and carefully, and with his trim mustache and scholarly glasses could have been mistaken for a shy-mannered country physician. In fact, in his earlier days he had practiced medicine as the chief of cardiology at Baghdad General Hospital. His career ended the day the Americans invaded Iraq. For the past sixteen years, he had specialized in the building of suicide vests and explosive belts for the Sunni insurgency. He was known by all as “the Doctor.”
The Doctor opened the case and removed the bricks of plastic explosives, each individually wrapped in navy-blue plastic and weighing two and a half pounds, or approximately one kilo. When he had finished stacking the bricks, he chose one and peeled off the thick wrap. The plastique was colored a bold, unmistakable orange. Semtex.
He knew what it was capable of, the destruction it could inflict. In an enclosed space, even a large auditorium, the effects would be impressive.
Four vests used in unison in such a space.
The Doctor could only imagine the result.
All this Abdul Al-Obeidi had told him. Borgia had been grateful for his enthusiastic narrative.
He turned to General Sabbatini. “Shall we go through it one last time?”
“The plastique will be cached in an empty fuel reservoir next to the principal dormitory. At last count, the place is filled to bursting.”
“How many?”
“Eight hundred in a building meant to house one hundred fifty.”
“Have you identified any agitators?”
“Easy enough. All they do is complain, the lot of them. Not enough food. Not enough soft drinks. Their rights aren’t being respected. We have no right to hold them so long. Some are more vocal than others.”
Borgia handed Sabbatini a piece of paper folded in half. “A list of phone numbers. Make sure they are on the agitators’ phones…even if they don’t have one yet.”
Sabbatini slipped the paper into his breast pocket. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Their quarters are inspected several times a day. Guards have duplicate keys for all the lockers.”
“Will your men be on the island?”
“Security on Lampedusa is handled by a private contractor. My troops will helicopter in upon receiving word of the incident. I have it on good authority that we will receive a tip that another attack is about to occur.”
“There will have to be casualties,” said Borgia. “Italian blood must be spilled.”
“At least it will be quick. A warrior’s death.”
“Patriots,” said Borgia.
“It will appear as if the agitators detonated the Semtex themselves. Later the pistols and grenades will be found, what’s left of them. It will be all the proof we need.”
“More than enough, one hopes.”
“And Melzi, our distinguished minister of the interior?”
“Everything is set for Torino. His men have identified several terrorist cells. The cells have been provided similar stores of explosives and weaponry. The chemical signature of the plastic explosives will be the same across the board. It may take a few days, a week even, but there will be no denying a high level of coordination between the groups. Only one conclusion can be reached.”
“A revolution,” said Sabbatini.
“A failed revolution.” Borgia’s phone rang. His sister. He sent the call to voice mail. The phone rang again. “Will you excuse me, Massimo? Family.”
“Of course.”
Borgia walked out of earshot. “What is it, Beatrice? Really.”
She was hysterical. “Hadrian is dead. He killed himself. He jumped, Luca. He jumped.”
“’Trice, calm yourself.” Borgia turned and saw that Sabbatini was watching him intently. It was critical he not betray the slightest worry. “What do you mean, he’s dead? I spoke with him earlier.”
“He had been beaten. His face…his eye. There was blood on his shirt. He walked right past me and jumped.”
“Jumped? I don’t understand.”
“From the top of the hotel.”
“Gesù e Maria.”
Borgia managed to calm her and listened as she relayed the events more clearly. There had been a party of sorts, a business gathering to launch one of HW’s new funds. Hadrian Lester had gone off to speak with an Arabian sheikh. She didn’t know who the man was or what they had discussed. Lester had returned twenty minutes later looking as if he had been severely beaten. Worse was his mood. He had been distant, inconsolable, utterly bereft, as if something terrible had befallen him.
“A sheikh? You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Was it Tarek?” he asked, even though he was certain Tarek Al-Obeidi was elsewhere.
“I don’t know,” she answered unsteadily. “I don’t think so.”
Borgia told his sister to find a friend and stay with her. He would call back shortly. He ended the call and gestured to the paratrooper. Two more minutes. He dialed the number for