“That is already being taken care of. Let us go for lunch. Somewhere with outdoor seating. I need you to become comfortable with this new image.”
Romano takes me to one of the restaurants around a piazza, and we settle down for an alfresco lunch. The weather is overcast and almost as unremarkable as the food, not a patch on what Mrs Bellacci serves, but I enjoy being out in the open. I am also curious to see if people stare as I sit there, and I am slightly surprised to draw very little attention. Perhaps Italians are more accustomed to people with eclectic fashion choices. If I had walked into Callico House dressed like this, I am sure Albert and Alice would have had a few things to say.
“You haven’t once addressed me as Gabriel this morning,” I say to Romano.
“That’s because Gabriel has gone. I am having lunch with Aksel Larsen.” Romano pulls an envelope from his inside pocket and places it on the table. “This is a summary. I have a full file in the car for you to study. And, yes, I will be testing you. What’s listed here are the basics of your new identity. But very briefly, you are a Danish national who served in the same UN peacekeeping force as Lorenzo, which is how you became friends and why you dress in a not-dissimilar fashion.”
“You had all this planned?”
“Not everything. Your Danish passport is being assembled while we lunch.”
I read the overview of Aksel Larsen. An only child, I had a Danish father and an English mother. He was a mechanical engineer, and she was a high-school teacher who taught and encouraged me to speak both Russian and English. Both parents are deceased. According to the report, I am twenty-six, only ayear younger than Gabriel. I was born in Viborg, a city in central Jutland, and joined the Royal Danish Army straight from school after I turned eighteen. My parents died in a car accident while I was deployed overseas. I met Lorenzo during UN operations in Africa, both of us motorcycle fanatics, which is how we became friends.
“The folder has more comprehensive information, such as lists of family, friends, qualifications, skills, deployments—those kinds of things. Everything you need to know about the man.”
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“Not really. Aksel Larsen existed. He was a special services operative who was killed by pirates while deployed in Somalia. Due to the secret nature of his mission, his death was covered up and his body buried at sea, something only two members of his unit know about. Both are sworn to secrecy. As far as the world is concerned, he is still alive and serving in the army.”
This information stalls me for a moment. What would happen in the admittedly unlikely event that I met somebody who knew Aksel?
“Do I look anything like him?”
“You do now. And according to our records, Aksel’s mother taught him to speak flawless English. We will furnish you with a file containing video footage of Aksel that will give you a sense of the man, an overview of his personal traits and idiosyncrasies, and accounts from people he knew and the soldiers he served alongside. But honestly, unless you plan on visiting Viborg anytime soon, nobody is likely to know you’re not him.”
“A few problems. I know nothing about motorcycles—I don’t even know how to drive a car—and I don’t speak Danish.”
“Then you will learn. The first will be easy because Lorenzo truly does have a passion for motorbikes.”
Of course. The first time I met him at Pensione Galli, he had a crash helmet with him, and his stylish motorcycle was parkedoutside the bar. Romano has several more chores to complete before we head back to Eagle House late in the afternoon. On our way back, we pull up outside the apartment of the woman preparing my new identity. Romano tells me to stay in the car and is gone barely five minutes before returning. When he climbs back into the driving seat, he hands me two documents—a Danish passport in burgundy red and the new navy-blue UK version. I turn to the pages that hold my recent photograph and notice slightly different ones have been used.
“Congratulations. You have dual citizenship. Guard these with your life. Your new identities contain all of your biometric information. As we near the house, make sure you wear your woollen hat and your sunglasses, and keep your head down. I want to see the reaction of Mrs Bellacci and Lorenzo when they meet the new you for the first time.”
When we arrive at Eagle House, Mrs Bellacci must know we have returned because as we pull up, the front gate opens. Romano leads us around the outside of the building until we reach the kitchen, where he tells me to remain outside. Sprinklers are already watering the grass as the sun casts deep shadows across the lawn.
“Teresa, Lorenzo,” I hear Romano say from inside before he speaks something in Italian and ends with my new name. “Come in, Aksel.”
On cue, I rip the hat and step into the kitchen to find Mrs Bellacci and Lorenzo standing warily on the other side of the table. Mrs Bellacci breaks into a smile, but Lorenzo’s expression is priceless. His mouth hangs open, his eyes darting about my face and body.
“Gabriel?” he asks, quietly.
Romano is about to respond, but I pip him to the post.
“Not Gabriel. I am Aksel. From Denmark,” I reply. “Don’t you remember me, Enzo? We are old friends.”
“Santo cielo!” says Mrs Bellacci, chuckling, her hand clasped as though in prayer beneath her chin. “I would not recognise him. He could be Lorenzo’s brother if he had one.”
Lorenzo remains spellbound until Mrs Bellacci barks something in Italian to him. He nods before heading out the back door, leaving us alone.
“As you can see, we have had a busy day and accomplished much,” Romano says to Mrs Bellacci. “Can I suggest we all begin referring to him as Aksel rather than Gabriel to help us get comfortable with his new identity? And he should stay with Lorenzo in his quarters, as his guest. It would not be appropriate to put him in a room in the main villa without the consent ofSignorRedbrick, who, as we know, left us in the middle of the night a number of days ago.”
“What about my things?” I ask Romano.
“While you were gone, I cleaned out your room,” says Mrs Bellacci. “There is nothing left to link you to him. But I have kept a plastic bag of toiletries and underwear. I also have your money and handgun. Everything else has been removed, in case anyone comes looking for you. For him.”
“I see. Thank you.”
“Welcome to Italy and to Eagle House, Mr Larsen,” she says in Russian, still smiling as Lorenzo returns to the kitchen. “Enzo has a surprise for you.”