month, pal. We’re booked solid.’
‘We’ll see about that when I talk to your boss.’
‘I am the boss.’
Buratti chewed his lip, his brow twisted in thought. Turning the delivery away was bound to wind up with him getting an earful from someone. ‘OK. But make it quick. I want that stuff unloaded and this van out of here in five minutes.’
‘Fine.’
Buratti waved the van through and it drove around the side of the building, tyres crunching on gravel, followed the path round the back and pulled up in view of the new modern wing. The diesel died with a shudder.
Rocco Massi swung open his door and jumped down. Bellomo and Garrone did the same, nobody saying a word. Through the tall glass windows Rocco could see the people inside, milling about staring at a bunch of paintings. Chattering, pointing, admiring, one or two standing around sipping wine. Bunch of smug shits. All too preoccupied to notice anything. He grinned. Five minutes from now, things would be a whole lot different for these good folks.
The two security guards were watching impatiently from near the entrance. Rocco jerked his head as if to call them over, and they came stomping across the gravel. Their tough guy act deflated with every step. He was a foot taller than either of them, and the tight black T-shirt showed every muscle. Bellomo and Garrone leaned up against the side of the van, watching in silence.
‘What is it?’ Buratti said.
‘Change of plan, fellas,’ Rocco said. ‘If you want us out of here fast, you’re gonna have to help us unload.’
‘What?’
‘Won’t take long if there’s five of us.’ Rocco motioned to the rough patch of ground that the builders had left in the wake of the construction project. ‘Over there OK?’
‘You’re shitting us.’
‘Nope. There’s a lot of stuff here. See for yourself.’ Rocco beckoned them round the back of the van, where they were out of sight of the guests inside the gallery.
Buratti was working hard to look fierce and professional, and failing. ‘Listen, pal. You do your job and we’ll do ours. We’re not paid to unload garden equipment. We have a job to do.’
‘Yeah,’ Ghini said. ‘What do we look like to you?’
Rocco gazed at them impassively from behind the curved shades. ‘Like a couple of dead assholes,’ he said, and opened the back door of the van.
The first thing Ghini saw inside the van was the last thing he’d ever see in this world. Spartak Gourko was crouching just inside the door, watching him impassively. Ghini stared at him, then stared at the strange-looking knife in his hand. The man was pointing it at Ghini’s chest, but he didn’t move. Then there was a sudden crack and the knife blade was propelled like a missile. Its razor-sharp point drove deep into him, shattering a rib and plunging into his heart. He was dead before he hit the ground.
Buratti backed away in a panic, then let out a wheezing gasp as Bellomo stepped up behind him and buried a combat dagger in his back. He slumped down on top of Ghini.
Spartak Gourko jumped down from the van. In his hand was the hilt of his knife, a long steel spring protruding where the blade should be. A trophy from his Spetsnaz days. He kicked over the bodies and retrieved the detachable blade from Ghini’s chest. Slipping it into a metal sheath, he compressed it back inside the hilt with an effort before replacing the weapon in his belt.
Anatoly Shikov jumped out of the van next, followed by the other three Russians, each holding a large black canvas holdall. Strong hands grasped Ghini and Buratti by their collars and belts and bundled them messily into the back of the Mercedes.
The ornamental slabs and edging stones were lying in a ditch miles away.
Anatoly slammed the doors shut, peeled back the sleeve of his jacket, checked the dial of his shiny Tag Heuer. Dead on time, the radio gave a splurt and a fizz. He snatched it up. Petrovich’s voice, transmitting from somewhere beyond the woods.
‘You’re good to go,’ Petrovich said in Russian. ‘Landline dead?’
‘As disco.’
‘OK. You and what’s-his-name stand by.’
‘Caracciolo. Copy. See you when it’s done, boss.’
Anatoly shut off the radio. He unzipped a plain black gym bag, took out the cellphone blocker his father had given him, set it down on the van’s passenger seat and activated it. Just like that, all communication to and from the Academia Giordani was cut off. Also in the gym bag was the padded case his father had given him, tailored to the dimensions of the Goya sketch. Anatoly put the strap around his shoulder.
The eight men walked fast across the gravel and paused outside the entrance to unzip the holdalls. First, out came the black balaclavas, standard three-hole military issue. Rocco didn’t like to remove his shades, but couldn’t wear them over the mask. He took them off reluctantly and slipped them into his pocket. Next came the tight-fitting leather gloves; and finally the weapons. Five Steyr TMP ultra-compact 9mm machine pistols with twenty-round magazines; Anatoly grabbed one of those like a kid in a sweet shop, while Rocco Massi helped himself to one of the two AR-15 assault rifles fitted with 40mm underbarrel grenade launchers. Gourko claimed the other. The last firearm to be handed out was the short-barrelled Remington 12-gauge autoloader with folding stock. Good for blowing locks and generally blasting apart anything at close range. That one fell to Garrone.
Between them, it added up to enough firepower to hold off a regiment.
Once everyone was kitted up, all eyes fell on Anatoly. Waiting for his command. He loved this moment.
There was a limit to how much Ben could discuss about fine art, but it turned out that Donatella shared his love of Bartók’s music and that was what they were talking about when Gianni came up to complain he was thirsty. While she fussed over the boy and went to the refreshments table to get him a glass of fruit juice, Ben stepped casually across to the window and gazed out at the grounds and the woods that surrounded the property. He noticed the white Mercedes van parked up outside, which hadn’t been there before. It looked like a builder’s van, well used and streaked with road dirt. Whoever had left it there while he and Donatella had been talking had disappeared out of sight.
Ben didn’t give it a second thought as he stood sipping his drink, surrounded by the growing buzz of conversation. The refreshments room was filling with people, wine being poured, the finger food rapidly disappearing from the table. The sullen teenage girl was moping alone in a corner, huffing in exasperation whenever her parents came within a few metres of her. Ben could hear Donatella in the background talking to her boy, and decided that now was the moment for him to make his excuses and get away. She was a charming host, Gianni was a sweet kid and he wasn’t sorry to have spent a while with them, but he needed to get back to his own affairs.
Just then, someone bumped into him from behind and a voice said, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’ Ben looked around to see Mr Dashing, the Robert Redford-a-like, standing there with half a canapé in his hand and the other half partially chewed in his open mouth. Ben felt the wetness against his skin. He glanced down at the big dark red patch all down the front of his denim shirt and realised he’d spilled wine over himself. ‘Thanks for that,’ he said, dripping.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Mr Dashing repeated.
‘Don’t worry about it.’
Donatella joined him at the window. She was frowning at the slim phone in her hand. ‘I just tried to call Fabio to see what was happening, but I can’t get through. My phone’s gone dead.’
‘Battery?’
‘No, it’s fine,’