Chasing The Dawn (Luke Temple - Book 2) (Luke Temple Series) Read online

  “I shall talk in English, Mr Brun, as yours is so impeccable.”

  Brun eyed Beltrano. “And who might you be?”

  Beltrano extended his hand. “I am Carabinieri Beltrano, I will be taking over from Officer Nestor.”

  “Taking over in the loosest sense, I assume, as he has left you nothing to take over from.”

  Beltrano managed a smile and noted Nestor eyeing them suspiciously.

  Brun continued without taking his eyes off the screen, “I knew it wouldn’t be long until you lot arrived.”

  “And why would that be?”

  Brun looked at the two other officers then turned his head toward Beltrano’s, “Mr Beltrano, I am fully aware that we can only continue our discoveries because of the funding that arrives from many government bodies, including several from this very country. I do not have time for this. I have been asked questions for the last two days, I do not know anything.”

  “Of course.” Beltrano walked over to the window. “Fantastic view.”

  Brun grunted.

  “You seem very busy, Professor.”

  “I am, I am.”

  Beltrano walked slowly across to the police tape. “You don’t seem very concerned for Professor Vittorio.”

  “Should I be? My job is now to make sure things keep happening; discovery is the only importance.”

  “Of course. It is true that you are head technician on the OPERA experiment?”

  Brun raised his head. “Yes that’s correct. Is that a problem?”

  “Well that depends. Am I right in thinking that Professor Vittorio was heading up OPERA?”

  “Yes, that is correct, is there a point to this?”

  “Just strikes me as odd that a man you worked with day and night for the last ten years goes missing and all you can think about is work?”

  Brun stood up from his computer. He stared at Beltrano, then his gaze drifted again to the other two officers. He raised his voice so everyone could hear. “Mr Beltrano, I am incredibly worried about Ernesto, but he would want us to continue, to push forward, not to collapse.” He took off his glasses and sunk back into the desk chair with a resounding sigh.

  Beltrano suddenly turned on his heels and approached Officer Nestor. ‘I need to know everything you have so far …”

  3.

  Luke pulled the Audi A3 out of the queue of cars lining up to collect people from Rome’s Fiumicino airport. He wouldn’t be getting the chance to soak up the historically charged atmosphere of Rome, he would be skirting anti-clockwise around the south west of the city joining the Autostrada up to Teramo. If he could avoid the famous Roman traffic he should be there within two hours.

  The Audi’s engine was sharp and responsive; it had been left for collection at the long stay car park, all engine serial numbers would have been removed, but Luke had learnt the hard way that no one could be trusted. He would have to change cars regularly whilst in the country, paying cash for rentals, that way even his Group 9 handlers wouldn’t know his vehicle details. Sometimes the most dangerous enemy is the one within.

  Luke mulled over the operation objectives; Ernesto Vittorio, a prominent professor of particle physics, had gone missing. He was a fellow at the Laboratori Nazionali del Gran Sasso, and had been working on a new range of experiments that had been shortened to the acronym OPERA. Luke had only two objectives; first, gain as much information as possible around Vittorio’s disappearance and, second, if the target was alive, locate him and get him onto German soil.

  Luke never questioned his objectives; he occupied his mind only with achieving them. Group 9 and the European community were so interested in this disappearance because OPERA was a joint-funded project; it had investment from several areas including European governments, overseas corporate interests, universities and CERN.

  The smallest flicker of a memory played across his mind, an echo from a past life. The involuntary spasms of memory were like a stutter he had learnt to control. The Group 9 psychological therapists were not interested in helping him embrace the memories, they wanted him to push them deeper. Luke felt the same, he didn’t want them there, they belonged to someone else. He checked the electronic car clock, it was 10.02 a.m.

  4.

  Beltrano sipped his coffee; it was piping hot and filled the room with a rich aroma. He was happy enough with the office space that had been allocated to him within the police station. At first the chief officer had tried to fob him off with a desk in the open-plan section of the building but Beltrano had made it crystal clear that he needed privacy. The office was basic, it contained one desk, two plastic chairs, a whiteboard that had seen better days and the obligatory small coffee machine. The space was small and stuffy, it had a window but for some inexplicable reason it had been bolted shut, and the winter heating was now stifling.

  “They have stuck us in here on purpose, we should call Rome.”

  Beltrano nodded slowly, not really listening to his subordinate. Officer Delvechi was thirty years his junior, a mountain of a man and fresh out of training.

  “Why are we even here? Hardly seems important enough to involve us, some boffin takes off, big deal.” Delvechi paced up and down.

  “Seeing as we are here, let’s see what’s going on, shall we?” Beltrano said drily.

  He flicked through some enlarged pictures of Ernesto Vittorio, not an extraordinary-looking man. His skin was a dark tanned colour, his bushy eyebrows almost met in the middle of his nose. Average height, average build. However, inside the average-looking face was a brain that was extraordinary.

  Delvechi took the spare seat opposite Beltrano, the plastic creaked under the strain. “So what have we got?”

  “I am not sure yet,” Beltrano had put down the personal photos of Vittorio and was now skimming through shots of the crime scene, a mixture of the office they had been stood in earlier and a large industrial-looking hall with metallic yellow beams and curious-looking instruments.

  “Well, I will tell you what I think, I think the old professor wasn’t making enough money from his theories and little experiments; he had reached the point in life where he realised he had spent a life in science but for what? So he stages a false break-in, steals some priceless equipment, then disappears to enjoy the profits.”

  Beltrano listened, unsure whether to laugh or contact Hollywood. “You think a man like Professor Ernesto Vittorio dedicates his whole life to scientific research because he values money?”

  Delvechi didn’t answer.

  “And please enlighten me as to what these fantastically priceless pieces of equipment are? Seeing as nothing has been reported missing.”

  Delvechi shifted awkwardly in his seat. “So you think what exactly?”

  “That we need to properly investigate.”

  Delvechi scoffed. “Some crackpot goes missing …”

  Beltrano sipped his coffee. “Have you ever heard of the so-called modern masters of the universe?”

  “Sure, they use it in reference to the large global investment banks; they have been plastered over the news for years. Apparently they are the reason the world is in so much shit financially, why?”

  “Because …” Beltrano paused for effect, “the real masters of the universe are people like him.” He threw a close-up shot of Vittorio across the desk.

  Delvechi picked up the photo and sighed. “So what do you want to do? Head back to the lab and find out exactly what he was working on?”

  Beltrano stood and checked his watch, then he downed the remaining coffee in one gulp, “Maybe. But first, lunch.”

  5.

  The temperature in Teramo at that time of year could be harsh, with gusts of fresh cold sweeping in from the mountains. It was not a large town but one with a rich history. Of course, this was Italy, where saying a town or region was rich in history was like saying a specific diamond in a diamond-encrusted crown was sparkly. It was yet another town Luke could add to the ever-growing list of places that warranted a more relaxing explorat
ion, something he would never find the time for.

  Night had fallen; Luke stuffed a gloved hand into the pocket of his black overcoat and retrieved a mobile phone. He never brought mobile phones with him when travelling into new countries. Tri-band and modern network sharing meant people could travel across different countries without losing signal or service, and that worried him. All electronic signal could be found and traced given time but by purchasing a new phone in each country, Luke made that process more difficult. It was what he was trained to do.

  He checked that the mobile was turned off; the call he was going to make would be entirely faked and he couldn’t risk his phone ringing halfway through it. The street was quiet; Luke tucked himself into the shadows on the opposite side of the road to the small hotel he had booked into earlier in the day. He began chatting away on his phone as his eyes roamed the street, searching for anything unusual or out of place, a person, a car, someone in a window. It was the third time he had watched the street that day, it was always part of his routine when entering a new environment.

  He stamped his feet to keep the blood circulating. He dressed casually on operations, but it was a balance; too causal and people remember a ‘scruffy man’ sat in the corner, too smart and you always catch people’s eye.

  To remember each face and individual he assigned them to an item in the room he kept locked away in his memory. A tall balding man who had come and gone a few times during the day was filed away as an old leather chair. It had been part of his training, a system he was made to practice hour after hour, one time reaching a hundred items on exact recall and association. It was an essential skill to remaining covert in the field. If things were retained in his memory then he never had to scramble for notes or photographs; also if he was lifted the paper trail would be non-existent. What became more complicated was when he began committing to memory who was in the hotel and who was out. To do this he attached labels to the items in his memory room, so if the tall balding man was in the hotel then he would attach a label to the old leather chair in his mind.

  Luke pulled the collar of his coat up higher, now jabbering away about some girl into his switched-off phone. He was always thorough when entering a new environment, it was impossible to conduct an operation if you hadn’t constructed a solid and safe base beforehand.

  The first thing he had done was locate a post office in the town; there had been a few options, but he had chosen one which appeared the least busy, tucked away on a little back street. It had one elderly lady behind the short counter and no cameras. The woman looked aggrieved when he had asked if the office contained any drop boxes or safety deposit boxes. She had mumbled some Italian expletives and waddled out a rear entrance. With great effort she returned and unlocked a cut-away door in the counter, ushering him out back. Beyond a very untidy corridor stacked with cardboard boxes and bundled magazines stood a grid of stained metallic boxes, each with a single keyhole. The woman explained it was twenty euros a week to rent a box. Luke had given her a wad of cash that would last a month, and the presence of fresh euros made the need for formal identification magically disappear. He put a fake name and signature on a scrappy piece of headed paper and she gave him the key, leaving him in private. The box was only small but it would hold what he needed. He stashed two fake passports, a range of travel documents and 1,000Ein cash, a reserve fund. He closed the door, locked it and checked it would hold. Could the post office be trusted? Did they have second keys to each box? Luke dismissed these reflexive thoughts. Some risks just had to be taken.

  The next operational procedure when first on the ground was to pick up as many local newspapers as possible. Luke was fluent in Italian, as well as eight other European languages, so reading them wasn’t an issue. He needed to tune into and gauge the local mode of thought. What were the local issues? The important events? Who were the influential people? He had no idea how long his stay in Teramo would last. It is the small touches that paint the most complex pictures.

  Hours had been spent walking the Teramo streets. Orientation underpinned everything on the ground. . If he didn’t have a high-level knowledge of the routes and interlinking streets he was tying his arms behind his back.

  The hotel he was stood opposite had also been selected very carefully. It was located at Via Guido Montauti to the north east of the town, just near the university campus. It was far enough away from the town to allow a clear picture of anyone tailing him.

  There was no suspicious activity, so Luke ended his one-sided phone call. He crossed the road and climbed the three stone steps leading to the ornate hotel frontage. Inside he was greeted with the warmth of an open fire. He strode across to the attractive dark-haired woman stood behind reception.

  “Buona sera, signor.”

  “Buona sera.”

  “How can I help you this evening?” The receptionist seemed to be busy collating various welcome packs for new guests. Stacked behind her were six rows of polished brass letterboxes.

  “One of my friends was meant to check in this afternoon. I told him to ask for the room next to mine, I wonder if you could tell me if he has checked in yet at all?”

  “Certainly signor, let me just check, what room are you staying in?”

  “Thirty four.”

  “Ok, yes, good evening Mr Reid. And your friend’s name please?”

  “Mr Raimi, Daniel Raimi.”

  The receptionist bent down to the computer, flicked through a couple of screens and brought up a spreadsheet.

  “Sorry Mr Reid, it does not appear that your friend has booked in, and I’m afraid both rooms either side of you are now occupied.”

  Luke gave a fake moan. “Oh that’s a shame, he is probably running late, honestly that man will be late for his own funeral.”

  The receptionist gave a generous laugh.

  “Oh well, thank you for your help.”

  “No problem signor, have a good evening.”

  Luke walked away from the desk. No hotel would ever divulge the names of guests, but Luke hadn’t needed them to. The spreadsheet had been reflected perfectly in the polished brass. In room thirty-three was a Mr. P. Languine, and in room thirty-five was a Mr J. Kandor. Next to J. Kandor’s name was a plus sign and the number three; Luke knew that this meant it was a family occupying the room. Neither name rang alarm bells, but he would make a note of each and keep vigilant. There was no such thing as paranoia in Luke’s world.

  He took the steps two at a time and emerged out into the hallway. He listened hard as he walked towards his room, his footsteps silenced by the thick blue carpet. As he reached his room door he dropped down onto one knee and checked the small piece of transparent tape he had stuck across the door frame, it was still intact.

  The curtains were still open and the moonlight streamed in. Luke didn’t bother to put the light on; hanging the coat on the wardrobe door he pulled the Sig Sauer out of his waistband and placed it on the bedside table. There were advantages to being back in the employment of Group 9, and moving weapons across frontiers was one. The room was small but opulent, it had everything he needed. He would stay for a maximum of five days, if he hadn’t completed his objectives by then he would shift to a different hotel.

  Sitting gently on the end of the bed, he rolled his neck, in the morning the real work would begin. He ran a hand through his short wavy hair and closed his eyes, his head fell back onto the duvet. Luke made sure his mind was occupied with details; he feared the wandering thoughts that the silence brought with it, the thoughts and emotions that were constantly fighting for attention ... Sarah.

  6.

  Sunday 11th November

  “Yes! I said yes!” Beltrano jabbed his finger at the “cancel call” button on his mobile phone and threw it onto the table.

  He mumbled an expletive, it had not been a conversation he had wanted to have, and the cappuccino and complimentary biscotti had now lost their appeal.

  He brushed his fingers across his grey-flecked stubble; it was
rapidly becoming a beard. Beltrano’s dark complexion and dark hair made him look much younger than his fifty-five years; however, his deep-set eyes were a giveaway, anyone looking deep enough into them would see a lifetime sparkling.

  He looked up at the novelty wall clock, the hands were stereotypical Italian chefs, their large chef hats pointed at the roman numerals. It was 10.40 a.m. Beltrano wiped his mouth after downing as much cappuccino as possible in one mouthful and threw the paper napkin onto the table as he left. He had to swing by the station to get Delvechi then head back to the Gran Sasso facility.

  He felt the familiar shot of adrenaline as he ran over what lay before him.

  7.

  The inside of the Audi was actually quite a luxurious place compared to most observation posts. Slowly over the next few days Luke knew it would start to feel more and more like a prison, but that was the nature of OPs, and he had been in many. A gentle memory fluttered over him as the low midday winter sun poured over the car; it was a memory from a distant life. He was stood in a large marquee, and the desert wind was causing the material to flap and bulge. Three men stood around a Black & Decker workbench scanning a map, they were tough members of the famed SAS. One of them looked up at and jabbed a finger to a spot on the map. “Right, that’s where we will lay up. Get eyes on target.”

  Luke had tried to suggest a better spot on flatter ground but the soldier had just stared at him. “Listen Mystic Meg, observation posts are our second home, in fact our first home. We eat, shit, sleep and die in them. And just like at home you don’t want some stranger showing up unannounced and ruining your fucking day. We are setting up here.”

  Mystic Meg was a nickname the soldiers and officers had affectionately given him because of his ability to seemingly predict strategic action and its outcomes. He was no soldier back then, just on loan from GCHQ.