Page 49 of Licence To Howl
‘A mess,’ Devereau said shortly. ‘Do the Italian police have our names yet?’
He shook his head. ‘Not yet. It’s only a matter of time though.’
He grimaced. It wouldn’t help that his phone was now lying amidst the debris of his scattered clothing at Solentino’s apartment. ‘We should have time to get to Hotel Condotti then,’ Devereau said. ‘We can check to see if there’s any evidence that Vissier did break into my room and I can also grab what I need.’
‘Then what?’ Scarlett inquired.
Devereau passed a hand over his forehead. In theory he should write another draft email for Greensmith so she was appraised of the situation. But it was now four o’clock in the morning in Rome and three o’clock in London. No matter how diligent the MI5 agent was, she’d surely be sleeping. Devereau didn’t want to have to wait around until she woke up. Until they knew who had killed Solentino and his men and why, they couldn’t afford to rest. No matter how shitty he was feeling.
‘We’ll go to the embassy,’ he said finally. ‘There’s someone there we can talk to.’
‘We?’ she asked.
‘You’re now implicated as much as I am,’ he said. ‘There’s no other choice.’
‘If you’re in as much of a hurry as I think you are,’ Moretti said, ‘let me send some of my people to the hotel to look around and pick up your things. In the event that the police do identify you quickly, that will be the best option for all of us. In the meantime, you can go straight to the British embassy and we can meet later.’ He paused. ‘If it’s possible to do so.’ He wagged his finger at Devereau. ‘I wasn’t lying before, however. You really do need considerable rest. You might end up doing yourself permanent damage if you keep pushing.’
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘You don’t look fine,’ Scarlett said, almost sternly.
‘Let’s worry about me later,’ he told her. ‘Let’s focus on who might have killed Solentino and nicked his plans for terrorism first.’
For the first time, Moretti looked genuinely concerned. ‘Terrorism? Things are that serious?’
Devereau recalled Solentino’s grim allusions to other terrible and tragic attacks. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I think they are.’
* * *
The British Embassywas a large squat building located on Via XX Settembre, smack bang in the centre of the city. The gates were firmly closed and, while the wall surrounding the building looked easy enough to climb, Devereau didn’t relish the thought of attempting any sort of minor acrobatics in his current state. Not to mention that any guards patrolling inside would be likely to shoot first and ask questions later. The last thing either he or Scarlett needed right now was to be peppered with damned bullets. Officially, the building didn’t open for another four hours. This was, however, an emergency.
‘Call the emergency embassy number on the website,’ he told Scarlett, ‘and ask for Maximillian Jones.’
She nodded and did as he asked. He watched while she waded through various recorded messages before finally managing to get hold of a real person. He wasn’t the only one who’d been suffering from their long night. Scarlett’s skin was far paler than normal and he knew she was feeling the same level of anxiety that he was. More lives could be resting on both their shoulders right now. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.
‘Someone is coming to meet us,’ she finally said, hanging up and tucking the phone into her pocket. ‘Whoever this Maximillian fellow is, he must be someone important. As soon as I mentioned his name, I was told we’d be admitted straight away.’
Almost on cue, the embassy gates began to swing open. It gave Devereau some hope that he was not only going to be taken seriously but that someone was already waking Sarah Greensmith up in London. ‘Go MI5,’ he murmured.
A young man with ruffled hair and an open shirt appeared at the embassy’s front door with a tablet in his hands. He was accompanied by two blank faced security guards holding large guns. The man beckoned them forward. Scarlett and Devereau wasted no time, slipping through the open gates and up the few steps.
‘I’m Devereau Webb.’
Scarlett inclined her head. ‘Scarlett Cook.’
The man said nothing. Instead he looked down at the screen of his tablet and looked up again. ‘Do you have your passports?’
‘No.’
‘You should have them on you at all times for identification.’ The man sighed as if this were all terribly inconvenient. Devereau bit his lip and tried to avoid snapping that he was supposed to be a fucking spy. He didn’t want to be identified at all times. ‘But very well,’ the young man continued. ‘Follow me.’
The two guards immediately moved, flanking Scarlett and Devereau as if they were dangerous criminals. ‘We have silver bullets,’ one of them said for no other reason than pointless intimidation. Devereau rolled his eyes. Even now, bruised, limping and serving his own damned country, he had to put up with the same old anti-supe bullshit.
‘Silver bullets?’ Scarlett cooed. ‘How exciting! Are they pretty? And shiny? I like shiny things.’ Her eyes drifted to the guard’s neck. ‘And blood. I like blood too. Especially from men in uniform.’
The guard couldn’t stop himself from recoiling. Devereau suppressed a grin.
‘Alright,’ the younger man with the tablet snapped. ‘Enough of that.’
