Page 49 of Spymaster

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.

It was a randy opener, to be sure, but it helped break the ice and set the mood for the evening. If you weren’t any fun, the Contessa didn’t want to have anything to do with you.Life’s too shorthad always been her motto.

Accompanying the Contessa was her longtime boyfriend, Giovanni Lorenzo. A retired diplomat, Lorenzo had served as Italy’s Ambassador to the European Union, as well as Deputy Secretary of NATO. Currently, he was president of a little-known NGO called the NATO Defense College Foundation.

Established to further the goals of NATO, the foundation worked closely with the Rome-headquartered NATO Defense College.

The college had been the brainchild of Dwight D. Eisenhower, the first Supreme Allied Commander of Europe. The idea had been to create a university where both civilian and military members of NATO could pursue training, which would result in the strengthening and constant improvement of the North Atlantic Alliance.

Romano was pleased to see Lorenzo there. It had been a fifty-fifty shot. While the retired diplomat was a regular guest, he didn’t attend every one of the Contessa’s dinners. She was a good twenty years younger, had a lot more energy, and craved the limelight much more than he did.

Stepping across the threshold into the dining room, the handsome Italian moved to the side to allow others to pass. He set the shopping bag down on the floor next to him and pretended to scan the room for a group of dinner companions.

Inches away was a waiter’s station. As his eyes moved from table to table, he saw people engaged in their own conversations, occasionally glancing at the Contessa and her guests, but not paying attention to anything else, much less to him.

Casually parting the fabric skirt of the waiter’s station, Romano pushed the bag underneath, greeting card facing out, with the toe of his beautifully polished shoe.

With his package placed, he strolled out of the restaurant, stopping only at the front door to depress a button on the wireless key fob in his pocket.

He was more than a block away when the bomb detonated. Even then, the blast was so intense that it shattered all of the windows around him and knocked him to the ground.

Within hours, newscasters would be calling it the worst bombing in Italy since the Marxist terror attacks of the 1970s, and the People’s Revolutionary Front would be known as the deadliest European terrorist organization since the Red Brigades and the Baader-Meinhof Gang.

CHAPTER 30

GOTLAND

Harvath didn’t like having to deceive Chief Inspector Nyström about his true purpose and identity. The man seemed like a good cop. Deception, though, was a necessary part of the job—especially now.

They were in Sweden, running a black operation without the knowledge of its government. They were supposed to have had the help of one of its most senior intelligence officers, but Lars Lund was now dead. They were 100 percent on their own.

Harvath deeply regretted Lund’s passing, but he was used to operating in this position, often in much harsher environments. He had only forty-eight hours. They would have to make it work. He wasn’t going back to Brussels empty-handed.

Dropping Harvath back at the airport, the Chief Inspector had offered to stick around to help make sure all of their arrangements were taken care of. Harvath had thanked him and reiterated that he’d call him if he needed help. That reminded the policeman that he hadn’t gotten Harvath’s cell phone number, which he promptly asked for, “Just in case anything pops up and I need to get in touch,” he had said.

Harvath didn’t want the Swedish police being able to track his movements, so he provided Nyström with a dummy number Nicholas had set up that would dump right into voicemail and ping Harvath’s current phone number if any messages were left.

Writing down the number in his notebook, the Chief Inspector thanked him, the pair shook hands, and the cop drove off.

With his most pressing headache out of the way, Harvath turned to the others on his list.

Because the man in the hat had been in charge of providing the team with vehicles and a place to stay, they now had to scramble.

The rental car situation was less than optimal. The car choices were lousy, and he could rent one only under his false “Hallman” identity. As the driver of the second vehicle, Chase Palmer would have to use one of his false driver’s identities as well.

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