He glanced into the rear-view mirror. They had seen him enough times not to need a photograph. He eased his buttocks across the seat and freed the pistol, then reached inside the compartment above his knees, with a gloved hand, for the silencer. He screwed it on fast, and cocked the weapon. Better to arm it inside the car and have the scrape suppressed by the closed windows.
The target, to the man with the pistol, seemed pathetic. He had four dogs with him, two big and two small. All had been washed and clipped. They dragged on their leashes, ran excitedly around his legs and had him tangled and stumbling. He had once been, the gunman knew, a player with a certain respect, a second cousin of the inner family, close to the cosca but not quite part of it. Useful but not essential. Well paid but not wealthy . . . Capable of saving himself from long imprisonment with information that had put the two brothers into the aula bunker, then into the isolation cells. The gunman did not reckon that the pentito had understood, when he had begun the ‘collaboration’, that funds would dry up and he would be cut adrift. He tripped over the leashes. An owner, high in the block, wouldn’t tolerate him jerking the leash and wrenching the dog’s neck. He was attempting to free himself. He looked as if he had slept poorly. They crossed the road, the dogs dragging him excitedly. The gloved hand reached for the car’s door handle.
The dogs might be his best friends, his only friends. The gunman had no pets. The dogs he had known were those that patrolled the perimeters of the various gaols where he’d been held. These animals were pampered and exclusive. He would have liked to take their lives as well as his target’s. The pentito was dragged into the gardens, through wide gates and down the hill. There were joggers about at this hour, cyclists and more dog people. He drew down the balaclava, eased out of the car, then reached back. His clenched fist touched the driver’s. He had the weapon hidden under his coat, held tightly to it. Another pentito, a Sicilian, had been about to give evidence in Palermo, then had retracted. He had been debriefed by interested individuals: he had been taken to the Borghese Gardens, in Rome, by his protection team for exercise; they had seemed over familiar with the paths cutting through it, and had been on good terms with the owner of a mobile bar who served coffee and brandy in winter, ice cream in summer. A watch had been kept. This pentito had been spotted three days before the withdrawal of the security men. An entrepreneur had circulated the picture of the potential target. No takers in Palermo, or in Naples, but identified in Reggio Calabria from a performance on the witness stand at the aula bunker. Money had been paid, a date named.
The gunman let the car door swing shut, but not fasten. The dogs rambled at the extent of their retractable leads and were in the grass near to the statue of King Umberto I. The gunman had little idea of the historic significance of the king, but had noted that the target used the same bench each day. He could have been shot many times over, but this was the given date. He came from behind. For the first time he reached to his belt and checked the knife. His instructions were specific, the reward was considerable.
He was close.
A dog growled. The other three edged back, their leads tightening as the man sat on the bench and smoked. When the dogs showed fear, he would have known. The gunman thought he would have expected him and was unlikely to bolt. The target did not move. The gunman fired into the back of the head and blood spurted. There was an explosion of skin, bone and matter from the exit hole. The target toppled. His hand let go of the leashes and the dogs scampered away. A cyclist watched but was fifty metres away, and two joggers seemed to stop in mid-stride, but they were more than a hundred metres from him. The target lay on his side across the bench.
He came to the front of the bench, slid the pistol into his pocket and released the knife from his belt. He crouched over the man, groped below the belt and found the zip. His movement was clumsy because of the gloves. He undid the trousers, reached inside and exposed the man. He used the knife. Firm incisions, no hesitation. The mouth was conveniently open. He tilted the head a little, then forced penis and testicles into the mouth, hard enough for them to lodge in the throat. Sometimes banknotes were used, but he thought this sent a better message – and it was better paid.
He did not run. At the gate, he pushed up the balaclava. He heard no shouts behind him. The chance of intervention by a member of the public was small. He did not look back, did not need to. His driver would have taken him well clear of the Borghese by the time the sirens blared. He had done as he had been told.
She’d spun the wheel, let the tyres skid, then stamped on the brake. There was an old shed, stone walls and a sagging roof, space for her to inch into, but no door. It was near to the road, fifteen paces along a track with old wheel indents and grass growing. She would be there just moments – for the last two kilometres she’d had a hand locked on her phone and the map. Sometimes Jago’s hand had been steering, and she was then using her free one to flick around the gears.