Tingley and Renaldo dined alone that evening in the villa’s gloomy dining room. Two men in black were stationed by the door.
Tingley didn’t like Renaldo. He knew better than to deal in stereotypes but he could sense something depraved in the man. The obvious thought was paedophilia, the twenty-first century disease.
Renaldo’s mood had changed.
‘Any word of Kadire?’ Tingley said.
‘If we deliver Kadire — what do we get in return?’
Tingley hesitated with his reply. He no longer had any clout with the British secret services for whom he’d so often been contracted. In recent months, he’d first used up his favours then burned his boats.
‘I’m sure there are deals to be done,’ he said. ‘As I understand it, this is returning a favour to the late John Hathaway.’
‘Hathaway. Dennis Hathaway I knew many years ago. We met in Spain. His son, John, I am aware of. Favours, however, I do not know about. And you say John too is dead? This is a favour for a dead man, then?’
Tingley put his knife and fork down and stood.
‘I don’t wish to waste your time.’
Renaldo looked surprised.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I understood you could help me. If you cannot. .’
Tingley turned and walked to the door. Renaldo di Bocci’s two men moved to block his way. Tingley wagged a warning finger at them.
‘Signor Tingley, please,’ Di Bocci called after him. ‘Please sit down.’
Tingley kept walking. He was sure he had been sent into a trap. The two men looked beyond him for a signal from Di Bocci. The serpent writhed. Tingley ruptured the knee of the man to his left with a heel kick. He brought his elbow down hard on the collar of the one to his right and felt the bone snap.
He pulled open the doors and strode down the long corridor to the exit. He wasn’t armed but his car — and its arsenal — was nearby. He heard footsteps behind him but he ignored them. He pulled open the outer door, rabbit-punched the man standing outside it as he started to turn, ran down half a dozen steps and continued running for his car.
He had lifted the lid on the boot when he heard the clatter of a dozen men following him down the street. When he turned, he was cradling the Gatling gun. Cartoon-like, the men facing him stopped abruptly, cannoning into each other or slipping on the cobbles.
Tingley wasn’t worried about these men. He was most worried about someone in a tower a mile away with a high-powered rifle trained on him. Not now, though, not here. Here the streets were narrow, the buildings high. Here it would be at close quarters from an upstairs window.
He walked back down the street. The men made a ragged line. Two in the middle parted and Renaldo di Bocci stepped from behind them. Tingley halted ten yards away.
Di Bocci was flushed and angry.
‘You insult my hospitality,’ he said.
‘Oh, please,’ Tingley said. ‘Spare me all that “my house is your house” rubbish. You would have no compunction about drowning me in the bath if that’s what was required.’
Di Bocci frowned as he struggled to comprehend. The man next to Di Bocci whispered in his ear. Di Bocci scowled at Tingley.
‘You are not what I expected,’ he said.
‘Whereas you are exactly what I expected.’
Di Bocci looked from Tingley’s face to the Gatling gun.
‘Kadire will be at Sant’Antimo at eleven in the morning, the day after tomorrow. He has a meeting with some colleagues of mine.’
‘How many colleagues?’
‘Sant’Antimo,’ Di Bocci said, turning away and signalling his men to follow.
Tingley watched them go, wondering where Sant’Antimo was and, more importantly, where it would be safe to sleep tonight.