Brute Force

56

Lynn was sitting at the table. His laptop was open as wide as the smile across his face.

'Good news, Nick. It's not the Firm.'

'You've spoken to them?'

'It's the internet, Nick! Don't worry, I surf off my neigh-bour's wi-fi – silly boy doesn't even have a password. We're safe, it's OK!'

I shoved my face into his. 'You pissed? Do they know where we are?'

'They just know it's Italy. Nick, it's OK – they can't trace Skype. It's VOIP traffic, there are no fixed lines. The packets are routed around the network on any one of a number of different routes. We're safe here.'

'They know it's Italy, or you told them?'

'I told them. Listen, the question's been bugging me ever since those cars turned up at the farm: why would the Firm use you to lead them to me when they knew all along where I lived? I know you think this will end in bin-liners, but you'll have to trust me – the same as I trust my old friends.'

'Friends? Are you paying their mortgages?'

'No.'

'So why trust them?'

'That's not how it works in my world, Nick – one of them is godfather to my son.'

I turned to the window. The sun glittered on the sea.

'OK, it's done. Damage-limitation time. What did they say?'

'Just that it isn't them. They said we should come in from the cold, get their help.'

It would be great if this shit didn't belong to them. They might even be able to help, if only because Lynn was involved. It would have nothing to do with the low life following in his wake.

Lynn joined me at the window. 'I told them we could meet at the Autogrill. It's a public area, Nick.'

'When?'

'They suggested six thirty tonight.'

I looked at my watch. It was already four o'clock. 'So they're not coming from Rome?'

'They were at the consulate in Genoa.'

'Is that the first call you've made to them?'

'Yes. I didn't just say we'd come to them. I arranged an RV . . . and they do not know about the flat.'

'Did you say what car we'd be in?'

'No.'

'What direction we'd be coming from?'

'No.'