Chapter Nineteen
Grasmere
Before we left, things needed to be done. Lorenzo changed the bike plates and provided us with new motorcycle helmets. Both are precautionary. He also hit the shops early to buy me fresh clothing. I sport a wig of dark-cherry curls, which is my least favourite disguise. With the glasses, I appear distinctly nerdy. But the look is the polar opposite of edgy Aksel. My new clothes include black jeans and a grey jersey beneath a black zipper hoodie. Thank goodness he also bought me a lightweight waterproof jacket and pants in case the weather turns bad.
We set off at nine, and before long, I realise how right he is about riding pillion. Despite being a skilled motorcyclist, nudging the speed limit and never taking risks, the winding and bumpy stretches of poorly maintained A and B roads—we purposely avoid motorways—soon become uncomfortable.
After a brief comfort stop at a lay-by coffee van, we hit an open stretch of the A1 and the heavens open. A couple of miles later, Lorenzo pulls up at a disused bus shelter, and in the musty space, we scramble into waterproofs. On the outskirts of Doncaster, with the weather worsening, we stop for fuel and risk lunch at a diner, discussing the idea of taking a motel room for the night. Ultimately, we decide to forge on until we reach our destination—but I insist on swapping places on the bike.
After negotiating hours of relentless rain, we join a narrow road skirting Lake Grasmere in Cumbria. We see only a few other vehicles and no pedestrians for half a mile. Nobody else has braved the foul October weather. As we round a bend in the road, the bike’s headlight picks out an entrance set back on the right marked Lakeview Lodge, Private Property. I pull the machine over and keep the engine running while Lorenzo jumps off and manages the gate. Hidden from the lane by overhanging trees, a gravel path descends to a modern wooden cabin. Although the windows are dark, a security light comes on, illuminating the parking area.
I stop beneath the lean-to that houses a chest-high storage unit of black metal set in concrete, which is probably used to store tools and gardening equipment. I make a mental plan to check later. While I unstrap the luggage, Lorenzo bounds up the three steps to the front porch. Romano has left instructions for us to access a safe box on the wall, and after punching in a six-digit code, Lorenzo grabs the keys and opens the door.
“Wait here,” he calls, entering the darkened premises. His caution puts me on guard, and I peer around to see what might have spooked him. But nothing catches my eye, and my instincts tell me we are safe.
When he returns, he nods at me to signal that all is good.
“Hide the bike behind the lodge. We should leave no sign that we are here. Then come and help me check the locks on the windows and doors.”
I follow his instructions, even though the precaution feels excessive in such a remote area. I recognise that Lorenzo has probably encountered this situation before, and exercising caution could be life-saving.
I enter the gloom and notice he has removed his helmet, so I drop our bags and do the same. I am about to flick on the main living area light, but Lorenzo holds up a hand to stop me and tells me to wait until we have checked the windows and closed all the curtains. We use our phone lights to map out the main living area. Tall windows line both sides of the lodge, and, as instructed, I check that they are locked and secured. Only then do I notice that each window has more than one lock, and that each has been secured ready for our arrival. I also find a remote control on the main counter, and when I press a button, blackout blinds lower, covering every living area window. Once he is satisfied, Lorenzo switches on the lights.
The open-plan lodge is functional, with modern furniture and appliances, but scant decor or embellishments. A compact kitchen is set on a single-level podium and overlooks the living and dining area. The lodge is chilly, and my eye is drawn to the brick fireplace with an open-log fire.
“What do you think?” he asks. “Good enough?”
“It will be. Once it’s warmed up,” I reply. “Am I allowed to get a fire started?”
“You know that is a gas fire, don’t you?”
“Is it?” I look again and realise he is correct.
“Go ahead. But I need a hot shower first,” he says. “If there is one.”
“Let’s check. Then you can shower while I figure out how to get a fire going?”
“You don’t want to join me?”
I hesitate. My desire for Lorenzo’s body is almost as fierce as the one to fill my belly. But I know I have him to myself for a few weeks, just the two of us, with no Mrs Bellacci in a room across the hall.
“I do, but we’ll have plenty of time for that. Right now I need fire and food.”
Two decent-sized bedrooms with double beds fill the back of the lodge, both recently cleaned and made up. Each has an adjoining bathroom with a shower attachment over the bath. Lorenzo selects the bedroom overlooking the lake for us, and we place our luggage at the end of the bed.
“It is not Eagle House, but anything is good right now,” calls Lorenzo from the bathroom.
“I haven’t asked. What happened back in Monticiano? Romano didn’t say.”
“According to his sources, they sent six of their elite for us. But they stepped down long before reaching the villa. Romano told me that our head of ops believes they had drones in the air with heat-seeking equipment and became suspicious when they found the place cold.”
“Weren’t our people there?”
“They stationed our team and vehicles behind Pensione Galli. Wanted to spring a counter offensive from outside the grounds.”
“I still have a home to go back to, then?”
“Gabriel does.”