Читать книгу Serpent Sting - Toni Grant - Страница 11

CHAPTER 4

26 January – Australia Day

Ibiza, Balearic Islands

Alessandro Delarno glanced anxiously between the monitors lining the wall of his private suite and the Ulysse Nardin timepiece on his wrist.

After a hellish night, in the calm silence of predawn, a nervous sweat broke his refined features. Carlo Seta was onto him, Alessandro was sure. Not that he would tell his nephew. No. The operation would proceed as planned. All Alessandro could do now was hope that Nicholas was prepared. For everything.

He checked the coordinates again and, in the moonlight, glanced portside through the vast window. It was a pointless exercise. The enigmatic island of Es Vedra loomed, her mystical jagged cliffs dropping sharply to the treacherous depths at her feet.

“Do we have eyes on?” the voice in the earpieces crackled in the silence.

“Not yet, Sir,” came the reply. The scout scoured the low scrubby trees surrounding the elite home, returning to the only entry point. He adjusted his night vision binoculars, seeking clarity.

“Keep looking. He’s there.”

“Yes Sir,” he replied, adjusting the binoculars again. “Sir, I think he’s in.”

“You think?” Alessandro questioned abruptly.

He cleared his throat. “Well Sir, I saw a small movement by the doorway.”

He’s in. Alessandro checked the monitors again and waited. “Thank you. Standby everybody. Now we wait for Nicholas.”

Nicholas backed into the shadows of the whitewash walled fortress perched on the clifftop. It glowered at him in the darkness. In the bright moonlight, a rough goat path around the steep terrain leading from the ocean to the luxury villa gleamed. It was obvious if you knew where to look. Nicholas did, and so did the patrol stationed on the rooftop floor of the home.

At the very top of three luxurious levels, the heavily armed outfit commanded a bird’s eye view of the sea and hinterland. Behind the structure, a gentle rise protected the home from the interior. Adding to its privacy, a series of low-walled gardens, filled with almond trees, radiated from a central point; the home’s third storey lookout.

This was no ordinary home. It was a place of absolutes and opulence. A place shrouded in decadence and majestic natural beauty. A place boasting unlimited power. It was exactly the type of house Nicholas’s father would have booked for their annual vacation and filled with business associates, in the not so distant past.

Clearly visible from the rooftop lookout, a single lane roadway access point crossed the island and wound a path to the gated estate. Despite the hills, any oncoming vehicle could be observed minutes before arrival. With this in mind, Nicholas had chosen a more watery approach followed by a steep climb.

The goat track was for amateurs.

St Antoni de Portmany, the celebrated clubbing town of the small island, a lazy twenty kilometres to the north, had pumped all night. It was party season. Once upon a time, when his family would have taken the villa, Nicholas would have appreciated the offerings such a place bestowed on the young and rich. That was the past. Today was business. Family business.

Nicholas breathed out, lightly, slowly, settling the energy running around his gut. It was time. Shouldering the rough stonework with a shrug, he dismissed the thought threads, the last deliberations of circumstance that brought him here.

His objective was clear. Get in. Get the information. Get out. Three minutes.

Within that time, the new crew would commence their shift. It was a three-minute opportunity window. Nicholas was as familiar with their routine as his own. He’d lived it for a fortnight now. Exactness in execution, just as Carlo Seta demanded. Such precision and predictability could only mean one thing. Seta was comfortable in this environment.

It took three minutes for the brief verbal exchange between shifts and for the new foot patrol to reach where he stood, the only accessible point of the expansive palace that was without twenty-four hour surveillance.

Within this amount of time, he would make the most of the pre-dawn darkness to slip undetected into the home and return to his hiding place. From there, he’d negotiate the treacherous descent to the water’s edge. At the base of the cliff, a rustic-looking fishing boat gave him a cover story and the opportunity to get back to the yacht. Well, that was the plan.

As the first rays split the dawn sky, Nicholas checked himself and slid under the lower timber doorway that accessed an interior courtyard. Two minutes, fifty-nine seconds, then out.

He’d spent months, years, preparing for today. Practicing the routine skills. By now, his actions were mechanical, allowing his mind the freedom to make instinctive decisions. Repetition in practice. It bled the emotion out.

Stepping silently upwards around the gracious stairwell, he reached the living area and checked the entrances for signs of movement. In the hush, he swiftly crossed the vastness, making towards the advanced communications set up in one of the many breakout rooms with an eye-popping view of the coast.

He shoved the USB device into the back of the Mac, easily bypassing the security and password settings, and the information transfer from the hard drive began. Next, he tapped into a phantom site, opening a portal to allow the automatic transfer of any new data.

Seta’s phone, sitting on a small table near the window, pipped a new message.

Nicholas retrieved a small tracking device from his pocket. He pushed the micro tube into the earphone jack and syringed the tiny locator along the sleeve. With a final push, the chip slid into place at the base of the small hole.

Nicholas checked the door for movement, listening for the first stirrings from within the house. Upstairs, in the bedroom, the silence was broken only by the regular sounds of sleep.

The portable device he retrieved from his cargo pocket plugged neatly into the mobile phone. Within seconds, he downloaded the contents: 10%. 5%. Done. Nicholas checked his watch: two minutes. He breathed out, and dropped the USB into his pocket. One more place to go.

Increasing his silent pace, he crossed the floor to the stairwell and slipped through the doorway. From here, stone steps led to an isolated location at the lower ground level. An intimate place designed for the most discreet arrangements. One minute.

The paved courtyard looked directly over the cliff. It was protected from the steep drop by a low concrete wall. Above, the cantilevered pool deck formed a timber ceiling. A plush daybed furnished the small space.

Crouching beside large potted lemon trees flanking the doorway, Nicholas stilled as heavy footsteps negotiated the outdoor tiles above. This was unexpected. The footsteps stopped where the tiles met the timber of the pool deck.

The intruder listened as a second set of footsteps stopped momentarily.

“Mr Seta,” the guard greeted curtly and continued his rounds. Footsteps shuffled towards the low timber door. It opened. Then shut. The footsteps continued as the guard climbed the steps to the rooftop lookout.

From his hideout, Nicholas glanced upwards as Carlo Seta paused on the boards directly above. He touched the knife strapped to his leg. Personal satisfaction. That’s all he would gain by killing Seta now.

Seta stepped back from the edge. Nicholas breathed out lightly. He would complete the task this morning. He had no choice.

In the predictable rhythm of the past fortnight, overnight, some things had changed. Nicholas knew the protocol. Visiting the island home without family, at this time of year, meant one thing … a new business arrangement. The extra security detail on twenty-four hour duty had arrived well before Carlo Seta and would remain long after his departure. As would the business partners, guests and lavish entertainment that had been organised for their pleasure. The quiet arrival of the mob boss during the evening’s performance confirmed Nicholas’s suspicions.

During his time on the island, Nicholas had recorded pictorial evidence of the guests visiting the location. His actions contributing to the web of contacts, partnerships and proof held securely within his uncle’s secure database. Along with a string of information linking activities carried out by the clandestine organised crime outfit.

The task wasn’t difficult. Nic knew most of the faces. He’d worked alongside them almost all of his life. Two new faces had joined the crowd. Last evening they’d arrived with their own security. Better trained and better armed, their reconnaissance stretched beyond the boundary of the villa.

Instinctively, Nic had waited long after their departure to move closer. There he’d rested the last hours until dawn, hiding amongst the rubble, rocks and low growing heath.

By now, Alessandro’s team would have gone some way to identifying the new team. Images checked with face recognition software pilfered from some investigative agency. Nic knew this because on any other operation that would be his job.

Alessandro Delarno called the shots on every job. His uncle risked more than most as he danced the double life of friend and foe to the Italian mafia family and their associates.

Tasked to take the lead with Carlo Seta, Nic was ready to prove his worth to the vigilante outfit run by his uncle. The time was right to undermine and compromise the group that Detective Francesca Salucci had begun to unravel.

But Seta was as cunning as he was rash.

Nic mentally picked at the scab of loss and revenge. His last attempt to disrupt Seta’s interference in family business had ended badly. The wayward thoughts stopped as quickly as they surfaced. Daydreaming sealed a death warrant.

Seta’s footsteps retreated towards the home’s interior. It was safe to proceed. The intruder set about completing the task of installing the discreet listening device.

The mob boss’s paranoia had succumbed to this controlled environment. Satisfied that his security protocol could not be breached, Seta relaxed into making binding verbal arrangements, here, beside the pool deck. And when the business was done, a string of pretty young things filled the space encouraging all measure of pleasure and entertainment. It was Seta’s way.

Nicholas checked the time. Three minutes, thirty seconds. Done. He stepped quietly towards the low wall boundary of the small patio. Above him, a mobile phone rang. Nicholas stilled, caught half way between escape and the home.

“Seta,” he heard. Then, “Silvio!”

Seta was again at the deck’s edge.

“What do you want?”

Now, he shifted around the timber boards—steps made in annoyance.

“Last night went well.”

There was a short silence.

“I won’t discuss this. Have you found that whore Salucci?”

Another short silence.

“Then you are of no value to me. The Commission are just as useless. Stay out of my way, old man. And smash that phone! No phone calls will ever be tracked to me.”

Seta ended the call abruptly. Footsteps stalked towards the interior. A door slammed against the steel and concrete construction.

Nicholas ignored the emotions threatening his actions and checked his watch. Five minutes. He’d wasted too much time. Sunshine split the horizon. The whole underside of the deck was suddenly bathed in morning light. Now he’d have to find a new place to hide and wait out the next shift change.

The intruder slipped over the low wall into the thick rosemary undergrowth. Behind him a glass door opened. The mistress stepped onto the paving and padded towards the outdoor lounge. Seta followed her to the open doorway. He paused at the precipice, his temper simmering in his clenched fists.

“Anya Frida! What is it? I’m not in the mood for your childish games,” he grumbled at the Russian beauty.

“Come on Seta,” she purred, turning her pretty blonde head towards him. “Before our guests arrive for breakfast and you are too busy for me. I want you again. Here, out in the open with only the sun and air between us.” She slipped the silk wrap off her shoulders and it fell in a pool of colour at her feet.

Wrapping the tie cord seductively around her neck and pulling it gently, she cooed, “Take me any way you please, but first …”

The old man stepped into the coolness and she knelt before him. Spreading his bathrobe she rubbed her hands along his naked legs and reaching his buttocks, she pulled him to her, whispering, “It’s my turn.”