switched on his mobile and radio, but he couldn’t get a signal on the phone, the radio was out of range and anyway it was too late.
Nicola Mantega stood motionless until the railcar was out of sight, then started to walk slowly up the dirt track. After about a minute, a distant sound attracted his attention. A black Jeep was making its way down the hillside towards him, disdaining the levelled track. When it was about five metres away it swung around to face uphill and an electric window peeled down.
‘ Salve ,’ said Giorgio.
The rotor blades were whirling slowly to a halt as the three men stepped down from the Bell 412. To the west, just above the line of mountains that cradled the city, the sun was also powering down for the night, but on the ground the temperature was still over a hundred. Flanked by the pilot and technician, Phil Larson headed towards the metal box that Aeroscan had hired as a temporary office facility. It stood on the cracked concrete paving that also served as a landing pad, right alongside a skeletal concrete structure that had obviously been abandoned for years. It looked as though someone had set out to build a factory or a supermarket and then changed his mind or run out of money half-way through.
None of the men talked. They were all stupid from the heat, filthy from the dust kicked up by the backdraught, jittery from the continual noise and vibration of the helicopter and looking forward to stripping off their work clothes and getting back to the hotel as soon as possible. So Phil wasn’t real happy when his phone started to ring. Even worse, the screen displayed Anonimo in place of the caller’s name. He had learnt that this meant an out-of-area call, almost certainly international and probably from head office. The damnedest thing about operating in Europe was the time difference. Just as you crawled out of the galley after a hard day at the oars, the eager beavers back in the States were arriving at the office all caffeined up and keen to show their mettle.
‘Phil Larson.’
‘Phil? It’s Martin Nguyen.’
‘Hi, Mr Nguyen.’
‘Phil? Phil? Are you there?’
‘Sure I’m here.’
‘I can’t hear you, Phil! Can you hear me?’
‘I can hear you fine, Mr Nguyen. Maybe there’s a problem with the connection.’
‘Phil? There must be a problem with the connection. I’ll call you right back.’
Oh no you won’t, thought Phil, speed-dialling another number.
‘Hi, Phil.’
‘Hi, Jason,’ replied Phil, pushing open the door. Jason looked up at him in surprise and made to clam his cell.
‘Leave it on!’ Phil told him. ‘I need to block an incoming while I unwind.’
After a quick rinse in what they called the sewer shower, Phil emerged wearing his street clothes. The others were all set to go. Phil told them that he’d be along later, retired to his office and scrolled down on the mobile till he hit ‘Rapture Works’.
‘Martin.’
‘This is Phil, Mr Nguyen.’
‘Finally! I’ve been trying to get you for almost half an hour. Where the fuck were you?’
Phil was not a serious student of human nature – too many variables – but Martin Nguyen had always struck him as being the nearest thing to the electrical circuitry that he loved and understood. Now he sounded like some goddamn chick. What was up?
‘I had to take another call, Mr Nguyen. Our aviation fuel distributor didn’t deliver on schedule and we’ve only got fifteen hours’ supply left. Anyway, I’ve sorted it all out. The gasoline’s going to arrive tomorrow, trucked in from …’
‘I don’t want to hear your goddamn life story, Larson. Report progress.’
‘Well, we’ve been working twelve-hour shifts and getting through around a hundred kilometres each day.’
‘But you haven’t found anything.’
‘You’d have heard if we had.’
‘So how long is this going to take?’
‘No way to tell, Mr Nguyen. We might find it first thing tomorrow, or it might be at the far
Nicola Mantega stood motionless until the railcar was out of sight, then started to walk slowly up the dirt track. After about a minute, a distant sound attracted his attention. A black Jeep was making its way down the hillside towards him, disdaining the levelled track. When it was about five metres away it swung around to face uphill and an electric window peeled down.
‘ Salve ,’ said Giorgio.
The rotor blades were whirling slowly to a halt as the three men stepped down from the Bell 412. To the west, just above the line of mountains that cradled the city, the sun was also powering down for the night, but on the ground the temperature was still over a hundred. Flanked by the pilot and technician, Phil Larson headed towards the metal box that Aeroscan had hired as a temporary office facility. It stood on the cracked concrete paving that also served as a landing pad, right alongside a skeletal concrete structure that had obviously been abandoned for years. It looked as though someone had set out to build a factory or a supermarket and then changed his mind or run out of money half-way through.
None of the men talked. They were all stupid from the heat, filthy from the dust kicked up by the backdraught, jittery from the continual noise and vibration of the helicopter and looking forward to stripping off their work clothes and getting back to the hotel as soon as possible. So Phil wasn’t real happy when his phone started to ring. Even worse, the screen displayed Anonimo in place of the caller’s name. He had learnt that this meant an out-of-area call, almost certainly international and probably from head office. The damnedest thing about operating in Europe was the time difference. Just as you crawled out of the galley after a hard day at the oars, the eager beavers back in the States were arriving at the office all caffeined up and keen to show their mettle.
‘Phil Larson.’
‘Phil? It’s Martin Nguyen.’
‘Hi, Mr Nguyen.’
‘Phil? Phil? Are you there?’
‘Sure I’m here.’
‘I can’t hear you, Phil! Can you hear me?’
‘I can hear you fine, Mr Nguyen. Maybe there’s a problem with the connection.’
‘Phil? There must be a problem with the connection. I’ll call you right back.’
Oh no you won’t, thought Phil, speed-dialling another number.
‘Hi, Phil.’
‘Hi, Jason,’ replied Phil, pushing open the door. Jason looked up at him in surprise and made to clam his cell.
‘Leave it on!’ Phil told him. ‘I need to block an incoming while I unwind.’
After a quick rinse in what they called the sewer shower, Phil emerged wearing his street clothes. The others were all set to go. Phil told them that he’d be along later, retired to his office and scrolled down on the mobile till he hit ‘Rapture Works’.
‘Martin.’
‘This is Phil, Mr Nguyen.’
‘Finally! I’ve been trying to get you for almost half an hour. Where the fuck were you?’
Phil was not a serious student of human nature – too many variables – but Martin Nguyen had always struck him as being the nearest thing to the electrical circuitry that he loved and understood. Now he sounded like some goddamn chick. What was up?
‘I had to take another call, Mr Nguyen. Our aviation fuel distributor didn’t deliver on schedule and we’ve only got fifteen hours’ supply left. Anyway, I’ve sorted it all out. The gasoline’s going to arrive tomorrow, trucked in from …’
‘I don’t want to hear your goddamn life story, Larson. Report progress.’
‘Well, we’ve been working twelve-hour shifts and getting through around a hundred kilometres each day.’
‘But you haven’t found anything.’
‘You’d have heard if we had.’
‘So how long is this going to take?’
‘No way to tell, Mr Nguyen. We might find it first thing tomorrow, or it might be at the far
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