Names of the Dead Read online

  “If he exists? Are you calling me . . ?” He squeezed the phone in his hand. “Okay . . . Has the hotel been dabbed for prints?”

  “Montrose, you’ve got other things to think about. The first one is the shrink. What did he say?”

  Play the game. Give him the right answers. “He wants to see me again. Run further tests before he makes his recommendation.”

  “Maybe that’s for the best.”

  “Whadaya mean for the best? Sounded like he was trying to prove I’m a nutjob. Are you saying the same? I’ve turned into some kinda vigilante, all ‘cos of Sandie? My sister has got nothing to do with this. I thought you knew me better, Boss. Maybe not, eh?”

  “Wind your neck in. You just shot two guys, you got no drugs, no witnesses, and I’m trying to keep Internal Affairs from sticking your ass in an Italian jail!”

  Montrose heard the venom in his voice. There’s no way I’m going to find this guy unless Morgan is on my side. “Boss, I think we are close to finding a fuck-ton of heroin. These guys were using a container ship.”

  “Listen to me, you’ve got nothing on these guys. Nothing.”

  “The dealers I dropped weren’t some hillbilly rag-heads. They were clean-shaven, shiny shoes and styled hair. They wore Armani and IWC watches.”

  “Yeah, and your only lead is some guy in a nice suit. In Rome. That doesn’t really narrow it down. This guy could be just a businessman, or a tourist. You got nothing on him. You don’t even have a description.”

  “He came around the corner of the hotel corridor just before the shooting started. Six foot, maybe, blond hair. But they recognized him, Boss. The two guys I dropped. I’m sure of it. One look, but I know. He was no stranger. We’ve got to find him.”

  “Yeah, yeah, we’ll think about it. Look, you’re a tech specialist, leave this to the cops at Interpol. Just get yourself back over to the office. The CIA European Director is in town. He wants to make sure you’re onside.”

  Wrong answer. He felt the iPhone slip against the sweat on his face and relaxed his grip before it shot out of his hand like a bar of soap. “Yeah. I’m on my way.”

  He cut the call and turned east, lifting his hand to shade his eyes against the morning sun. In front of the Coliseum a row of green flags from an oil company hung lazily in the warm air as students handed out stuffed toys to the tourists. From the Via Labincana, two motorcycle cops swung to a halt in front of the junction of Via Celio Libenna, holding up the traffic as a line of blacked-out SUVs swept towards the centre of Rome. Montrose wiped the iPhone on his jacket and watched the motorcade. Cadillac Escalades for the US, with the Stars and Stripes, and Range Rovers for the Brits, the Union Jack fluttering in the slipstream. They disappeared towards the Via Dei Fori Imperiali and the Italian motorcycle cops looked back nervously, as though waiting for stragglers.

  Just then a white Maserati sedan appeared, curving smoothly around the Coliseum. A small Norwegian flag was fixed to the windshield with scotch tape. The windows were open and the occupants sat in shirtsleeves, eating ice cream cones as they pointed towards the Coliseum. An Italian Army jeep was right behind it, the driver hunched over the dashboard, one hand gripping the wheel and the other waving wildly. The traffic cops motioned to the Maserati, to hurry them up, but the Norwegian driver ignored them, resting his elbow on the door and adjusting his shades as he headed towards the centre of Rome.

  Nothing to do with me. But the big bad CIA boss wants me in front of his desk. Ain’t no such thing as coincidence. They’re all NATO countries. Maybe the spooks in Langley want to make sure that they ain’t got a crazy running around. They want to know if I’m a good little doggy. And if they think I’ve gone fruit loops, they’ll stick me in a kennel.

  He picked up the empty Pepsi bottle. There were four nine-millimeter rounds waiting to be picked out of the plaster on a hotel wall. The fire pattern would back me up. The CSU team can track all the shots and they’ll see it happened just like I said.

  He slipped off his jacket. The third guy. Someone must have seen him. A deal was going down. Ain’t no doubt. And I will find him. He turned and looked east towards the CIA office. Maybe ten blocks away. Fuck ‘em, they can wait.

  Tucking his chin to his chest, he spun around and headed west.

  Agent Ferguson stood before the desk, watching a bright carmine flush spreading across the Director’s face as he listened to the call. He watched the Director’s eye squeeze tight shut, the voluminous crow’s feet around his eyes turning from red to white, and the folds of fat enveloping his chin as he buried his head on his chest.

  Behind them the office door was open and CIA operatives barked orders down the phone as they monitored the motorcade heading towards the airport. Ferguson glanced back and a few faces looked his way. They’d warned him about European Director Spinks, or ‘Cartman’ as he was known, but not to his face. Ferguson checked a thin piece of paper in his hand for the third time. The Secretary of State was arriving from Washington in the next thirty minutes and had asked for an immediate report on the shootings. The US Ambassador to Italy was waiting on line two. The shitstorm had started.

  Spinks slammed down the phone and shot to his feet, his gut brushing the coffee cup on the desk, spilling some of its contents. He pointed a chubby finger at Ferguson. “Who the fuck is Montrose?”

  The phone rang and Spinks grabbed the receiver. “Yeah? Hi, Mr. Ambassador. Did you phone me up to tell me something I already know? Damage limitation? What do you think I’m doing? Do you think the CIA employ me to add some glamour to the team? No. So why don’t you get off the goddam’ phone and let me do my job!” Spinks dropped the phone and shuffled from behind his desk, advancing towards Ferguson. He grabbed the piece of paper and held it up to the light. “Who is this prick?”

  “Connor Montrose, sir. He’s a Langley IT support technician attached to Interpol. I asked for the complete file but it’s classified.”

  “Of course it is, or dicks like you would see it. Send a request with my clearance. What else?”

  “All we know is that he was disciplined for accessing a secure database, then seconded to Interpol.”

  “So what? Where is he?”

  “He’s been sent for psychological analysis. Standard procedure. He’s been told to report here immediately afterwards. Interpol said he’s supposed to be on vacation, but . . .”

  Spinks grabbed his jacket from the chair. “When Montrose walks in the door, get security to chain him to a goddam’ radiator until we get back, so I can kick his ass down the corridor.” Spinks struggled into his suit jacket. “No, just send him to the farthest CIA station and take his passport. We can deal with him later. Then get me a car. You’re coming too.”

  Ferguson turned towards the door. “Where are we going?”

  “The hotel. I want to see where Mr. IT Geek shot those ragheads.”

  “The specialist teams are already there, sir. I’m waiting for a message to say they have completed

  their . . .”

  “Shut up. My ass is on the line for this and if we don’t sort this out right now, they’ll be looking for someone to hang out to dry.” He screwed up the paper and threw it at Ferguson. “And that’s you.”

  CHAPTER 5

  The blaring of horns as he rounded the corner told him he had arrived. TV news vans, adorned with satellite dishes, lined the street on both sides, squeezing the traffic to a standstill. Italian cops seemed to be walking about, waving their hands in every direction, shouting at reporters and then at each other. Helluva big show for two drug dealers. Whatever, it’s the perfect distraction. But too many cameras.

  Montrose brought up the Google Maps satellite picture on his iPhone. There was a concreted area behind the hotel. Service entrance. He ducked down a side street then turned into an alley at the rear of the hotel.

  A cop stepped out in front of him, resplendent in mirrored sunglasses, designer stubble and shiny leather jacket, waving his hand dismissively back down

 
the alley.

  Montrose stuffed his CIA ID deep into his pocket and flipped out a badge.

  The cop squinted at the photo. “Interpol?”

  “Yeah. Call it in if you’ve got a problem.”

  The cop stuck out his chin.

  “You’ve seen an Interpol badge before, right?”

  “Si,” shrugged the cop. “We have to be careful. The press, they get everywhere.”

  “They sure do. Is this the only other entrance?”

  “That’s all. One front, one back, and a fire escape.”

  “Thanks. You’ve saved me some time.” Montrose walked down a line of expensive German automobiles and low-slung Maseratis with blacked-out windows. The dumpsters were hidden behind a wooden fence and the concrete area was free from litter. It’s cleaner than most European streets. He could see why the Pakistanis had chosen this place. Rear entrance and exit for those who don’t want to be seen. Maybe it was a specialty of the hotel. It would explain the lack of CCTV. He looked up at the door and saw a security camera blinking. Maybe not. To the right were the steel doors of the fire exit. He checked the concrete step and spotted a faint score where the steel door had scraped the surface. There was no powdered stone beside the scratch. If the door had been opened recently it would have left a trail. Only one other way out.

  The thick wooden door to the hotel was adorned with gleaming brasswork. A small square framed window sat to the side. Montrose peeked in, but saw only his reflection. Mirrored glass. Very discreet. He hammered on the door and held up his pass to the window.

  The door opened with a click. Montrose stepped inside to a small corridor, lined with polished wood panels. Not your average service entrance. To his right he saw the fire exit. It was chained shut. Security over safety. Way to go.

  To his left there was an office door with a frosted glass partition. Through the glass he could see the outline of a figure. He had just brought up his hand to knock when he heard a voice at the end of the corridor.

  “Nobody gets in! I want this place locked down!”

  Montrose spun around. The Langley circus was in town. Shit, it’s the last thing I need. He saw elevator doors halfway down the corridor. Service elevator. He ran forward and jabbed the button. The doors opened to reveal a clutter of buckets and tools. He kicked them aside and pushed the button for the Executive floor. The doors clanked shut behind him and the elevator lurched upwards.

  I’m about to step into a crime scene. The place will be crawling with specialists. He flipped his badge open. Might buy me a few minutes. The elevator shuddered to a halt and the doors opened.

  A cleaning maid holding a bucket and mop stood facing him.

  He checked the floor indicator. Executive Floor. He looked over the head of the bemused maid. No crime scene tape?

  “Scusi.” He held up his badge and squeezed past, but the maid ignored it and stepped into the elevator. He looked down the corridor. To his right was the fire exit and steps down to the rear entrance. That’s the way he came.

  The corridor carpet felt wet and stank of chemicals. He turned at the end and stared blankly. What the fuck?

  The place was spotless.

  He ran his fingers across the wallpaper. It was damp to the touch. He could smell the paste.

  “Get the hell out of here!”

  Montrose turned. Harry Ferguson. CIA Europe’s number one asshole. “Well, Mr. Ferguson. Langley’s favorite janitor. You must have licked this place clean. What the hell is going on?”

  “This is our party now, Montrose. You know the rules.”

  “Yeah, the rules that say you can take over a crime scene and clean it like your mother-in-law is about to arrive? Those rules?”

  Ferguson strode straight towards him and thrust a finger into Montrose’s chest. “This town is packed with US Government HVPs. You go around wasting people and think we don’t care?”

  Montrose brushed Ferguson’s arm aside then stepped forward until their faces were almost touching. “You do that again and I’ll rip your fucking arm off and shove it up your ass.”

  “Back off, Montrose. You’re way out of your league. You’re just a neckbeard IT geek. Basic training don’t make you a hotshot hero. And you’ve got a reputation for sticking your nose where it’s not wanted.”

  Montrose looked down at the carpet. The blood must have soaked through, but they’d probably taken up the floor. They’d done it before. “Yeah, and you’re a janitor, that’s all. Don’t matter what your badge says, Agent Ferguson. Hey, what’s that on your nose?”

  Ferguson began to lift his hand.

  “Don’t bother. It’s shit. You must have been talking to your boss.”

  Ferguson pushed his jacket aside to reveal a revolver. “You’re coming with me. And don’t think you’ve got any backup. The Italian cops have your gun, and I got the word about you. You’re a crazy. They’ll send you to the nutty farm. You’ll be eating your steak with a fucking spoon.”

  A door opened at the end of the corridor and a voice came from the room.

  “Ferguson! Get in here!”

  Montrose froze. The whining Brooklyn accent. Joe Spinks. Head of CIA in Europe. That guy would lock me up without a second thought. “Your boss is looking for you, asshole.”

  “I swear you’re going to Langley chained to the floor of a Lear Jet.”

  “Yeah, you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Strapping down guys, is that your thing?”

  “Ferguson!”

  Time to go. “Fuck you, and the big fat fucking horse you rode in on.” Montrose headed for the fire exit. If Spinks hears I’m on the premises, he’s gonna go ballistic.

  “Montrose! You stay right there!”

  He turned the corner and kicked open the fire exit. Ferguson would be coming back with his friends. He didn’t have the balls to do it on his own. Reckon I’ve got five minutes. He ran down the stairs and into the small corridor. Behind the frosted glass he could make out a face.

  The wooden paneling rattled on its dry hinges as Montrose rapped on the door. The glass slid aside and the porter looked up. His face seemed to have been freeze-dried. They dug three thousand year-old bodies out of glaciers that looked healthier. “You speak English?” said Montrose.

  The porter thought about it, his pale watery eyes distracted for a second. “No.”

  Montrose pulled a fifty euro bill from his wallet. “Or maybe you understand English?”

  The rheumy eyes fixed on the money. He shrugged again. The bones under his thin shirt seemed to pierce his skin. “Si.”

  “The CCTV from last night. Where is it?”

  The old guy nodded toward a flickering black and white screen at the corner of his desk.

  “That’s it? How many cameras?”

  He thought for a moment then shrugged again, this time pursing his lips.

  The effort must be killing him.

  “Una.”

  Montrose checked the screen. The camera didn’t cover the door. No surprise. Minimum security for maximum discreetness. “Wind it back to eight o’clock last night.”

  The porter looked down at the trackball and keyboard as if they’d just landed on his desk out of thin air.

  “Look, Pops, there’s a guy coming in the next few minutes who’s going to take that system away. For that, you’ll get nothing. But from me, you’ll get another one of these.” Montrose slid out another fifty.

  A quivering hand wavered over the keys before it plunged down and rolled the trackball back.

  Montrose watched the clock on the screen wind backwards. “Stop.” The timer read 19:58. “Play.”

  The porter jabbed the keyboard with a talon-like finger and the picture jerked into action.

  Montrose heard voices behind him. Just then, a long black shape slipped across the screen. A taxi.

  “Stop!”

  The picture shuddered to a halt. A figure slipped from the rear door of the taxi and headed towards the hotel. Blondie. It had to be him.

  “G
o forward one minute.”

  For a moment the picture sped past in a blur. The taxi was still there. Then a figure darted across the screen and dived into the rear seat of the taxi. The taxi sped off.

  Montrose glanced back down the corridor. Ferguson will be on me in seconds.

  “Listen, Pops, you see everything that happens here. Who comes and who goes.”

  The porter said nothing.

  “The taxi had a license plate on the trunk. If someone needs a taxi, you know who to call, yeah?”

  The porter expanded his reactions to a wet sniff and a long blink of his rheumy eyes.

  “So, I bet you one hundred euros you could phone up the firm, find out the name of that customer and where he was headed. Safe bet, yeah?” Montrose pressed a hundred euro bill against the glass.

  The eyes grew sharper.

  “This bet won’t last forever. Remember the guys right behind me are gonna want this for free. This way you get to win a bet. It’s down to you.” Montrose dropped the bill on the desk.

  Pinning it down with his finger, the old guy pulled it towards him then picked up a phone. A short conversation took place in wheezing, guttural Italian. He scrawled down a few words in thin, spider-like writing, then held it up. “No name.”

  Montrose grabbed the paper. “72 Via Nableone.” He heard the voices behind him become louder. “Thanks, Pops.”

  The old guy pocketed the money. “For what? This did not happen.” He slid the glass shut.

  CHAPTER 6

  The gleaming white stone façade stretched down both sides of the avenue. Montrose shaded his eyes against the glare as he approached the polished black door of a town house. There was no name plate. Maybe Blondie likes his privacy. Or he’s left town. That’s what I’d do.

  He crossed to the other side of the street, and stood before a shop window. In its reflection he gazed up at the shutters of the house behind him. The Google satellite map showed a steep metal roof. No air con vents. No back alley. One way in, one way out. He heard one of the shutters open and watched as an old woman in a floral apron shook a small carpet out of the window. I’m guessing she’s not the lady of the house, but she’ll do.