Gun Metal Heart (6 page)

“Sure,” she said. “That's why you're missing the meeting?”

“Which meeting?”

“The ten o'clock meeting.”

John said, “Is it ten o'clock?”

Piper thought about a half-dozen replies but bit them all back.

John stood up and retrieved his suit-coat jacket from the back of his chair. The jacket was matte black and the lining tamale red. It was the precise same red as the swirls of his tie. The red also appeared as a thin line in his pocket square. Piper, Paige, Bryce, and Ryder played a kind of drinking game in the evening, based on what color combinations John Broom would wear the next day to work, and whether the lining of his jacket, or his pocket squares, would match his ties.

John gathered his tablet computer and the intern gathered her laptop.

“I can't miss this meeting,” he told her. “It's important. Calvin places a lot of importance on team meetings.”

“He does,” she conceded.

“It's bad form to miss these meetings.”

Piper nodded.

“Really, missing the meeting would be bad.”

John's phone vibrated while they were still six paces from the senator's conference room door. John whisked it out of his trouser pocket. He frowned at the extra-long overseas number on display.

“John Broom.”

The voice on the other end said, “Hallo, Mr. Broom.”

John froze. Piper took two steps before she realized he wasn't moving. She turned back.

John gulped.

The voice on the line said, “Is this a bad time, p'raps?”

Piper raised her eyebrows.

John held the phone against his chest. “Tell Calvin I'll be missing the meeting.”

*   *   *

Daria felt the breeze, salty and warm, off the Mediterranean. Anton brought her an iced Sorrentine limoncello and a dull glower.

She smiled as the voice over the international call said, “Thought we agreed to use first names.”

“Right you are. Hallo, John.”

“Hi, Daria.”

“Surprised to hear from me?”

Gulls arced overhead, not flapping their wings but riding the thermals.

“I was not part of that bullshit with the CIA,” John Broom shot back quickly. “I hope you know that. I fought hard for them to understand that you weren't the bad guy. That you saved lives. Lots of lives.”

“I do know that, John. Just as I know that the CIA, and the other agencies, agreed to leave me alone so long as I stay low and don't interfere.”

She sipped the icy drink. She listened to the two beats of silence. John said, “Uh oh.”

She barked a quick, musical laugh. “'Fraid so. Friend of a friend might be in trouble. I'm getting involved.”

She hooked one bare heel up on the seat of her chair.

“You need any help?”

“A bit, and I wouldn't bother you, but some rather bad players appear to be in Florence. They shouldn't be. This isn't their patch. D'you know of the White Scorpions?”

One of the gulls dive-bombed the flagstone balcony, a baleful eye on Daria's sunny yellow drink. “The old Yugoslavia?”

She was impressed. “Ten for ten. Serbia, to be precise. Paramilitary death squads during the Yugoslav civil war.”

“They're in Florence?”

“Apparently.” She closed her eyes to dredge up the details Diego had shared. “There's an engineer from Rome named Gabriella Incantada. She hired a friend of mine to protect something she invented. She was planning to sell this thing—don't know what it is, alas—at the Hotel Criterion in Florence. My friend said
Skorpjo
blokes started showing up.”

“In Italy?”

Daria said, “Quite. And while I've no idea who Gabriella Incantada is, nor what she invented, my friend said it's military in nature. A weapon, he thinks. Possibly—”

The voice over the phone line said, “Avionics control suites. Interfaces for aircraft.”

Daria grinned and sat lower, knee raised higher. “And you know that…?”

“Because I looked it up while we were talking. Gabriella Incantada makes aviation control circuits.”

“Splendid.” She sipped the drink. Gianni Docetti appeared from his bedroom, wearing a towel low around his hips and a broad smile. His muscled body had about 5 percent body fat and maybe fifteen tattoos. He carried a rolled-up map. He laid it out on the table before her. It displayed the topography of northern Italy.

“Not so splendid. First, I'm no expert on Serb gangsters, but they're supposed to be a force in Central Europe. Florence isn't their turf. Second, I think they go in for the kidnap-and-ransom game, plus murder for hire, knocking over banks, drug trade, prostitution. But weapons-grade avionics?” He paused as if thinking. “Yikes.”

“Indeed. As you say: Yikes.”

Gianni picked up his own drink and swigged it. He ran a hand through his wild mane of sun-bleached hair and inhaled the salty sea air. He studied the map, one blunt finger tracing the straightaways and noting the wicked switchback hills.

John said, “Okay. Daria? I'm on this thing. Can I get back to you on this line?”

“No,” she said, setting down her drink. “It's not my phone. And I'm helping a friend. That's all. Thought you should know that the White Scorpions are trading up. Do with this information as you will, John Broom.”

“But I—”

“
Ciao.
” She hung up and set the mobile on the round glass-and-iron patio table.

Gianni bent at the waist, a hand on the back of her head, and kissed her deeply.

“Hmmm,” he said, grinning. “
Mia Gatta.
You taste like lemons.”

“Really.” Daria whisked away his towel. “And what do you taste like today?”

 

Seven

Sandpoint, Idaho

The hidden basement level of the American Citadel Electronics R&D offsite facility had a simple layout: a conference room, a control room, and an observation lounge. The last two were set up like a movie theater with a projection room: people inside the control room looked out through a long, narrow window at the backs of the heads of the people in the observation room. A giant array of plasma screens occupied every square centimeter of the far wall. Todd Brevidge had once watched a NASCAR race on that wall of screens, shot from the perspective of a driver, and had almost puked. The system's vivid detail was unmatched.

The two potential buyers arrived first, followed by more honchos from Corporate. Everyone flew into the one-runway airfield to the north and west of the town, perched on the upper curve of the question mark–shaped Lake Pend Oreille.

The newcomers were escorted to the basement observation room of the American Citadel office. Neither of the guests asked why they had been spirited to the remotest realms of the contiguous forty-eight for this demonstration. They knew why.

The guests were easy to identify. One man, white; one woman, black. He in his sixties; she in her late forties. Both held themselves ramrod straight, arms either at their sides or one fist wrapped around one wrist, behind the back. Tight haircuts. Stiff and formal. In real life the buyers would wear stars and bars on their clothing. The building in which they worked would have five sides, not four.

But during their stay at the American Citadel R&D offsite facility, the white man and the black woman would be called Mr. Smith and Miss Jones. No rank. No insignia. It was the only way to get these two top officials to venture into the American Citadel infrastructure. Just doing so violated half a dozen restrictions placed on the company by the U.S. State Department, the U.S. Department of Defense, and the U.S. Department of Commerce.

Six months earlier American Citadel technology had been discovered in the bunkers of soldiers in Sudan and Somalia. Six years before that, American Citadel technology had been used against Allied troops in Iraq.

The company had been saddled with massive and (in the minds of the brass) unfair trade restrictions ever since. A half-dozen federal criminal investigations were ongoing.

Which is why Mr. Smith and Miss Jones were flying in under the radar today.

Cyrus Acton, the tall, gaunt member of the Citadel board of directors, greeted the guests warmly.

Bryan Snow retired to the control room with two of his technicians who, in the parlance of American Citadel research and development, were called
pilots
. Together they ran through one last diagnostic check of all the systems.

Before the demonstration began, Mr. Acton took Todd Brevidge by the elbow and moved him aside. He winked conspiratorially. “There are those on the board who don't think you're ready, Todd. I am not one of them. I am your guy on the board. You know that. Right?”

“Absolutely, sir. I've always known that.”

As always, the gaunt man overenunciated his words, as if he'd had a stroke or was mildly drunk and compensating. “Todd, the buyers today are different from most. Do you know why?”

“No, sir?”

Mr. Acton licked his very thin lips. “They have already said no thanks to our product and have placed orders with our competitor.”

Todd nodded. Of course he knew that. They were swimming upstream with today's sales pitch, and nobody knew that better than Todd Brevidge!

“They want the competitor's product!” Mr. Acton hissed. “Todd. Today is our opportunity—you'll note the singular, yes?
Opportunity.
Today is our opportunity to turn them around. These idiotic sanctions, the wholly discredited criminal investigations. Today we can put all that behind us. Today we can show them that American Citadel makes the finest product on the planet and that their agreement with the competition is…”

Mr. Acton paused, leaned in, and spoke the holy curse. “
Bad for business.
”

Todd Brevidge said, “Believe me. After this demonstration they'll fall on their knees and beg for our product.”

Mr. Acton gripped his elbow. The grip itself was incredibly weak.

“Make me proud, Todd.”

“Yes, sir. You just wait.”

Mr. Acton blinked down at him, nodded once, and joined the others in the observation room.

Todd Brevidge excused himself to the men's room.

Now seemed like an ideal time for a line of coke.

*   *   *

In the control room, one of the pilots checked to make sure all of the internal communications were off. He turned to Bryan Snow, who sat in the center chair. “Is Brevidge gonna have a heart attack or what? Brown noser looks ready to barf.”

Bryan Snow adjusted his seat. It was designed more or less like the captain's chair on the
Star Trek
series. Before him were flat-screen monitors spread out in a 200-degree semicircle. Beyond the screens were the workstations for Snow's two in-house pilots. Snow adjusted his hipster-framed glasses and began scanning his monitors. He had three keyboards within reach, like a guy playing a synthesizer.

He slid on a headset that had a voice wand attached and punched in the number that he had marked
Truck
on his console. “Ah, Home Team here. You reading me, Away Team?”

After a one-second pause, a voice came back over the line. “Away Team. Five by five. We good to go for the demo?”

The voice was crystal clear. Remarkable, since it came from the cab of a truck-and-trailer rig parked in a rest stop eight thousand miles to the east.

“The demonstration is a go. Stand by for prep.”

Snow disconnected the line and adjusted his black plastic eyeglasses. He turned to his two in-house pilots. “Let's see if we can't give Brevidge a ride he'll remember. Optics?”

One of his pilots said, “Optics read good.”

“Audio?”

“Audio nominal.”

“Avionics?”

“Green across the board.”

“Comms with Away Team are good,” he informed his guys.

*   *   *

The Away Team sat in the cab of a truck-and-trailer rig parked at a rest stop. They were thousands of miles from Sandpoint, Idaho. They, too, were called pilots. The gig allowed the two pilots to be airborne without ever leaving the ground. Instead of scratchy long johns and five-point safety harnesses that dug into their crotches, the pilots flew their aircraft while wearing jeans and polo shirts and listening to Aerosmith on the CD player.

For natural-born flyboys, the American Citadel gig was sweet.

Three more members of the American Citadel inner circle had joined those in the observation lounge, along with Cyrus Acton and Mr. Smith and Miss Jones.

Todd Brevidge waited in the corridor and steeled himself, pumped his fist in the air twice for confidence, straightened his tie and his cuffs, then strode into the low-ceilinged room. Through the observation window leading to the control room, his chief engineer, Snow, gave him the thumbs-up.

Brevidge held a Nextel walkie phone, keyed to the control room. “We're good in here,” he said quietly, then turned to the newcomers. “Folks?”

He waved to the high-definition plasma wall, getting his P. T. Barnum on. The entire western wall of the observation lounge lit up with dozens of screens stretching from floor to ceiling, and from wall to wall. Each screen could present a different image. But now they were slaved, offering one gigantic, panoramic view of a distinctly European city, complete with a massive dome and ornate tower of green and pink and white.

Todd Brevidge turned to the buyers and the brass. “Folks? Welcome to Florence, Italy.”

 

Eight

Italy

Daria packed all of her belongings into a surplus army duffel bag and hiked to Santa Margherita Ligure, the nearest train station to Caladri.

Her belongings consisted of shorts and tees and some raggedy underthings, plus toiletries and a used paperback. Aging sneakers. Two bikini tops and two bottoms, all mismatched. The black kidskin wrist gloves with the tiny gold zippers along the palm. Plus a steel straight razor, circa 1920, with a hollow steel handle stamped with the word
Savila.
Daria had modified the hinge of the cutthroat razor so it would lock open. Deployed, it gave her almost eight additional inches of lethal reach.