Free The Vengeance Man by John Macrae Page B

CIA."
    He snapped back to reality. "Anyway, while they're sorting that out we've got to do something with you. I've refused to suspend you, but you can't be seen to be on Group's posted strength for a bit.  I’ve told the Minister that you’re going to disappear for a bit until Whitehall’s got some other media fuck up to worry about. That seems the wisest course. So we've got a little job for you to do." He eyed me doubtfully. "Provided that you're up to it, of course."
    "I'm up to it, Sir.   What is it?"
    Tony snorted behind me, and even Peters smiled. "Well, it won't be round here, that's for sure. Let's see what Mr Henderson, or whatever he calls himself,  has got to say shall we?"  He nodded to Tony who went to the door. I raised my eyebrows. "Who's Mr Henderson?"
    "He's a senior civil servant who's come with a request for Group's assistance."  Peters flashed me a warning glance, then stood up and greeted a tall, grey haired man in a grey suit who came in with Tony.
    "I'm Henderson,"  announced the newcomer, taking the seat that the Director  waved him to after we had shaken hands. He was about fifty, I reckoned, with a slight stoop and a gloomy lined face. Like a heron, I thought.  "I'm from – ah - let us say another government department that can, perhaps better appreciate your particular talents. I've asked your Director if the SAS could help us with a little problem we've got.  Your Director has told us all about you.   Suggested you might be the very man.  In the circumstances. "  He stared at me thoughtfully, then nodded slowly.  "Yes.  I think you'll do us very well."
    I looked blank.
    "You don't mind – ah - assisting   us, do you? He enquired anxiously. I glanced at the Brigadier, who nodded imperceptibly.
    "No, not at all.   But what.....?"
    "You look a little puzzled. That's hardly surprising.  Well, to put it bluntly, we'd like you to –ah - acquire a book for us.  It's not a very big   book.  Unfortunately it's a little - ah -  inaccessible, shall we say?   Do you think that you could do that for us?”
    I stared at him blankly. “Where is this book, then?”
    “It’s in Italy. It belongs to man calling himself Heinemann. We need that book. And we’d like you to teach him a little lesson.”

CHAPTER 6
    Pesaro, North East Italy
     
    It’s funny how real crooks and hoods just look so ordinary.
    I don't think that anyone looking at Carlo Romero Heinemann would ever have guessed that he was one of the most dangerous men involved in the mess that had once been Yugoslavia. Even for an Italian he was too obvious, too distinguished-looking, too ... well, flashy.
    From his raven-glossy hair to his hand-made shoes he was the picture of conspicuous prosperity, slickness, charm and good old fashioned capitalist success. No-one was ever going to accuse Carlo Romero of being a 'little grey man'.  Carlo was a 'Personality' and he wanted everyone to know it.
    I watched him pat the side of the white Pontiac Parisienne convertible with pride as he pushed the door to. I knew it was one of his three cars. I also knew he was six feet two inches tall, fifty-nine years old, that his father had been a German Standartenfuhrer in the SS, that he invariably carried a Heckler-Koch 7.65 millimetre pistol in his waistband, that he was on his third wife and that he was uncircumcised. Thanks to Mr Henderson of the Cabinet Office, I knew a great deal about Carlo Romero Heinemann.
    The wind off the sea front flapped his hair as two girls walked past. Their skirts fluttered up and they pressed them down, giggling behind their free hands. Carlo's brilliant smile illuminated them both, and they looked away, laughing. He beamed appreciatively at their retreating rumps. The Adriatic wind, bright and cold off the Gulf of Venice, whipped everything in the dusty Italian street; their hair, their skirts, Carlo's shop awning.
    He walked slowly, as he did every morning, into Luca Colluci, the tobacconist next