Berlin Reload

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

They walked out of the back streets and kept on going until they reached the main road along the banks of the river. As a survival instinct, they kept to where it was busy and where there were witnesses in case of another attack. To the casual observer, they looked like father and daughter taking a stroll in the afternoon sun, perhaps on their way home, but underneath that façade Grant was looking for any of the tell-tale signs of surveillance or traps. So far, he could see nothing that alarmed him.

They walked along the Lungotevere della Farnesina until Grant spotted a taxi that he could flag down. Grant gave the driver an address across the river that was five minutes away. When they were dropped off, they got out and walked for a while, then took another taxi and another, until they had completed a decent anti-surveillance detection run.

The final taxi dropped them off at the corner of Via deTorre Argentina and they walked casually down the crooked, narrow streets, avoiding the vendors, until it opened up into a piazza and they were greeted with the sight of the Pantheon.

The Piazza was a square with a magnificent fountain at its centre where the tourists where trying their best to keep cool from its spray. Small boys earned coins from filling water bottles for tourists from a spigot that provided clean, fresh water and around the edge of the square were a host of restaurants and bars. Over to the left, dominating the vicinity, was the Pantheon, its magnificent dome casting a shadow over the residents of the area. Built in 27 BC, it had once been a temple to the Roman gods before becoming a Christian church, but these days it was just another tick on the tourist sightseeing list.

“We're a little early,” said Grant, surveying the area. It was busy, as most tourist spots were in Rome, which could work for and against him in terms of anti-surveillance drills. “Let's order a drink and get the pulse of the place.”

They found a little café directly opposite the fountain and the doors to the Pantheon. A small, grey-haired man came out and they ordered two espressos. Jack Grant sipped at his coffee and from behind the anonymity of his sunglasses he scanned the crowds in front of him.

He studied the people who didn't appear to be doing anything, or at least have a purpose for being there. He appraised third and fourth storey windows in case he could see a hint of a static observation point and, above all else, he watched for a repetition in routine from men, women, families walking by. Had they been past before? Did that woman have a different jacket on from last time? He watched and he waited and he sipped at his drink, but he saw no new faces that had recently tried to have him stabbed and no blond assassins that had tried to riddle him with bullets.

He looked at his watch. Almost 2pm. Time to meet.

“Stay close to me until we are inside,” he said. “Then find a spot where you can see me from across the room and where I can see you. Okay?”

Katy nodded and they moved off towards the wide-open doors of the Pantheon. Once inside, Jack Grant decided that the largest unsupported dome structure in Italy was without a doubt a thing of beauty and technical magnificence and every time he visited he was in awe of it.

Inside the Pantheon there was a mix of the faithful, the tourist trade and, now that he was here, the odd old, retired spy. He whispered for Katy to sit on one of the marble benches at the far end of the structure. “But keep away from the main doors,” he warned. It was harder for her to be seen and even harder for her to be snatched from deep inside the building.

He went and sat at the agreed upon seat at the western end of the dome and he waited. His eyes flicked between his daughter, who sat admiring the architecture and casting a creative eye over the frescos, and the rest of the crowd in here. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. He had done as much as he could for the moment. Now his fate was, temporarily, in other's hands.

He didn't have to wait long. A thin, bony hand rested on his shoulder and he turned and looked into the weather-beaten face of Father Mario Frazzano. The Diavalo Sacerdote – the Devil Priest.

“You look well, my friend, the years have been kind to you,” said Father Mario. He set himself down next to Grant, his walking cane resting in the crook of his arm.

Grant nodded. “I have managed well, Father. Thank you. And thank you for coming out to meet with me.”

Father Mario waved it away as though it was a non issue. “I rarely get to get out as much these days, so having the opportunity to assist an old friend and colleague – well, I see it as a blessing.”

During the Second World War, a much younger Mario Frazzano had been the scourge of the Germans that had invaded his beloved Italy. Recruited as an agent of the British MI6, Frazzano had organised resistance, conducted assassinations of Nazi officers, and sabotaged supply lines that had made the Germans' heads spin. By day, he was a faithful man of the cloth; by night, he and his war-band slaughtered and killed the invaders. It had earned him the nickname Diavalo Sacerdote and within the wartime offices of MI6 he had become the stuff of legend.

After the war, Father Mario had returned to the priesthood, his duty done to his country and to God, but he still remained a deniable asset of the British Secret Intelligence Service.

Jack Grant and Father Mario had first met in the 1960s when Grant and another SIS operative had been on an undercover mission in Rome. The Devil Priest had provided a safe house for an undercover agent that Gorilla Grant and his SIS partner, Nicole, had been trying to protect. The mission had gone badly, resulting in the death of Nicole at the hands of a rogue assassin. But at least they had saved the agent. It still hurt him to think about the death of Nicole. It was a scar that burned him constantly.

Since that time, and whenever he was in Rome, Jack Grant would always make a pilgrimage to see Father Mario Frazzano and also to lay a small English rose at the spot where Nicole had been murdered. The last time that he had been here was almost eight years ago. So much had happened in that time.

“How can I be of assistance?” asked Father Mario. His voice was hushed in tone, as if he was talking and listening in the confessional.

Grant sighed and looked his old friend in the eye. “The shooting today at the Via Di S. Eufemia, did you hear about it? We were involved. We were targeted. We escaped. That's all I know.”

The old Priest c****d his head and frowned. “You are back in your old profession again? You have not retired?”

Grant shook his head. “No, that is not true. I have not lived that life for many years. I have retired.”

Father Mario nodded sagely. “Then old enemies? They are a curse in our profession. Their memories can go back many, many years.”

“That is what I fear,” said Grant. “But this time my daughter was with me. I think they were trying to take her so as to get to me.”

Father Mario ground the point of his cane into the stone floor. “Then we must get you out of here – pronto! Tell me what you need, my friend.”

“I need a place of sanctuary. We need to get off the street. We are vulnerable. We need a place to hide and time to regroup. We need protection. Maybe then we can piece together what is going on and how to stop it.”

The old assassin smiled a wry smile. “I imagined as much. Do not worry. I have everything in place. You will be in our safe house within the hour.”

Grant reached out and grasped the older man's hand in affection. “Thank you, Father. I don't want to put you in danger, but I had no one else that I could trust.”

“My friend, I am sixty-nine years of age and I have killed much evil in my time. I am not afraid and I do not fear death. Now come, collect your beautiful daughter. I have arranged transport. Let us go quickly.”

The transport was waiting across the road that led out of the Piazza. It was an old VW Camper van that had two tough-looking bodyguards inside it. Father Mario said that they were Franco and Luca and that they were there for everyone's protection.

Once they had climbed in the back, the VW sped off in the usual Italian manic manner. The blinds were pulled down in the back of the camper van, making it a subdued and stifling environment. No one spoke, the only sound being the revving of engines and the occasional blast of the horn for other vehicles to get out of the way.

Jack Grant looked over at the old priest who sat in repose, his eyes closed and breathing deeply. Then he glanced over at Katy. They locked eyes, he smiled and she returned the response.

Hang in there, kid, he thought. Not much longer now.

The rest of the journey was a series of bumps and turns and of being swung left and right as Luca threw the VW around the roads and out to the edge of the city.

“We thought it best to get you out of the city,” said Father Mario, who had woken up. “It is a place where we can control the environment better, at least for now.”

Ten minutes later, the van slid to a halt and Mario and Luca were out of the vehicle, weapons drawn, but discreetly held low. The doors slid open and the three occupants quickly disembarked, up a flight of stairs and into a two-storey villa. Before he entered into the cool of the reception area, Grant turned around to see Mario and Luca closing and locking the gates to the driveway.

The outside world was held at bay. For now, they were safe.