‘You’re in the wrong place, Scagnetti. You have a first name?’
‘Antonio.’
‘What about him?’
‘Bruno Bellomo.’ It came out as a groan as Ben leaned a little harder on the axe.
‘Who are you working for?’
Scagnetti spat blood at him and snorted. Ben lifted the axe away from his throat. He took a grip on the smooth hickory handle and swung it down with a loud crash of steel on floorboards. Wood splintered. Blood flew, and with it the four severed fingers of Scagnetti’s left hand.
‘That’ll save you money on guitar lessons,’ Ben said.
Scagnetti’s screams echoed down the corridor as he writhed and rolled in agony, his bleeding hand clamped hard under his right armpit.
‘I think you were just telling me who you work for,’ Ben said, crouching beside him with the axe handle against his shoulder.
‘The Russian,’ Scagnetti whimpered. ‘I don’t know his name. I swear.’
Ben knew the look on the man’s face. It was the look of a guy who’d just realised exactly what he was dealing with: an enemy perfectly willing to take him apart, calmly, piece by piece. That was one scary moment, even for a cold killer like Antonio Scagnetti. In Ben’s experience, someone in that seriously rattled state of mind was willing to say anything to make the horror go away. The first thing out of their mouths was generally the truth.
Ben stood up. ‘OK, Antonio, I believe you. You can save the rest for the cops. Time for a nap now.’ He swung the axe at Scagnetti’s head, side on so that the flat face of the blade whacked into his skull with a meaty thud. Certainly not hard enough to kill him, unlikely to cause permanent damage, but he’d have something to help take his mind off his sore hand for a while.
Ben stepped over the unconscious body to the other guy, who was beginning to come to. Sweet dreams, Bruno. Crack.
Putting aside the axe, Ben frisked the men and found two identical radio handsets. He tossed one aside and examined the other. It was a wide-band VHF Motorola, a complex pro-level device covered with knobs and switches. Ben made a mental note of the channel it was set to, then used its scanning facility to skip through multiple frequencies in search of a police channel. The Carabinieri, officially part of the Italian military, used encrypted frequencies that couldn’t be unscrambled on a civilian radio set, but after a minute or so of scanning through white noise and static, he hit on a channel that sounded like a Polizia Municipale control room. The Italian municipal cops were mainly a civilian force, limited to directing traffic, enforcing minor local laws, getting stuck kittens out of trees – but that was good enough right now.
Or so he hoped. He kept his voice low and calm as he explained to the stunned operator on the other end that heavily armed robbers had taken control of the Academia Giordani near Aprilia, had taken hostages and were acting with lethal intent. He repeated that last part again, slowly and carefully.
‘This is not a hoax. People are being shot. You must alert the nearest Carabinieri station immediately and have as many rapid response units sent here as poss—’
Ben was able to say no more before the signal dissolved into fuzz and static. He could only pray that the municipal cops would take it seriously and relay the alert to the Carabinieri. This was Italy. No telling how efficient their systems were. Until something happened, if anything did, he was on his own.
Silvestri had been quick to snatch the computer keyboard away from Corsini, who was slumped in his chair weeping openly with shock and guilt. A moment later, the second security code had been entered and accepted by the computer. Then Anatoly thrust the keyboard towards Pietro De Crescenzo with a sneer.
The count took a deep breath, looked at the Russian with bloodshot eyes, poised his long, thin fingers over the keys and typed in the third and last set of numbers to disarm the secondary security system. His hand shook over the enter key. By pressing it he was enabling this gang of ruthless thugs to walk away with every single piece of artwork in the gallery. A massive cross-section of five centuries of the pinnacle of human cultural achievement, delivered at a stroke into the hands of men like these. If he’d been made to launch nuclear missiles, he’d have felt no worse.
He pressed the key. In his mind, its tiny click sounded like the crack of doom. He hung his head and closed his eyes. When he opened them, a new message had appeared on the computer screen: ‘SECURITY DEACTIVATED’
‘There,’ De Crescenzo groaned. ‘It’s done. Take what you want and go.’
‘We’re not finished yet,’ Anatoly told him.
Ben dragged Scagnetti’s unconscious body through the classroom, leaving a trail of blood from the guy’s mangled hand all the way to the balcony. He heaved him upright and slung him half over the parapet, so that just a light shove would send him tumbling over the edge. He did the same with the other man, Bellomo, then ran back to the corridor, unravelled more of the fire hose and slashed off a length. Back out on the balcony, he quickly knotted one end of the thick rubber around their ankles. He estimated the drop to the ground below, subtracted three metres and then secured the other end of the hose to the balcony before shoving both men over the edge. They dropped over the side like the world’s calmest bungee jumpers and then were jerked up short by the hose’s elasticity before their brains could be dashed all over the ground.
Ben peered down at the two swinging bodies. They weren’t going anywhere. He slung one of the Steyrs over his shoulder, stripped the magazine from the other and stuck it in his back pocket. Tossed the empty weapon off the balcony together with one of the radios, and moved quickly on.
Glass flew as the butt of Anatoly’s Steyr smashed into the display cabinet that protected the Goya drawing. He used the weapon to knock away the jagged pieces around the edge, then slung it over his shoulder and reached in with both hands to grasp the sides of the plain black wooden frame.
He gave a hard yank and felt something give. The piece of artwork came away easily from the wall, and he lifted it out of the broken cabinet and stepped back.
Nothing happened. No alarms, no slamming down of steel shutters. He grinned to himself. It was his.
And so was the rest of the stuff, as much as he could carry out of here. The old man might be nuts, but he, Anatoly, wasn’t.
Anatoly strolled back into the office, holding the Goya against his chest. Rocco Massi was fiddling with his radio, frowning through the mask. ‘I can’t raise Bellomo and Scagnetti.’
Anatoly ignored him. ‘Thank you for your co-operation, gentlemen,’ he said in Russian to the three gallery owners. ‘That will be all.’ He set the frame down on a filing cabinet, then unslung his Steyr and turned to Corsini. The fat man’s face was covered with sweat. He began to raise his hands, and his eyes widened in horror as he saw the gun muzzle swing his way. Anatoly made a clucking sound with his tongue, stretched a grin and the gun jolted in his hand. Corsini sprawled heavily backwards, tipping up his chair and crashing to the floor. Anatoly swivelled the Steyr towards Silvestri and pulled the trigger.
‘Shit.’
