Page 31 of Gilded Saint

The subtle purr of an engine passes down the trail. I lift my binoculars and peer through the trees, confirming the occupant.

I’ve spent the last week at Tristan Voignier’s private estate, out of the public eye. Needing a place to decompress, Tristan, or Nomad on covert channels, offered a place off the beaten path and far away from surveillance. The official story is that I’m ensconced in my flat in a state of matrimonial bliss.

Nick spent the past week in Greece shoring up relationships with a couple of syndicate power players. He believes I’m following up with the journalist who broke the story about the drug bust before anyone else. The story hit the wire too early for her to have not had an inside source. Of course, I’m not following up with the journalist because I already know exactly how she ended up with her intel.

The vehicle stops in front of the nearby guesthouse. The door to the Land Rover opens, and Tristan steps out of the vehicle as I pull up on my ATV.

“Dapper as ever,” I comment, smiling. He’s my Interpol contact, and technically he’s my handler, but he’s a friend by lieu of being the only person outside of the States who knows my true identity.

If it weren’t for the situation, we’d probably never hit it off. The Brit dresses like a tool. Tapered trousers, glossy pointed dress shoes, three-piece toppers. Today he’s wearing plaid tapered trousers, a turtleneck sweater, and hunting boots. It’s about as casual as I’ve ever seen him.

“How’s married life?”

I ignore his dig and lead the way inside the guesthouse, a cabin on his gated estate.

“Care for a drink?” I counter.

“Lucia’s back at the main house. Told her I needed to check on the property. She’ll suspect something if I come back smelling like alcohol.”

“Right.” I set the crystal lid on the decanter.

“Do the accommodations meet your needs?”

“Yes. I appreciate the breather.”

“Not a problem. By my count, you haven’t had a holiday in close to five years. I’d say you’re due.” He shoves his hand in his pockets. “So, what’ve you got for me?”

“Nothing new.”

“You spent a weekend partying so hard with the mafia that you came home with a wife and nothing else?”

“I didn’t say I got nothing. I said nothing new.” Fuckwad. “Titan Shipping is legit, but they are transitioning into the gray.”

“Transitioning how? Siding with Russia?”

“I don’t know about siding. I’d say profiting from. It’s the same old story. The Lupi Grigi have a complex mix of legitimate and illegitimate businesses. Real estate, supermarkets, hotels. The normal mix. I heard them talk about all of it. Drugs and arms are their two illegal businesses. That and corruption… If you want to catch them, I’d say accounting is the way to go, but…these guys are expert money launderers.” Not that any of this is news to him. “One guy, a mouthy foot soldier type, told me there’s a new guy who’s pissing them off. An Italian man of Argentinian descent who mostly lives in Spain. He imports bananas from Ecuador and owns sports centers in Marbella and Granada. Plus bars and restaurants all over. He’s infringing on their territory.”

“He’s infringing on the Lupi Grigi?”

“That’s the story.”

“He won’t live long enough for us to look into him. What’s his name?”

“Fernando Cavenaghi. You going to pursue him?”

“Me? Unlikely. But the Europol commissioner is on record saying that organized crime is the biggest threat to the European Union. I’ll pass it on. Someone will do something.”

There’s nothing to act on. I’ve been doing this for five years. If the powers that be find the relay of intel valuable, so be it.

“You got the update with their exploration into submersibles?” I ask.

He nods. “Longer we carry sanctions, the more attractive profiting from them becomes. What does Ivanov believe you’ve been doing for this past week?”

“Nick thinks I’m looking for the BBC journalist. Which I have been doing remotely. She hasn’t shown up in the London feed. She didn’t go missing, did she?” He tilts his head thoughtfully in a way that doesn’t sit well. “We fed her that story to catch those fucks. For fucking sure, we protected her. Right?”

“Haven’t heard anything, but I’ll check around.” Tristan pulls out his mobile and taps away on it, likely adding something likecheck the morgues for journalistto his to-do list. “In other news, sources say Leandro went ballistic when he discovered you snapped up the young bird he had an eye on."

“Ballistic?”

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