The accident itself had gone off perfectly—even better than they had planned.
Traveling with the headlights off, the man in the white VW was so focused on Sparrman in front of him that he never even noticed the Spetsnaz men come up on him from behind in a green Mercedes SUV.
By the time he realized they were there, they had moved into the opposite lane, as if to pass. Then, all of a sudden, they brought their vehicle slamming into his left rear quarter panel, causing him to swerve and lose control.
The white VW Passat shot off the road, rolled, and slammed into a tree with such force it sounded like an explosion.
They had been prepared to snap the man’s neck, but it turned out not to be necessary. By the time they got to his vehicle, he was already dead.
Quickly, they patted down all of his pockets and went through the rest of his car—taking his cell phone and his laptop bag, complete with a Toshiba notebook.
Before they could make a second, more thorough pass, they heard a car coming. They had no choice but to flee the scene.
As they left, they reached out to Johansson, another local member of the network, to let him know that everything had gone according to plan. They told him to expect a call to go out from his dispatcher shortly.
Knowing where and when the accident would take place, Johansson had arranged to be in the area, so that he could be the first law enforcement officer on the scene. In case the Spetsnaz operatives missed anything, which he highly doubted, he’d be able to take care of it.
When the passing motorists stopped to see what had happened, the call to the police followed less than a minute later. Immediately, the dispatcher was putting out the call for all available units to respond. Johansson radioed back his position and that he was en route. He had a good fifteen minutes at the scene before anyone else showed up. Not that he needed it. The Spetsnaz members had done a perfect job.
Back in Kaliningrad, Tretyakov had been pleased to get the good news. The man in the Alpine hat had been taken care of and the cell was still intact, ready to act. The man’s phone and the laptop would be couriered by one of Kuznetsov’s people to an agent in Stockholm. From there, it would be placed in the Russian Embassy’s diplomatic pouch and sent to Moscow where it could be fully examined.
In the meantime, Tretyakov had authorized another attack by the People’s Revolutionary Front. He had decided not only to oblige his superiors by moving up the timetable, but also to up the carnage.
If tonight’s operation was successful, it would be their most spectacular achievement yet.
CHAPTER 29
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ROME, ITALY
Figurati was one of the hottest restaurants in Rome. Located on the glamorous Piazza Navona, it was at the intersection of Italian politics and culture. Frequented by celebrities and politicians alike, Figurati was the place to be seen, especially on a Friday night.
The tables in the main dining room were booked months in advance. Only the most powerful and most famous could get a table on short notice, and sometimes not even then.
Contessa Chiara Di Vencenzo had a standing reservation. Every Friday at nine o’clock, the buxom and vivacious Neapolitan, who had married well and divorced even better, held court at a round table in the center of the dining room. Her guests varied wildly. They included authors, filmmakers, actors, models, painters, poets, dissidents, politicians, and titans of industry.
Hers was one of the top tables in Rome, and an invitation for Friday dinner with the Contessa meant you were seen as a very big, very important deal.
On Fridays, the paparazzi parked themselves outside on the sidewalk waiting to snap photos of those she had invited. The next morning, newspapers across the city and websites throughout Italy ran their pictures, as well as stories about who else had been seen at the restaurant that night.
For those who couldn’t get a table in the dining room, there was always the slim chance they might find space in the bar. It was standing room only by seven o’clock, but worth it just to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous who came to dine. As long as you were well dressed, Figurati was happy to have your business.
On this particular Friday, Jacopo Romano was very well dressed. He had polished his shoes until they shone like mirrors. His new navy blue suit was perfectly pressed, his crisp white shirt heavily starched.
In his girlfriend’s opinion, three days’ growth of beard was the perfect length for his handsome face. His taut, olive skin set off the deep green eyes on either side of his perfectly proportioned Roman nose. He was the picture of Italian good looks.
In his left hand, he carried a large Prada shopping bag. Inside it was a box, elegantly wrapped in gift paper and tied with an enormous satin bow. Taped to the side of the box was a bright yellow envelope, presumably containing a greeting card of some sort.
Romano navigated his way through the crowd and patiently waited for twenty minutes before a barman took his order. The restaurant was filled with the sound of laughter, animated conversations, and the tinkling of glasses. Overhead, speakers in the ceiling pumped out an eclectic mix of jazz and bossa nova.
Romano paid for his Campari and soda with cash, then stepped away from the bar and faded back into the crowd.
At nine o’clock on the dot, a jolt of electricity surged through the restaurant as the first of the Contessa’s guests showed up. It was a British actress, filming a movie in Italy, who was alleged to be having an affair with the current, married, Prime Minister.
She looked absolutely stunning and was followed by another woman, just as gorgeous—a model who had been tapped as the new face of Gucci. After they were shown to the table, two men arrived—an Italian soccer star and a young fashion designer who was said to have been taking Milan by storm.
The remaining guests passed through a meteor shower of camera flashes outside, and then ten minutes later, the Contessa arrived.
It took the flaxen-haired beauty half an hour to make it to her table. Every two feet she was being stopped by someone or other, kissing her on both cheeks, asking how her family was and where she planned to spend the summer. She was quite visibly in her element and loving every moment of it.
Making a full circuit of her table she doled out hugs and kisses on both cheeks to each one of her guests. Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth until she insisted everyone sit.
Bottles of champagne were brought to the table, glasses were raised, and toasts were made.
There was no need for menus to be passed around. That was not the kind of restaurant that Figurati was. What’s more, the Contessa liked surprising her guests.
The only clarification necessary was whether anyone at the table had any food allergies. They had become prevalent these days. The Contessa actually found it quite astounding. Growing up, she hadn’t known a single person with a food allergy.
According to a physician she knew, the best science could understand was that first-world medicine had beaten back so many ailments that without anything to fight, immune systems were now turning against themselves. She found it fascinating that food allergies didn’t exist in the developing world.
Having informed the waiter that there were no food allergies at their table, the Contessa turned her attention to her guests. As was her custom, she went around the table, asking her guests to introduce themselves with their name, their occupation, and what famous person they would like to sleep with.