His mind still reeled at the loss of the documents.
Failure was not his style.
Before flying from Denmark yesterday he’d engaged in a little research. The general consensus seemed to be that any letters between Churchill and Mussolini would have involved an attempt by Churchill to either prevent or sever Italy’s alliance with Germany. Once he’d conquered Ethiopia in 1936, Mussolini had openly wanted to rekindle a friendship with Britain. He personally disliked Hitler and did not want to see Europe fall under Germany’s influence. But the British thought appeasing Hitler, and opposing Mussolini, was the better course, so they’d rebuffed his advances. Not until 1938 had Britain finally capitulated. But by then it was too late. Italy had already shifted toward Hitler.
Historical speculation on what might have been written between Churchill and Mussolini ran rampant. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to read any of the letters inside the satchel. He’d planned on doing that once he returned to his hotel in Menaggio, even though the Brits had emphatically told him not to be so curious.
But what did they say about the best-laid plans?
He’d been able to change the tire, using the small spare the rental came equipped with, and he’d made it south without incident. The man who’d hired him waited in a sunny, elegant dining room that overlooked an inner courtyard. His name was Sir James Grant, presently of MI6, Great Britain’s famed foreign intelligence service. He hadn’t met or heard of Grant before yesterday, an urbane and elegant gentleman in his mid-fifties, with dark eyes that cast an expressionless quality typical of professional spies. He noticed that Grant wore the same three-button dark-blue suit with a vest from yesterday. Cotton had called ahead to say that he was on the way with an interesting story, specifically alerting his employer to the two bodies in the villa.
The hotel was impressive, a former convent located in the heart of Milan’s fashionable shopping district. Apparently British intelligence’s per diem for fieldwork was much more generous than the Justice Department’s. He stepped into the dining room, sat at the table, and explained more of what had happened.
Grant laughed at the bear. “That’s a new one. I’ve been at this for twenty years and never had an agent encounter that before.”
“Was the satchel real elephant skin?” he asked.
“It’s said Mussolini shot the animal himself. How many pages would you estimate were inside?”
“Fifty or so. But only eleven letters. I’m sorry about losing them. Whoever was there wanted that satchel.”
“After you called earlier, I sent a man north to investigate. He found the body inside, as you described, and it seems to be the villa’s groundskeeper. We also found the dead man upstairs. Shot twice with one arm shredded. Quite horrible, my man said. Then he located the owner, hanging from a tree in the woods north of the villa.” Grant paused. “His arms had been pulled up behind his back, his shoulders separated, a bullet to the head.”
Cotton sat back in the chair. “Have you identified the dead guy who attacked me?”
“Not yet. His fingerprints are not in any database. Which is unusual, to say the least. But we’ll learn who he is.” Grant motioned at a plate of pastries on the table. “Please. Help yourself. I ordered those in case you were hungry.”
He caught the diversion, a way to move things off to another subject. Stephanie Nelle was known to use the same tactic. But since he was hungry, he helped himself to a couple of croissants. A waiter sauntered over and he ordered a glass of orange juice.
“Fresh-squeezed?” he asked the waiter.
“But of course.”
He smiled. Perfect. Thanks to his mother, who’d discouraged him from both, he’d never acquired a taste for alcohol or coffee. But fresh-squeezed juice? Especially from those tart and tangy Spanish oranges?
That was the best.
The ring rested in his pocket. He decided to do a little hedging of his own and keep that tidbit to himself while he determined what this cagey Brit knew that he didn’t. But he did decide to share a little. “There were eleven letters between Churchill and Mussolini. Five were being sold to you. Maybe the other six had been offered to another buyer. He wanted five million euros from you. More, probably, from the other guy. So you both decided it was cheaper to steal them.”
“I agree, we were being played. I should not be surprised. The seller’s reputation does precede him.”