Bad Turn Page 12

  “An excellent question, dear,” she said. “But I’m going to let you ask it.”

  Kincaid was in his office. He stood by the window, staring out. Schade, predictably, was there as well. Instead of lounging in his usual place in one of the chairs by the desk, he was on the low sofa against one wall, tapping at the keyboard of a laptop.

  Only Kincaid looked up when Mo showed me in.

  “I understand you found out where those M4s came from,” I said without preamble.

  Kincaid nodded. “They were originally part of a US Army shipment, like I told you, but let’s just say they got a little lost in the bureaucratic shuffle.”

  “And turned up where?”

  “An Italian arms dealer based near Siena acted as the middle-man. A guy called Ugoccione.”

  Something in his voice had me raising an eyebrow as I took a seat. “Someone you know?”

  Schade gave a soft snort without looking up from his computer screen.

  “Someone we know,” Kincaid agreed flatly, which on balance didn’t sound promising.

  “And do you think he’ll tell you who the buyer was?”

  “If we handle him carefully enough,” Kincaid said. “But it’s not the kind of thing that can be done at a distance. For this it’s gonna have to be face to face.”

  “Meaning, we’re going to Italy?”

  “Meaning, we were going to France anyway, but first stop is now Italia,” Schade said.

  “The one is not exactly on the way to the other,” I pointed out.

  Whatever reply he might have been about to make was interrupted by the office doors swinging open. Darius Orosco strode through, with Mo Heedles behind him. From her expression, I gathered she’d told him Kincaid was busy and had been ignored. It clearly did not please her.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Kincaid. I—”

  “It’s all right, Mrs Heedles,” Kincaid said. “Mr Orosco is family. He can drop in any time he pleases.”

  “Whether we like it or not.”

  He didn’t add the words, but I heard them anyway. If the slight smile Mrs Heedles gave was anything to go by, she did, too. She nodded and went out, closing the doors quietly behind her.

  Orosco strode towards the desk. Kincaid had turned away from the window to meet him. I rose, stepping away from my chair so it didn’t get in my way, just in case. To Orosco, it must have looked like I backed off from him. He flicked me a brief glance, filled with disdain, and kept moving.

  “Eric! What’s this nonsense I hear about Helena going with you to France, hey?”

  “Italy,” Schade said without looking up.

  “Italy. What the hell…?”

  Schade looked up briefly then. “Tomas Ugoccione supplied the M4s used in the ambush. We’re going to ask him about that.”

  For a second, Orosco seemed lost for words, then he said, “And you think you’re taking my little girl along for the ride?”

  Kincaid paused a moment before he said, “That’s correct. She is going. She didn’t want to stay home, after all that’s happened, and I confess I’d rather have her along with me.”

  Orosco shook his head a little sadly, as if at the naiveté of youth.

  “Not happening.”

  Kincaid straightened a fraction and his eyes narrowed. “It’s already been arranged.”

  “Well, you can just un-arrange it, then. My little girl is not disappearing halfway across the world with you, into who-knows-what kind of danger, when you need to have your head in the game.”

  “With respect,” Kincaid said through his teeth. “I have no problem keeping my head in the game. And it’s been decided—Helena herself has decided. Besides, the way things have gone down here, she’d be no safer staying here.”

  Orosco’s eyes shifted to me again and his mouth twisted.

  “Confine her to the estate and she’ll be fine. Plenty to keep her occupied around this place while you’re away, what with these damn ponies she’s so keen on.”

  I tried to control my eyebrows, which were in danger of climbing into my hairline and ending up perched on top of my head. Kincaid’s face was stony. Schade’s attention was apparently totally absorbed by whatever he was doing on his laptop.

  “She may be my wife, but she’s your daughter,” Kincaid said, and for a moment I thought he was relinquishing control. Then he added, “With that in mind, I doubt I could confine her anywhere without her breaking out and ripping me a new one. Too much of your blood in her veins for her to do it any other way.”

  The two men stared at each other. I could almost see Orosco wrestling with the knots Kincaid had just neatly tied him into. They weren’t for coming undone.

  “I’ve made it my life’s work to keep that kid out of harm’s way, Kincaid,” he said at last, his mouth tightened into a thin line. “Be sure to do the same, or you’ll answer to me.”

  27

  The Gulfstream private jet that Eric Kincaid had dismissed as being “a nice little family plane” was, in fact, a top-of-the-line G650ER. It had a range of up to 7500 nautical miles. More than enough to get us from the private airfield in New Jersey where we boarded, across to Europe without any need to stop and refuel en route.

  There were seven of us on board, plus the crew. The Kincaids were in the aft part of the cabin with Mrs Heedles. She had spread a briefcase of paperwork across the wide table there and was going through it with Kincaid. Helena sat across the aisle, pretending to read a book—either that or she was a very, very slow reader. We’d been airborne for an hour and, so far, she hadn’t turned a page.

  But I guess being kidnapped can have that kind of effect on your concentration.

  Helena was wearing an impeccably cut dark green blazer over slacks and a white shirt. She looked effortlessly stylish. I was not quite so stylish, but ever since I’d realised she preferred people to mistake me for her PA rather than her bodyguard, I’d tried to dress up a little. I was in black for the usual reason—it didn’t show the blood.

  Mid-cabin were the two extras on the security team for this trip, to act as drivers and general muscle. One was Lopez, now recovered from being drugged the night Helena was taken. The other was Chatty, who, I’d discovered, was an ex-US Deputy Marshal from Texas. His real name was Williams. I think he was more interesting when I didn’t know.

  He and Lopez were sprawled on the sofa, watching a football game on the big flatscreen that folded out of the cabinet on the port side. Both wore wireless headphones so the rest of us didn’t have to suffer the commentary. Although they each twitched when play quickened, so far they’d managed not to forget themselves enough to stamp their feet or yell encouragement out loud.

  Schade and I had the single seats in the forward part of the cabin nearest to the galley, on either side of the aisle. He was reading, too—an old paperback edition of William Golding’s Lord of the Flies. In contrast to Helena’s progress, he had almost finished the slim volume.

  I was also reading—going over maps and ground plans of our destinations in both Italy and France. It bugged me, just a little, that Schade and the others appeared to be taking their job so lightly. I reminded myself that they’d worked for Kincaid a lot longer than I had. For all I knew, they’d been to all these places countless times before.

  Eventually, he tucked the book into his jacket pocket and picked up the bowl of udon noodles the flight attendant served, using chopsticks without a fumble.

  “Enjoying your book?”

  He swallowed a mouthful of food. “Read it before.”

  “So, why read it again?”

  He shrugged, and I saw his eyes skim across the occupants of the cabin. “It never does any harm,” he said, “to be reminded of the savagery of human nature.”

  We landed in the late afternoon at another small, private airfield, not far from Perugia in the Umbria region of Italy. There were no clouds visible in a brilliant blue sky as we taxied in. As soon as the flight crew released the door, fresh cool air gushed into the cabin.


  We were not required to de-plane, line up with passports to clear Immigration, or drag our luggage through Customs. Instead, uniformed officials came to us. They climbed aboard, counted heads, counted passports, and when the number of one matched the other they handed them back with only a cursory inspection. I didn’t bother asking how legit it all was.

  As soon as we’d been cleared and the Italian officials departed, I heard the heavy thrum of a rotary wing approaching. A few moments later, a blue and white Sikorsky S-76 helicopter touched down less than fifty metres away. The co-pilot jumped out, all bouffant hairstyle and Aviator shades. Within ten minutes, our bags were transferred and we were buckled-in to the cabin.

  The Kincaids sat in the two rearward-facing seats against the front bulkhead of the cabin. Mo Heedles and Schade took the two facing them, leaving me squashed into the back row with Williams and Lopez. They both took up more than their share of space, but at least I was able to elbow my way to a window seat on the starboard side.

  As soon as he was in, Lopez reached below his seat and pulled out three small flat cases of a familiar style. I raised an eyebrow as he checked the contents and handed one to me. Inside was a SIG P226, two spare magazines, and a Kramer holster.

  “What happened to it being a lifejacket that’s usually under your seat?” I asked.

  Schade gave me a wry look over his shoulder. “Different kind of life preserver.”

  The flight was short—less than thirty klicks as the turbocharged crow flies. The landscape beneath shifted from open farmland to thickly wooded hills. Valleys became delineated by shadows, roads hidden by the canopy. Buildings mostly had orange tile roofs, the occasional swimming pool, cultivated rows of vegetation that might have been olive groves.

  We passed over a town I guessed from the maps I’d studied must be Torricella and then, almost without warning, out over aquamarine water, its surface like stippled glass. I craned in my seat and could just make out our destination—Isola Minore. The island was the shape of a comma, and tiny. The briefing file I’d read on the plane said it was around five hectares, which equated to a little over twelve acres total in size. The only buildings on it had been first part of a monastery and then a castello, before falling into ruin.

  Tomas Ugoccione had bought the whole thing—island and property—five years previously. He was in the midst of a restoration that was as ambitious as it was costly. I gathered he could well afford it. And what better place, once the work was done, for a man in a very private business to carry it out?

  As we approached the island, I could see a boathouse and a floating jetty jutting into the lake at the southwest end, at the narrowed tail of the comma. Above it was a sprawling building with a crumbling square tower in one corner, covered in sheeted scaffolding. We flew directly overhead. I looked down into the courtyard in the centre as it flashed below us, which appeared to be partly filled with rubble and a mechanical digger.

  A moment later, we were clear of the house and pool area, and coming in low towards a clearing in the trees several hundred metres away. The pilot dropped us down neatly onto the concrete pad in the centre. Before he’d even powered down, several figures converged on the aircraft from both sides. They wore a uniform of dark blue polo shirts, tactical trousers, baseball caps, and body armour. Each man carried a machine pistol on a shoulder strap. Each had a handgun on his hip.

  Whoever this guy Ugoccione was, it was clear he took his security very seriously indeed.

  28

  “Ah, Erico!” Tomas Ugoccione came striding across the terrace with hands outstretched towards Kincaid. “This is a surprise!” He was a small guy, deeply tanned and casually but expensively dressed in slacks and a pastel linen shirt. The shirttails hung loose, which might have suggested Ugoccione was carrying, but I got the feeling it was more likely an attempt to disguise a belly that could no longer be cinched-in by belt alone.

  By comparison with Kincaid’s square-jawed determination, there was something just a little soft about him. A little fake—an actor posing next to the real thing.

  Only once the arm-clasping and cheek-kissing were complete did he turn to Helena and perform a sleek bow. “And la signora, of course. You look as lovely as always. Welcome to Isola Minore.”

  Helena murmured a polite but noncommittal response. Ugoccione greeted Mrs Heedles with something close to awe. She gave him a regal nod in reply. He glanced at me briefly, his eyes lingering as he tried to work out my place in the great scheme of things. From his frown, I gathered that he hadn’t quite done so, but he nevertheless decided that I was not important enough to warrant individual attention.

  Instead, he smiled at the group of us, all inclusive, and gave an elaborate shrug. “What a pity you have chosen this moment to visit.”

  Kincaid raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Why of course,” Ugoccione said. “Had you but waited until next spring—summer at the latest—you would have found this palace fully restored to its former splendours.”

  “Our business would not wait.”

  Ugoccione paused, gaze flicking over us. It might have been my imagination that it lingered on Schade, who slouched near Kincaid’s shoulder, chewing gum, and on Lopez by the edge of the terrace. Both men’s eyes were everywhere. Williams had stayed with the Sikorsky and the pilots.

  “Come, please. We will talk.” Ugoccione inclined his head to Helena. “Perhaps you would care for a tour of the finished rooms?” He put a hand to his chest, feigning modesty. “The decoration, even though I should not be the one to say so, is unrivalled. I am sure my architetto would be only too happy—”

  “No,” Helena said. The word reverberated, sharp and stark like clapped hands in an empty space. She softened it with a small smile. “Thank you, signore. I will stay. What we have to discuss concerns me, also.”

  Ugoccione’s hands tightened, his mouth opened and closed. He took a sideways glance at Kincaid. Then he forced a smile even if his eyes were hooded. “Who am I to argue with la bella signora?”

  He ushered us into a stone cloister and then through a pair of tall French windows that stood propped wide in the still air. As we followed him inside, I realised the windows had not been left open to vent the heat of the day from the old building, but to allow some warmth to penetrate the thick stone walls. The air inside was soft and chilled, without the slightly metallic tint of air conditioning.

  Ugoccione led us up a magnificent stone staircase and across the open landing. It was tempting to gawp at the vaulted ceilings we passed underneath but I managed to keep my eyes—and my mind—on the job. Even with half their ornate artwork missing, the plaster patched with blank new sections or, in places, still hanging down in ribbons of horsehair and splinters, it was a stunning building. Restoring it, I reckoned, was an undertaking that could take a lifetime.

  I thought of Ugoccione’s claim that it would be finished inside the next twelve months or less and wondered just how much money he was throwing at this project.

  We passed through an open archway out onto a loggia that ran along the length of the upper storey, overlooking the central courtyard. I checked rooflines and the dark shadows concealed beyond open windows but there was nothing to cause me undue alarm.

  As we walked alongside the courtyard, I glanced down and saw the same pile of building rubble I’d noted from the air. Workmen came and went, carrying tools, or plans or timber. Interspersed among them were the guards with shades and machine pistols. It seemed excessive for someone on his own private island. What was he expecting the workmen to do—make off with the silver? I caught Schade’s eye but he gave me nothing in return.

  Ugoccione walked briskly ahead, a man with purpose. He threw open another set of doors and stepped inside. All his movements contained flourish, like a stage magician trying to direct attention away from the trickery going on behind the scenes. It did not make me feel more relaxed.

  We followed him into a room that was big enough to play basketball in, not least because of t
he height. It had a grand central table surrounded by high-backed chairs, more suited to the boardroom than the dining room. Either that or some secret order of the Illuminati. An antique desk was slanted across one corner, opposite a line of windows that looked south across the lake. It was an impressive room for a study, but with a view like that who’d ever get any work done?

  Ugoccione gestured to the board table and spoke to one of his staff in rapid Italian. The man nodded and left, closing the doors behind him.

  “Please, sit,” Ugoccione said. “Refreshments will be here presently.”

  Ugoccione took the seat at the head of the table, clearly determined to set the tone of this meeting. Kincaid calmly pulled out a chair halfway along one side for Helena, then sat alongside her. Mrs Heedles flanked him on the other side. Ugoccione hesitated, then scraped back his chair and moved down so he was opposite the three of them. The rest of us hovered. Schade and me around the Kincaids with Lopez by the doorway, and Ugoccione’s guys behind him. I could almost hear the music to High Noon playing in the background.

  “Now, Erico, please, mio amico, what is this about?”

  Kincaid rested his hands on the tabletop, fingers apparently relaxed. I added him to my mental list of people never to play poker against.

  “How long have we been doing business together?” he asked in a tone that was mild enough to be intimidating all by itself.

  Ugoccione seemed to give every answer consideration before he spoke. A careful man, in a profession that gave him much to be careful about.

  “You and me, personally? Not long. A few years.”

  It was Helena who cut in. “But you have been dealing with my family—first my father and now my husband—for more than a decade,” she said. “Maybe closer to two.”

  “Indeed, yes, this is the case. I am honoured to say that Darius—your father—and I have been…associates for many years.” His eyes flicked between husband and wife. “I confess I am a little…disconcerted to discuss our business arrangements in front of an audience,” he admitted with what might have been intended as disarming candour rather than a snub.