Tony Bertolucci prided himself in staying fit. He instructed his chauffeur to park near the sea at Contrada agli Androni, in sight of the colorful ranks of beach umbrellas. From here Tony would walk a quarter mile uphill to the bluffs overlooking the Mediterranean, where his employer awaited him. He was not unduly concerned over the prospects of working up a sweat. Isabel Consuela Manzini was old and ugly, without a single redeeming quality if one left out her talent for financial gain. She might not like the smell of his fitness, but she would not hold that against him. Tony Bertolucci was the one man she could trust unreservedly.
He loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar as he started his climb. He had chosen a white serge coat out of respect for the hot sun, and wore no undershirt so that the inshore breeze had only to penetrate one thin layer of clothing to reach the hard tanned skin of his chest and midriff; his coat being open and whipping like a flag.
He was annoyed to see an elderly man with a cane hobbling toward him down the path. He would have liked to bump him off the cliff. As it was he turned sideways to let the codger pass him. Still there was a bump, but it was not the fault of Tony.
"Pardon me," the old man said, patting Tony on the hip, of all places. "My spectacles," he added, "they are nearly worthless. I will have my eyes examined if you will forgive me."
"Of course, of course," Tony said irritably, and walked on. He could see Isabel standing at the edge of the bluff, her hands on the yellow metal railing, leaning over it to watch the waves crashing on the jagged boulders seventy-five feet below.
Her five bodyguards recognized Tony Bertolucci and nodded him in. Their dark sunglasses flashed in the sun as though they were sending signals to one another. Tony slowed his stride and took deep breaths. Sweat was dripping off his patrician nose.
Isabel Consuela Manzini turned to smile at him, her closed lips a thin wrinkled line. Her dyed platinum hair shook in the breeze like a bundle of cotton balls. Her fashionable shades hid small beady eyes. Her pants outfit, under the red vinyl raincoat that slapped at her legs in the frequent misty updrafts, seemed to want to rip itself away from her skinny body and flee to the armored Volvos parked along the street behind her. But in her own mind she was elegant and desireable. All the men in her employ were careful not to disillusion her. Tony was no exception. "How lovely you look this afternoon," he said, with all the sincerity of a parrot.
Isabel accepted the compliment as her due. "The chairman of the board is malleable?" she asked spritely.
"He has been persuaded," Tony replied, a hand on the railing. A sloop from the Terrasini boat dock was tacking slowly in the white caps, its jib sail fluttering. He could hardly wait for the weekend.
"Good," said Isabel. She pretended to be only mildly interested. "My dear Giorgio will be in for a surprise come Monday. Did you talk to the accountant, in strict confidence?"
"He believes that Vicenti will agree to buy you out for one point four billion."
"Either that, or he will lose control of his company," said Isabel in a sharp tone. She softened her voice, adding: "You have earned a raise, Tony, and a bonus. I know you've had your eye on a yacht."
"Yes," he said with a catch in his throat, "the Bambino."
Thirty minutes later Tony Bertolucci was lounging in his limo drinking carrot juice and admiring a motorcyclist following behind the limo in the sparse traffic of A29. He thought nothing peculiar about it until he was stepping out from the limo at the Hotel Azzolini. The motorcyclist, all in black leather and wearing a visored helmet, rushed up to him, shouting, "Armando! Armando Cisneros!" He grabbed Tony by the shoulders, then immediately stepped back. "My apologies, signor," he said. "I mistook you for someone else."
"That is quite all right," Tony said. He could not see the man's face very clearly through the tinted visor, but what he could make out was not familiar. "I hope you find your friend."
"If Our Lady will be so kind," the man said with a wry smile. He was tall and lithe. He walked back to his Nighthawk in a jaunty manner, slipping a hand in a pocket of his jacket for just a moment.
In his room at the Provincial, three blocks from the Azzolini, the Master Sanguineus took the pea-sized recorder from his jacket pocket and placed it in a bracket of the amplifier that he had taken from the T bag of the motorcycle. From this same bag he removed a short-haired white wig and a make-up kit. These he placed in a plastic sack, to be disposed of later. He never wore the same disguise twice.
"How lovely you look this afternoon," said the recorded voice of Tony Bertolucci. Sanguineus listened intently to the conversation as he took off his black leather jacket, then proceeded to clean off the remnants of make-up from his lean square-jawed face with an alcohol wipe.
Were you there in that poorly illuminated room of the Provincial, with the curtains drawn and the ceiling light-fixture shaded in pebbled glass, you would not have been able to accurately guess the assassin's age. There were some streaks of grey in his dark hair and close-trimmed goatee; but except for the lines at the corners of his eyes, as fine as though they had been faintly etched with a razor, his appearance suggested a youthful energy aligned with the conservative movements of a healthy middle age.
"Yes. The Bambino." After a long silence, the woman in the red vinyl raincoat said in a hesitant voice that intrigued Sanguineus, "Meet me here Sunday, at this same time." Another pause. Bertolucci made a brief reply that a sudden updraft erased. The assassin re-played the segment several times, but all he could hear was the stiff flapping of Isabel's raincoat.
The pager on his belt began vibrating. He unsnapped it and looked at the screen. It showed the digits 13-888. He put on a pair of sunglasses and a black sockcap. He pushed the sleeves of his grey thermal undershirt to his elbows and left the room briskly. Downstairs at the registration desk he used the public phone to dial a particular number. When the call was answered he said, "One dash zero one."
The voice of Professor Rolgo said, "Your prospective customer in Palermo requests a meeting at his principal residence tomorrow, Thursday, at nine in the evening. As the representative for Universal Tools, we ask that you attend. It is an important sale. The precise location can be found through the usual source."
"I shall be there," Sanguineus said and hung up. To the registrar lingering over a cup of coffee he said, "Would you be so kind as to send up to Room 202 tomorrow morning's edition of Giornale Di Scilia?"
"With our compliments, Signor Cruor."
Sanguineus had dinner that night at the Azur Amore restaurant. He wore a casual dark blue suit without a tie and was pleased that he managed to eat his spaghetti and sausage without spotting his shirt. A young woman had paused at his secluded table to start a conversation, but though she was the prettiest girl he had seen in his two days on the toe of the Italian peninsula, it was his policy not to engage in sex until the conclusion of his assignment. He asked for and received her cell phone number. "In a few days, I promise," he told her.
He spent the rest of the night in his room listening to the recording and studying the photographs that had been supplied to him by the chief assignment officer at Red Rum's cover establishment in New York, Universal Tools, and also the photos he had taken with his buttonhole camera while hobbling along the seacliff path with his cane. In a small spiral notebook he jotted down notes and drew diagrams. When he had memorized the salient points of his plan he set fire to the papers with the lit end of his slim black cheroot. Before going to bed he sat in the threadbare armchair by the window, smoking, drinking Chianti, and listening to Chopin nocturnes on his iPod.
In the morning at breakfast he opened the newspaper to the classified section. After a few minutes he found what he was looking for. It was a coded ad beginning with 1-01.
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