ Layla glared at him. ‘And yes, I’ll come to Siena, if you want…’ She hesitated, thinking. ‘What about the tickets to fly to Tuscany?’

‘No planes, we’re taking another boat.’

‘Now you tell me!’

‘I’m smart like that.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll text you when I get the passport, then you can book them. But we need to know my new name first, don’t you think?’

It’s darkest before dawn, they say
.

Layla wasn’t so sure
–
it seemed black enough all the time, at the moment. And what the hell was dawn, anyway? Did it mean a fresh start, unencumbered by past mistakes?

Maybe it was just the hope of light, a faint guide out of blindness and uncertainty. Maybe it was love
.

She didn’t want to tell him anything. It was such a big risk
–
that goddamned machine could expose her, and too soon. Because she liked Walker. A lot. Too much, possibly. She really didn’t want to chance it
–
not now, when she was almost ready to…

But he was stuck, and he needed the extra information she had. She shivered, though the room was warm. Sometimes you have to take a chance, follow your heart, someone had said
.

And that was the problem, because there is no dawn when the darkness lies within your soul
.

The Nuraghe looked like a fifteen-foot-tall termite nest, built in white limestone covered with moss. Walker rambled through the outer passageways, along twisting paths marked out in chalk, into the smaller outbuildings. The roofs were mostly gone but the walls were higher than his head and he kept wandering through crowds of tourists, looking for a familiar face. Frustrated, after thirty minutes he was ready to give up his search and go back to wait by the entrance when someone slapped his arm, hard.

Walker spun, bracing his legs and dropping his shoulder, preparing to throw a punch. He finished turning, already coiled, and found himself looking at Salvo’s thin face. The Sicilian stepped back, hand sneaking into his rain parka.

‘Easy, fag. You know how I am when I get nervous.’

Walker stared at him, wanting to break his neck. ‘Do you have it?’

Salvo checked around, pointing to one of the smallest outbuildings. The slim mound was covered by a makeshift thatched roof, a low door hanging by its hinges from one side of the entrance. ‘Let’s see the cash first, moron.’

Walker tapped his jacket pocket and they slipped inside the smaller side-nuraghe. Salvo nodded
and squared his back to the panel, keeping the door shut against curious tourists. Walker pulled out an envelope and handed it over.

‘It’s thirty grand, like you asked. Count it if you want.’

Salvo sniggered. ‘That’s okay – we know where your friends live. If there’s something missing…’

‘There isn’t.’

The Sicilian grunted and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out a purple booklet and flicking it to the floor. ‘There’s a driver’s licence in there as well, in the same name. The Capo liked you, for some reason.’

Walker glanced down at the Italian passport, without moving. ‘Thanks.’

‘Whatever.’ Salvo half-turned, pushing the door open. Then he stopped and glanced back with a nasty grin. ‘You know, I think you did kill the guy in London.’

Walker shrugged, looking straight into the man’s eyes. ‘Why?’

‘Because you’re a cold one. Like me. You don’t flinch.’ Salvo winked at him and stepped out, slamming the panel so hard one of the hinges broke off.

Eating Mexican

Walker returned to the Agriturismo just after nightfall, his new Italian passport in the inside pocket of his leather jacket. The forgery was great – the document had even been treated to look battered, with a few exotic tourist stamps in the middle pages. And Salvo thought he was a cold one: impressive, if slightly tainted praise. He smiled and took the stairs in a rush, eager to show the passport to Layla and find out what she had been doing for the last few hours. As he turned onto the landing he saw something stuck on their apartment door: it was a manila envelope, the words ‘Welcome back’ scribbled on the front in pencil.

Walker frowned and pulled it off the panel. Inside he found a grainy picture showing the face and large upper torso of a man, with a name typed underneath: ‘Francois Pienaar’. His blood froze as he recognised the man’s scarred features – it was the Australian thug who had tried to grab him in Reims. The same man who had apparently organised the sting, and who might have been DM’s killer. They had been found.

He shouted Layla’s name, fumbling with the keys and bursting through the door. His heart pounded as he scanned the room, dread rising from some deep place inside him. The apartment was in semi-darkness, a few small candles flickering on the window sill. A dim lamp illuminated the old table in the middle of the room, made up with plates and cutlery, a magnum of red wine sitting among flower petals.
What the hell?

‘Layla!’ he shouted again, scanning the shadows.

‘I’m fine – just give me a couple of minutes,’ came the laughing reply from her bedroom. ‘And don’t eat anything.’

Walker swore, his heartbeat all over the place. He stumbled through the room and dropped his jacket on the sofa, still shaking. Just what he had needed after Salvo. But this… He picked up the photograph he had dropped and searched the living room. Layla had moved his PC to the low coffee table and he rushed to turn it on, studying the picture of Pienaar as he waited, fidgeting. In less than a minute he had scanned and downloaded it into DeepShare, suspending all the other processes he was running to unleash the machine on a massive search for the thug. His brain went into overdrive, considering what else he could do.

Nothing. Just let Omega work its magic.

And maybe he could finally grasp a lead on the bastards who had killed DM. He stared at the
screen for a while, willing the software to work faster. As if it would help. Then he exhaled and sat back, almost resigned to a long wait.

Soft music started up and he turned on the sofa to see the bedroom door opening. Layla stepped through, with more candles flickering behind her. Her hair was made up in a side chignon, a longer fringe caressing the side of her face. She wore a black satin dress, strapless and figure-hugging. It fell to her ankles, split by a side-slit almost to her hip. When she moved he could glimpse a finger of tanned skin just above her stockings.

Walker stared at her and swallowed, uncertain.

She smiled coyly and twirled around, allowing him a glimpse of her naked shoulders and back. The stitches on her arm were still visible, but fading. ‘Well, what do you think?’

‘I… I’m not sure I
can
think.’

‘The dress feels a little loose. Luigi’s wife might be…’

‘You look like an angel. A fallen one, maybe, but still an angel.’ He stood up, unsteady.

‘Nice line,’ she chuckled, her eyes sparkling.

Walker forced himself to look away, back to his computer. ‘That photograph. Pienaar…?’

‘Shush. Not now, please.’ Layla flicked back her hair, walked around the table and took his hand, leaning forward to give him a long, lingering kiss. Walker responded and his mouth opened greedily, letting her tongue probe deeper while her hands came up to his neck. She held him tightly, her strength again surprising, until Walker stepped back and searched her face, struggling to keep his composure.

‘I thought you weren’t ready for… for this,’ he said.

‘This what?’ She glanced at the pots and the table. ‘I just wanted to cook something for you, to celebrate. I’m very proud of myself.’

‘Layla…’

She bit her lip, blushing. ‘I know,’ she whispered, pulling closer to peck his cheek. ‘But this feels right, now. If you still want me.’

Walker embraced her, bit her earlobe and inhaled her light perfume, the faint scent of cinnamon tingling his nose. Her body was firm and soft against his chest and he nuzzled her lip.

‘Yes, of course I do.’

He kissed her again, hard, blood thumping in his head as his hands glided along her shoulders and back, then lower, caressing her buttocks. She pushed against him and he fell on the sofa,
dragging her on top of him.

After a few seconds Layla shoved him back and sat up, readjusting her skirt as her leg slid out of the slit. She grinned. ‘Not yet, banker-boy. I’ve cooked for hours, and you’re not about to eat it cold. Besides, I promise to answer all your questions. Food first, then you can enjoy the dessert.’

‘I have a sweet tooth.’

‘Well, you can have it as many times as you want. But later.’ She stood up, opening the mini-fridge. ‘Drink?’

Walker straightened up, his senses tingling.
Pienaar. And Layla
. She bent down to grab a couple of glasses and he stared at her shape in the low light, forcing himself not to grab at her again. ‘Yes, please. A large one.’

‘Neat vodka, as usual?’

‘I like the roughness.’

‘Sometimes I do, too.’

Walker exhaled, looked for some matches and lit a cigarette. ‘I guess that’s good to know.’

‘Francois Pienaar. How did you find him?’ Walker swallowed another spoonful of the spicy chicken-and-fruit stew and then bit into a tamale, savouring the dried-shrimp saltiness. God, he was starving.

Layla sipped her red wine and played around with the food on her plate before answering. ‘My fixer, Anton, had heard of a big scarred Australian, ex-foreign legion. He didn’t know the name, but a few of his contacts gave him bits and pieces. Then I got lucky; someone saw that picture in an old Cape Town newspaper and recognised him. Zimbabwean descent, orphaned young. Active mainly in Africa, apparently. And a nasty piece of work, they say.’

‘I’m sure. Who does he work for?’

‘I don’t know. He disappeared a couple of years ago, after being convicted in Lesotho for murdering a minister, and he must be using some other identity.’

‘It doesn’t matter. I’ve already set Deep on him.’

She grinned, but her eyes remained serious. ‘That’s why I was waiting in the bedroom. I knew you’d want to do it straight away. Do you think it will come up with anything?’

‘Maybe. If there’s anything useful to find.’

Walker picked up a different tamale, sniffed it. ‘This is wonderful, by the way. You’re a great cook.’

Layla smiled thinly. ‘I learnt it at home, before… before I had to leave.’

‘But you’re not eating much.’

‘I picked at it while I was making it. Couldn’t resist.’ She sipped at the wine again. ‘What about this Mosha, what’s the story there?’

‘The billions he runs in his hedge fund – it’s mainly Camorra money.’

‘Isn’t that like the Mafia?’

‘Sort of. Mafia is Sicilian, Camorra is originally from Naples – they’re rivals, often. A lot of their profits have been recycled through the banking system, and he is their main investment guy. Most of the money is now clean – has been for a long time – and the business is legit, but obviously a lot of people high up in Italy know about its origins.’

‘And no one does anything?’

‘Too many interests, too many bribes. The State is partly corrupt, always has been. Don’t tell me Mexico is any different.’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, Mosha’s been having a bad time, lately. His recent returns are negative, very negative. But I’ve given him some tips since we got DeepShare back, and they’ve worked out like a dream. Now I’ll show him the stuff on Frankel – if I can convince him…’

Layla nodded, leaning closer. ‘You said you’ve known him for a long time?’

‘We went to school together, in the States. Before university, at a place called a United World College. We were never friends, but we somehow kept in touch – the City can be a small place. And he’s a bright guy, but he’s always been too greedy for my liking.’

‘Too greedy? That’s rich, coming from an Investment Banker.’

Walker winked at her. ‘I don’t take morality lessons from a thief.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before.’ She stuck out her tongue. ‘Is he Italian, as well?’

‘Serbian, but his mother was the daughter of a Bosnian crime supremo. Later he married into Camorra’s most powerful family – that’s how he got to run the cash. But now he needs to do something about his fund, and fast. If he keeps losing money, his “investors” might decide to cut him off. Literally.’

‘I see. Well, at least I get to visit Tuscany, I guess.’ She looked at the empty plates on the table and smiled. ‘Are you done?’

Walker sat back in his chair and lit a cigarette. ‘I’m stuffed.’

Layla slid her fringe aside, staring at him. ‘No room for the dessert?’

‘No, none at all.’

‘We’ll see.’ She stood, leaned forward to give him a quick kiss and walked off to the bedroom. ‘Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said before shutting the door.

Walker pushed back his chair and headed for the window, staring at the night sky as he finished his cigarette. His thoughts were in turmoil, and he wondered if he was about to make a massive mistake. He still knew very little about Layla, and there were so many other things…