I enter the kitchen to the pleasant odours of toasted bread and bacon frying. Although he is at the cooker, I notice he has also been cleaning his handgun on another counter. But his attention is fixed on the wall television. A female reporter stands in the middle of a road in London where a police cordon has been set up.
“—embattled recently with allegations of rigging a medical trial. We understand from officials that he was staying in London at the penthouse home of a friend before planning to travel on to the WHO headquarters in Brussels to attend a tribunal. A police investigation has been opened into thecause of this tragedy. Naturally, they are unwilling to speculate, and all they can tell us at the moment is that a passerby found the body of Professor Sergio Puchinsky on the pavement outside a residential apartment block in Holland Park. They also confirmed that Puchinsky died from injuries caused by the fall.”
I stare at the screen momentarily, Romano’s words returning to me.
“Dr Romano told me Puchinsky would never stand trial.”
“Let me tell you something aboutil dottore. His first priority is to his country and national security, which extends to those who work for him. But he is also a man of traditional Italian values. Once he considers you worthy of his friendship and trust—and your friend Albert was considered such—you become an extension of his family. And anybody foolish enough to mess with his family will pay a price.”
“Does he consider me—?”
“He considers us both family. Close family.”
Right now, I am grateful to have Romano on my side. Lorenzo brings over plates of food, and we sit at the table by the window, eating in comfortable silence. But I can tell by the furrow of his brow that he is mulling something over.
“I have not heard from him,” he says when he notices me studying him.
“Is that normal?”
“Not normal. I have sent messages to both of them. But even Mrs Bellacci is silent. I know you do not check the internet, but there is another thing.”
I wonder if something has happened back in Italy.
“Nothing was reported about the attack on Sylvie Leblanc. Or about the men I shot on the street who followed you home. Not a thing. Usually, the police would ask the public for information. I also have access to secure sites that report incidents of this kind. But it’s as if this one never happened.”
Multiple reasons pop into my head, one being that the police or other intelligence services suppressed the news until the assassin had been interrogated. The upside is that my—Aksel’s—face has not been released to the media. How long that will remain the case, who knows? Romano, of all people, would have more information. But we must stay under the radar until we hear from him.
“He told us to go to ground for two weeks,” I say. “Said he would contact us when he believes we are out of danger. I suggest we hold the faith and trust him.”
Lorenzo nods once but does not meet my gaze.
“I’m here, Enzo. Right by your side.”
That remark draws his beautiful dark eyes to mine and gifts me with one of his rare smiles. He reaches across the table and grabs my hand.
“I know,” he says, before going back to the food. “Do you think we will ever have this life?”
“What life?” I ask.
“This,” he says, looking around the lodge.
“Lorenzo, you wouldn’t last three months. Probably less. Look, you’re already getting bored cooking breakfast, so you decided to clean your gun.”
Lorenzo laughs before shrugging. “I am not used to being inactive for so long. What time is it?”
“That was the nine o’clock news. Why?”
“We need to use this time. Take my phone and call the number on the card Leblanc gave you.”
I stare at him for a moment. He is right. We can still do things even if we cannot leave the lodge. I pick up his phone, dial the number and put the phone on speaker. The call is answered almost immediately.
“Who is it?” comes a deep, brusque voice with faint traces of a French accent.
“Can I speak to Dr Maurice Leblanc?”
“Who is calling?”
“My name is…Aksel. Aksel Larsen.”