True (3 page)

He glanced at her ring. 'If you decide you do, you'll get him.' He sipped his wine. 'Are you still living with Phoebe?'

'Just till I get a place of my own.'

'She's been a good friend to you.'

'The best. She's going to help me move the last of my stuff out of his place over the next week or so. Then we're going on holiday togetherr.'

'Great. Where?'

'The French Riviera. Antibes. The Hotel du Cap Eden-Roc'

He whistled. 'Wow!'

She laughed. 'We're not paying. The hotel likes to keep its quota of A-list celebrities and the manager virtually begged Phoebe to take a couple of suites. Her sister and Kathryn Walker are in Europe so they'll be joining us.'

'Fantastic.'

The phone on the wall rang. Bacci listened for the message.

'Carlo, it's Marco Trapani.' He picked up the handset.

'Gao, Marco.' He took a pen from beside the phone and made notes on the pad. 'Really?Four days' time. August the ninth. You sure you don't mind? It would be great to meet them. Thanks, Cousin.'

When he put down the receiver, Isabella whistled. "Was that the Marco Trapani -- as in Uncle Marco Trapani, the Mafia guy?' Half a century ago her grandfather had fled Italy with his Sicilian bride and young son to restart his medical career in Boston and avoid becoming entangled in the Trapani 'family business'. He had told her stories about the Trapanis. 'They may be family, Isabella,' he would say, 'but, apart from your grandmother, never trust a Trapani.'

Bacci frowned and crossed his arms. 'That's ancient history, Bella. Marco's a respectable businessman now. Doing well, too. Anyway, you keep telling me how bad I am with money and he's only recommending a bank to protect my business interests.'

She couldn't argue with that.

'His bankers are having an anniversary party next week and he's invited me to meet them.'

A horn sounded twice in the driveway.

Bacci's face flushed. 'That'll be Maria.'

Isabella turned to the door, almost as excited as her father. Now, finally, she would learn why he had summoned her to dinner.

MARIA DANZA WAS IN HER FORTIES AND YOUNGER THAN ISABELLA'S father, but she had a similar zest for life. Isabella liked her, which had helped bring the couple together; they had met while her father was choosing her a birthday gift in one of Maria's jewellery stores.

For a long time Isabella had thought her father would never get over her mother's death, so she was delighted when Maria had come into his life. However, it was clear from the outset that although Maria was fond of Isabella's father, she didn't want to be tied down. But today, as Maria stepped into the kitchen, Isabella noticed something different about her. As usual, her round face was lightly tanned, the hazel eyes beautifully made up, her hair smooth and shining, and she wore a smart red linen suit, which accentuated her full figure. And, also as usual, she was a walking advertisement for her business: she wore a bracelet, an enormous pair of dangling earrings and a pearl necklace. Unusually she looked radiant, and w hen she embraced Isabella she was glowing.

Bacci poured her a glass of Barolo and put his arm round her. He was grinning like a schoolboy. 'Bella, the reason I asked you over tonight is that I want you to be the first to know that I've asked Maria to marry me.'

Maria giggled, blushed, and displayed an ornate engagement ring. 'And I said yes.'

Isabella was stunned. She could never have guessed this. Maria wasn't the marrying kind. 'Once bitten twice shy' was how she had put it. But now she was gazing at her fiance with dove eyes. Isabella was surprised at how emotional she felt. She was delighted for them both- but, if she was honest, a little envious too. 'That's fantastic news,' she said. She admired the proudly displayed diamond and sapphire ring. 'It's beautiful.'

'It was my great-grandmother's.' Maria smiled as if she was going to burst with happiness.

Bacci beamed. 'I've always believed that life is meaningless without love and that everyone deserves to experience it at least once in their lifetime. When your mother died, Bella, I told myself I'd had my turn.' He turned to Maria. 'But now I realize that true love should bea human right, not just an accident of chance and chemistry.'

Isabella thought of her mother, and was sure she would have agreed that he deserved another chance at happiness. 'Have you fixed a date?'

'November the twenty-second,' her father said.

'Please say you'll be a bridesmaid,' said Maria.

'I'd be honoured.' Isabella kissed them, then raised her glass. 'To the happy couple.'

As they drank, Isabella watched how her father and Maria looked at each other. She thought of Leo and felt a stab of sadness. Her father had found true love twice in his life: would she be lucky enough to find it once? She slipped off her engagement ring and put it into the pocket of her trousers.

As if reading her thoughts, Bacci hugged Isabella, and whispered, 'If an old buzzard like me can find true love, Bella, anyone can -- especially someone as beautiful as you. If you want Leo back, he'll come, I promise.'

'Sure, Papa.'

'I mean it,' he said, stroking her hair. 'It's a scientific certainty, and one day I'll prove it to you.' She smiled at his optimism.

WHENSHETURNED AWAY, SHE DIDN'T SEE HIM TAKE TWO HAIRS from her head, check that the follicles were attached and place them carefully on a dish next to the notepad by the phone, which read:

Marco Trapani.

Find out more about Kappel Privatbank and Comvec.

Kappel anniversary 9 August.

SOME HOURS LATER AND SIX TIME ZONES AWAY, A PREDATOR SWAM through the Caribbean. Its tail fins were almost four feet long and its slick black skin gleamed in the moonlight. As it neared the shore of St Martin in the French West Indies, it raised its head.

Light from the moon reflected off the crescent of sand and La Samanna, perched high on the bluff overlooking the Baie Longue. The hotel's exclusive beach cottages lined the palm-fringed bay. It was almost three o'clock in the morning in August, low season in the Caribbean, but lights still shone in a few cottages.

Reaching the shallows the creature lay still, ensuring that the coast was clear, then rose to its full height. Max Kappel was over six feet five inches tall and covered from head to toe in skin-tight black neoprene. He wore no scuba gear, just the simple equipment of a free diver: a small facemask and outsized fins. He removed the fins and strapped them to his legs, then pushed the mask on to his forehead and counted the cottages. He headed for the fourth.

He rinsed his sandy feet in the water-filled shell on the veranda, then glanced through the locked sliding doors that led into the lounge, and crept to the bedroom window. The louvred glass slats were open but a fine mesh prevented mosquitoes entering the room. The air-conditioner was switched off and the ceiling fan whirred noisily. He peered through the slats and smelt a heavy, cloying perfume. A man lay on the bed, eyes closed, mouth open, fat sun-tanned belly rising and falling with each snore. He was naked, save for a thick gold neck chain, gold watch and two gold rings. His stubby penis was still erect. On one bedside table a torn cndom wrapper lay beside a smudged white line of cocaine and two blue tablets. On the other, a bottle of Armagnac stood next to three empty glasses. The rims of two were smeared with lipstick. The man's companions had departed. The party was over.

He heard distant footsteps and eased into the shadows. The Corsican might be en vacances, but he would have a bodyguard in attendance. He waited until the footsteps receded, then moved to the sliding doors. The sea air had corroded the simple metal catch. He pulled out a wire from one of the waterproof pouches attached to his belt, bent it into a loop, then inserted it into the small gap between the doors and curled it round the catch. He pulled, and heard a small click. As silent as a shadow, he stole into the sleeping cottage.

THECORSICAN SMILED IN HIS SLEEP. SINCE THE 1970S, ANTOINE Chabrol had exploited France's colonial links to buy into the poppyfields and marijuana plantations of Indochina, the Middle East and North Africa. Now in his sixties, he controlled the production of almost half the heroin supplied to Europe and America.

Over the years, numerous distributors had tried unsuccessfully to muscle in on his market, and he took great pleasure in squeezing out the latest upstart: the Trapani family. The Sicilians had demanded a partnership deal because their pet scientists had developed a process that would make his product safer and more consistent in quality. But safety wasn't his or his Corsican brethren's concern so they had cut off the Sicilians' supply. Now he had heard that Marco Trapani was briefing his scientists to create a cheaper synthetic heroin. In time Chabrol would control that, too. He grinned in his sleep as he pictured Marco Trapani wearing a Corsican Smile -- his throat cut from ear to ear.

One thing Chabrol no longer controlled was his prostate, and the insistent pressure on his bladder pierced his dreams. He rolled out of bed and padded across the cool terracotta tiles to the bathroom. He remembered the two putains who had serviced him earlier. He had asked his contact in Marigot to supply him with two underage girls prepared to do anything, and both had exceeded his most depraved imaginings.

He stepped into a puddle and frowned. He had told the girls not to use the shower. He rubbed his eyes and glanced at the luminous dial on his gold Rolex: 3:11. Not bothering to switch on the bathroom light, he shuffled past the bath to the lavatory and groaned. That was the problem with Viagra: it got you up but it kept you up for hours. Concentrating hard, he relaxed and emptied his bladder. As happened often now, when he thought he had finished he felt a pressing need to carry on. After the third false stop, a sound snapped him fully awake. The bathroom door had closed behind him.

The lock clicked and he swivelled round. When he saw the towering black figure in the gloom his first instinct was to call out, but before he could open his mouth something cold and metallic pressed against his lips. Then a huge hand gripped his right shoulder and turned him back to the lavatory. The gun barrel moved to his neck. When he looked down his erection had gone and the sporadic flow had become an unstoppable stream.

'Apres que vous ayyez finit, Monsieur' someone whispered in his ear.

AS MAX KAPPELSTOOD IN THE GLOOM, PRESSING THE SILENCER OF his Glock against Chabrol's tanned, flabby flesh, he felt nothing. No excitement, no disgust, no fear and certainly no pity. He was simply doing a job for his father and the family business. It was no different from any other job he had done in the past. When Chabrol had finished, Max passed him a towel to cover his nakedness. 'Lower the seat and sit down.'

The Corsican's tanned face was pale. 'Who are you? What do you want?'

Max watched him with detached interest. Even the toughest men find it difficult to control their fear in the early hours, particularly when an armed stranger surprises them buck-naked while taking a piss. He sighed and sat on the side of the bath. 'You've been making life difficult for one of our clients.'

'Who?'

'Marco Trapani.'

Recognition flickered in the Corsican's eyes. 'I know you. You're with Kappel Privatbank.' He recovered some of his composure. 'You came to my offices in Ajaccio.'

Max nodded. 'To negotiate an agreement on behalf of our client. I pleaded with you to be reasonable. Do you remember your parting words?'

A malevolent grin flashed across Chabrol's features. 'Trapani's going to be a dead client soon so why don't you fuck off back to Zurich?'

'You have an excellent memory, Monsieur.' Max reached into one of the waterproof pouches on his rubber belt. He retrieved a glass vial of snow-white powder and a PowerDermic vaccine gun. 'But when you threaten the life or livelihood of one of our clients you threaten the Kappels.' He inserted the vial into the base of the gun with the deft precision of a marksman.

Sweat sheened Chabrol's forehead. 'What's that?'

'Your passport to oblivion.'

'Surely we can come to an agreement,' Chabrol said. 'You're a banker.'

'It's too late. You should feel honoured, Monsieur. If you were going to have a simple accident we might have used Stein and his ex-Stasi agents. They're very good -- the East Germans trained their secret police well. However, when we use one of our proprietary prisons we prefer to keep it in the family.'

Max tapped the glass vial and the white powder flurried like snow. 'This is a genetic poison developed by my brother at our Comvec laboratory. It's a gene-therapy viral vector that targets andaccelerates any inherited mutation in your DNA, bringing forward your natural death. This version focuses on the heart.

Since we know you're a user, Monsieur, we've blended it with grade-A cocaine to make your heart attack more credible.' Holding the Glock in his left hand and the primed vaccine gun in his right, he moved closer. 'It's a good way to die. One of the best.'

Chabrol, white as the powder, stared first at the vaccine gun and then atMax's impassive face. When he realized he would find no mercy there, his eyes darted to the window above the lavatory. 'Don't shout for help,' Max said calmly, and levelled-the Glock at Chabrol's groin. 'But--'

'Shh. Everyone should die like this.' He placed the vaccine gun near Chabrol's shoulder. 'Don't be afraid. I'll stay with you till the end.'

Looking directly into Chabrol's terrified eyes, Max activated the gun. There was a barely audible ssh and the vial emptied. Otherwise was no sign that the white powder was exploding into the Corsican's bloodstream.