Zero Alternative (26 page)

‘When can you get it?’

‘Soon, I think. But I’ll have to collect it from several locations,
and
I can’t send it over the net.’

‘Of course. That’s not a problem – we’ll find a way.’ Mosha grinned, his trading brain obviously already engaging with the issues. ‘What about a little preview of what you know?’

Walker unlocked his tablet and waved him over. ‘Well, as you know there’s one bank that I don’t like at all…’

‘
I can make the pain go away
.’
Pienaar looked down at the sobbing figure of the idiotic Italian. Blood spatterings covered the floor and the man’s clothes, and he was careful as he shifted his feet to put away the surgical scalpel he had used so artistically until a few minutes before
.

‘
Please… I’ve told you everything. The car, the phone…
’
Luigi’s hoarse voice broke down again
.

‘
I know, I know
.’

‘
Please. My fingers…
’

‘
The skin will grow back. So Walker is in the Nuorese, you reckon. But you’re not sure
.’

‘
No, we thought…
’

‘
Yes, safer that way. But some of his family comes from there, no?
’

‘
Please, the pain…
’

Pienaar grimaced. This was becoming boring, and he was sure the wretch had already given him everything. Now he would start to make up stories, anything to please him. There was no more fight in the broker
.

They all shattered quite easily in the end, you only had to take a few bits here and there…

‘
Okay. Look at me now
.’

Luigi’s head rose, twitching as he tried to straighten his neck. The nails in his left knee and right hand had come a little loose, Pienaar noticed. He walked around the bloodstains and lowered himself to stare straight into the red-rimmed, swollen eyes of the Italian
.

‘
No more pain, I promised
.’

He brought the nail-gun up from the floor and rested it against Luigi’s forehead, then slowly squeezed the trigger, jumping aside as blood fountained forward
.

Chapter Fourteen

Train

Walker rushed through the underground passage below the train tracks, swivelling to avoid an old man and almost tripping over some rucksacks. He dodged a bunch of teenagers with their heads buried in their smartphones and jumped into the carriage just as the doors started to close. The train shook and lurched forward as he stepped into the first-class wagon and looked around, checking the faces of the few passengers. No one he’d ever seen before. He exhaled and tried to slow his breathing, drying droplets of sweat from his temples.

A couple of businesswomen looked at him askance, before returning to their laptops. Further ahead a harried mother with two young children was desperately searching for toys to keep them entertained. The rest of the carriage was empty and he sat down by a window, still shaking with adrenaline. Florence had felt too small as he had tried to disappear among the tourists, wasting time to buy a few clothes and some pre-paid debit cards. And a cheap new phone after Mosha had called with the details to meet with Hackernym in Rome.

Around every corner there had seemed to be someone staring at him, and he was certain that a young man had tried to follow him through Ponte Vecchio. Or maybe he was just cracking up. Still, he was glad he had made the train just in time; an hour of waiting at the station would have been too long to contemplate.

The carriage rumbled away towards Rome and Walker sighed and lay back, his head aching. He had managed only a couple of hours of sleep, battered by visions of Layla as soon as he closed his eyes, uncertain whether the nausea was caused by the paranoia or her betrayal. As he grabbed and played with the new Nokia her eyes gleamed in his memory, mixing with the feel of her body and her scent. Which made him curse under his breath, before he took out DM’s tablet, hoping to lose his mind in the spires of DeepShare.

Maybe it’s not as bad as you think. It might have started for the wrong reasons, but in the end she told you what you needed to know
.

He threw the tablet on the seat and angrily tried to shut off his inner voice. There had been too
many lies, and he couldn’t trust Layla ever again. She was just a leech after the next buck. A dangerous, beautiful leech. He stared outside as the autumn landscape flew past him, darker shades of yellow and brown descending on the fields of Tuscany and Lazio. And again he wondered why she had chosen to help him, in the end. Even if she must have guessed that DeepShare would eventually…

Walker stood up, placing his head against the cool window. This hurt too much, and he had a meeting that could seal his fate in a few hours. Hackernym was not going to care about Layla, and he desperately needed help in tying Frankel to Pienaar, if his plan was going to have even a small chance of success.

He had not told Mosha the entire truth. Frankel was vulnerable, but even DeepOmega did not know how or why it could be taken on yet. There were too many uncertainties – he still needed proof, information. He had to…

You should talk to her, give her another chance
.

Which one was the real Layla? She could have brought Blackspring down on him, but hadn’t. How could he be certain? That was something, he guessed: he was still alive – but maybe Deep had been compromised. Then again, DM’s systems would have noticed, for sure.

He sat back down, his head spinning and twisting on itself. A waiter came by and he ordered a coffee and a bottle of water, his stomach scrunching up at the idea of anything more solid. Calling her was just too risky and she would be long gone, anyway. He had walked out of Sadali two days earlier, and now she had the money owed her. He sighed and pulled out his phone. He couldn’t call her, but perhaps the old woman at the hotel had seen someone…

Walker’s fingers must have dialled without him noticing and the ringtone buzzed painfully in his ear. It took a few seconds before the raspy voice of the Agriturismo’s owner answered.

‘Pronto?’

Walker hesitated, almost surprised. Then he started talking, his Italian sounding a little artificial to his own ears.

‘Miss Sanna, it’s Romeo. I just wanted to know if anyone has come along looking for me in the last couple of days?’

‘Signor Romeo! No, no one has come…’ She lowered her voice, sounding conspiratorial. ‘But…’

‘What?’

‘I was wondering when you’re coming back. The lady, Miss Juliette, she is a bit…’

Walker recoiled from the phone. Layla had said she would wait. ‘She’s still there?’

‘Well, naturally. She looks a little… sad, though. Hardly ever leaves the room.’ Her voice dropped even lower and Walker had to struggle to make sense of the words.

‘A lovers’ spat, maybe? Be good to her, she seems a nice lady. And so pretty, too. I remember when I was young…’

‘Of course, of course.’ Walker cut her off, trying to regain his composure. ‘Sorry but I have to go now…’

‘Should I tell her you rang?’

‘Yes… No, I’ll call her later. Thank you.’

He dropped the phone, hands shaking, and lay back in his seat. The waiter arrived with his drink and Walker downed the coffee, ordering another one. Then he picked up the tablet and headed for the second-class toilets, hoping the fire-alarm had been disabled.

Italian trains were notorious for people smoking in the restrooms, and he was desperate for a cigarette.

Bad News

The old man opened his eyes and sighed. Doctors and nurses had finally left the room, after more useless prodding and probing
.

There was hardly any point
.

He’d been trying to cheat death for too long, and knew he had run out of time. A month
–
maybe Christmas, they had said. It would be nice to see the New Year, but he doubted he would
.

He rasped something and a pretty young woman brought him the speakerphone. It was time for final preparations. He might be around for Act One, if he was lucky. Act Two was still too far, but it should be able to run on without him
.

Pity, he would have enjoyed the ugliness
.

The train toilet was a mess, as usual. Dirty, unkempt, stinking of piss. Someone had ripped out the fire-alarm and wedged one of the windows open. A light taint of tobacco permeated the air, and a few butts floated in the broken bowl.

Italy, eternally unchanging.

Walker closed the WC and sat on the lid, pulling a cigarette out.
What now?

His mind spun with possibilities, Layla’s parting words tormenting him. She was still at the hotel. She hadn’t called anyone, and was waiting. For him. Or maybe she was just bait. Maybe the trap had already been set, was ready to snap shut.

He lit the cigarette and swore at himself. Was he becoming paranoid? What was real and what were just shadows in his mind?

He needed to talk to someone.

His fingers flashed through Luigi’s number, as if speed would make it less dangerous, but a part of him was beyond caring. He had to make sure he wasn’t going insane. The call went straight to voicemail and he swore again, crushing his cigarette and lighting another one. He checked his watch – it was after five, and Luigi might already be home. He tried the house phone and a woman answered after the first ring.

‘Hello?’

Walker hesitated. Luigi’s wife wasn’t due back for another week, and the voice sounded odd. ‘Susan?’

‘No, this is Officer Tarelli, of the Ticino Police. Who’s this?’

Walker’s heart sank and he dropped his cigarette.

‘Uh, hello…’ His instincts took over as he stumbled on the words. ‘My name’s Ginelli, I’m a friend of Luigi’s. Is he around?’ His brain looped images of DM’s broken body but he refused to believe them. It couldn’t be true.

‘Mr Ginelli, I’m afraid Luigi Seu has been assaulted.’

‘Assaulted? Is he all right?’ Walker croaked, already knowing the answer.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything. If you leave your name and number, we will get back…’

Walker cut off the connection and almost slammed the phone against the wall. His lungs turned to ice and he forced himself to breathe, taking a step towards the mirror. He stared at his reflection for a second, noticing red-rimmed eyes and deep shadows under his lids. Then he threw a punch, shattering the glass and shredding his knuckles.

There was no pain. Not from the hand. Not from anything. Just a tsunami of rage that seemed to grow and rise impossibly as it swallowed him.

Layla’s phone rang and she jumped off the bed, dropping her laptop as she rushed to the little side table. The digits on the tiny screen were an Italian number she didn’t know but her heart accelerated and she bit on her lower lip. ‘
Si
?’

‘Get out of there.’

‘Scott! Thank God, I was so…’

‘They’ve killed Luigi. Get away
now
– it’s too dangerous out there.’ Walker’s voice was steely, almost emotionless. Layla was speechless for a second, shocked.

‘I’m… I’m sorry. What happened? Where are you?’

‘It doesn’t matter now. Fly to the States, I’ll get in touch in a few days. But you have to leave Sardinia – Pienaar must know we went to the Nuorese, and they’ll have the car plates.’

Layla’s mind raced through scenarios, Pienaar’s scarred face laughing at her. Walker was right,
she had to run. ‘Okay, of course. I’ll…’ She stopped, caught her breath. There was something else. ‘Scott, wait.’

‘What?’

‘You know I had nothing to do with… with this?’

Walker missed a beat. ‘Yeah. No point in going after Luigi if you were talking to them, right?’

‘Right…’ She struggled for words, hearing the pain that had suddenly surfaced in his voice. ‘I’m so sorry, he was a good man.’

‘He was. And I swear I’ll find a way to make them pay, no matter what it costs me.’

‘Do you want my help?’

‘I need you.’

‘Then you have me. No matter what it costs.’

Chapter Fifteen

Rome

Walker checked his watch as he completed his twelfth circle around the inside perimeter of the Pantheon mausoleum. Five minutes to go – about fucking time. He glanced at the tomb of an old Italian king and wondered what Luigi’s grave would look like. Then he swore at himself quietly, glad of the silence, darkness and lack of cameras inside the ancient building. Killing an hour wandering the streets of Rome would have been too much to take, and his cramped hotel room felt too stifling. He had needed to move, to burn off the tension and anger. To think. To plan a way of getting even.

Taking a deep breath, he left the Roman temple by a side exit and hurried across the circular plaza, wading past one of the open-air cafes into the maze of cobbled alleys beyond. After a couple of minutes he reached ‘Er Fagiolaro’, a small restaurant that seemed carved into the corner of a run-down palace. It was too early for dinner in Rome and the few tables scattered around the black limestone floor were empty. Behind the bar a middle-aged man glanced up from the dishes he was scrubbing, asking, ‘Micovich?’

Mosha’s last name. Walker nodded, and the barman pointed to his right, to a little side door.

‘Lady’s waiting for you.’

Walker crossed the room, entering a private alcove almost entirely taken up by a rough table and chairs. A young woman looked up from her laptop, smiling at him. She must have been in her early twenties, pretty with long brown hair and hazel eyes behind narrow glasses.

‘Hello, Scott. You can call me Mira.’

Walker hesitated, feeling out of place. Was this his Hackernym contact, the emissary of the feared cyber-pirates? It seemed wrong, somehow. Unreal.

A young woman, maybe still at university. It couldn’t be right.

Mira stood and shook his hand, her smile never wavering. ‘Don’t worry, this place is secure. We use it every once in a while and sweep it regularly.’

‘Secure?’
For you, maybe
.

‘Yes – thick solid stone. No phone signals, no radar-mikes…’ She giggled. ‘I hate bugs.’