Tursunov grabbed a stool at the end. He wanted to sit with his back to the wall and watch the doors that were open onto the street.
The faded interior had seen better days. Decades-old sports and rock band posters were thumbtacked to the walls.
The bartender didn’t greet him. He seemed angry to already have a customer. Pausing his glass polishing, he cocked an eyebrow in the stranger’s direction.
“Negroni,” Tursunov stated, as he placed a copy of the Gazzetta di Reggio, open to the classifieds, on the bar.
The barman looked at him, looked at the paper, and then went back to polishing his glass. After a moment, he set the glass on the shelf behind him and got to work on the cocktail.
Tursunov would have preferred another coffee, but had been instructed to order the Negroni. That and the newspaper had been passwords.
Missing an ingredient, the barman yelled back toward the kitchen. Tursunov could make out the Italian word for orange, arancia, but not much else.
Shortly, the bartender’s wife emerged with a cup of fresh peels. She looked Tursunov over, but didn’t acknowledge him. A cigarette with a half-inch of ash dangled from her mouth.
Setting the cup on the bar, she withdrew an iPhone from her stained apron and thumbed out a text message as she headed back toward the kitchen.
Three minutes later, a black Mercedes with dark windows rolled to a halt outside.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
* * *
Tursunov had flown into Italy a day early to get his bearings. If everything was in order, he would fly out tonight. It all depended on how long the meeting took.
The two men who picked him up from the bar were big. Tursunov was just under six feet and weighed one-eighty. These men had to be at least six-foot-three and more than two hundred pounds each. He was being sent a message. Don’t try anything.
They asked for his phone and when he turned it over, they placed it in a special bag that prevented sending or receiving any signal. He half expected to be blindfolded, but they didn’t bother. After checking him for weapons, they seated him in back of the Mercedes and then navigated their way out of town.
While the two men up front listened to the radio, Tursunov watched the countryside change as they corkscrewed through the foothills and dense forests of the Aspromonte Mountains.
There were groves of olive trees, as well as bergamot. Oak trees were everywhere. The higher up in elevation they climbed, pine, beech, and Sicilian fir began to appear. It was a rugged and beautiful landscape. The roads, though, soon became deserted.
They were headed into one of the most dangerous territories in Italy. Known as the stronghold of the N’drangheta, or Calabrian Mafia, Aspromonte was an area avoided by tourists and Italians alike.
Most of the southern tip of Italy was poor, but Aspromonte was strikingly so. Earthquakes, rockslides, and the iron fist of the N’drangheta had taken their toll. The Mercedes drove through one abandoned village after another—each in a greater state of disrepair than the one before.
Tursunov had thought they’d be headed somewhere near the capitol of the N’drangheta, a village on the eastern side of the Aspromonte range called San Luca. Instead, they ended up outside a small hilltop town on the western side named Monterosso.
Pulling off the main road, they followed a small dirt track that ran along a shallow stream. After crossing a narrow bridge, the path widened.
Here and there, Tursunov could make out caper bushes and stands of prickly pear cactus. Up ahead was a crumbling stone farmhouse.
It must have been an amazing structure at some point—solid, with two-foot-thick walls and a soaring roofline clad in ochre terra-cotta tiles. Bougainvillea tumbled from an old arbor. Swaths of jasmine still clung to parts of the old house.
The driver pulled up in front and turned off the engine. Tursunov didn’t wait to be asked. He was eager to stretch his legs, and climbed out.
It was warm here, warmer than it had been in Reggio. Tursunov looked up into the blue sky. It was force of habit. He had survived three drone strikes. The last one just barely. His wife, though, hadn’t been so fortunate.
Every day, he regretted having suggested that she come to Syria with him. It shouldn’t have mattered that other fighters had brought their wives. It shouldn’t have mattered that because of his stature, ISIS was providing him with a house. It shouldn’t have mattered that they were childless and it was just the two of them. It shouldn’t have mattered that she wanted to escape Tajikistan as much as he did. He should have left her behind. If he had, she might still be alive.
He closed his eyes. The sun was almost directly overhead. He felt the warmth on his face, heard birds off in the tree line. A breeze stirred and brought with it the scent of rosemary. For a moment, he tried not to think—to just be still. But as soon as the moment began, it ended.
Out on the road, he heard two vehicles approaching. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes. Back to reality.
Removing a cigarette from the pack, he placed it in his mouth and leaned against the Mercedes. As he struck a match, he watched two navy blue Range Rovers come into view, trailing a cloud of dust behind them.
They were flashy cars, especially in this part of Italy. That was probably on purpose.
Near the top of the driveway, one Range Rover peeled off toward a large outbuilding. The other rolled up next to the Mercedes and parked.
A beefy bodyguard climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear passenger door.
A petite, Gucci-clad foot was the first thing Tursunov noticed. It was followed by a small, manicured hand, above which rested a very large gold watch. Antonio Vottari had arrived.
At five-foot-five-inches tall, he was known throughout Calabria as La Formícula, or “the ant.” He was the nephew of one of the N’drangheta’s most powerful crime families. His brutality was legendary.
The man allegedly lived for revenge. It was said to be the only thing that got him out of bed in the morning.
Tursunov looked him over. He was in his early thirties, thin, with pale skin. His eyes were black, like a crow’s. His steep nose resembled a beak.
He wore an expensive suit, likely custom made. His cufflinks matched the gold of his watch. His hair was combed with so much oil that it looked wet, as if he had just climbed out of a pool. Even through the cigarette smoke, Tursunov could already smell his cologne.
When Vottari moved, he did so like something out of the jungle. His dark eyes never left Tursunov’s. He seemed aware of everything around him—every person, every stone, every blade of grass. Each step he took was deliberate, confident. This was his territory. He was the alpha. You lived or died at his pleasure.
Within a fraction of a second of the Calabrese getting out of his car, Tursunov knew how he was going to kill him. Business, though, would have to come first. Smiling, he extended his right hand. “It’s good to see you, Signori. Thank you for meeting with me.”
“Let’s get started,” Vottari replied, returning his grasp.