Brute Force

65

The seafront was brimming with people doing what Italians do best: strolling, chatting, flirting and posing. The air was heavy with the smell of perfume and reverberated with the clip-clop of heels on the cobbles. A moped shot past and backfired, causing a ripple of outrage amongst the promenaders.

Viewed from the back, almost every couple were dead-ringers for my targets. I dodged a taxi and weaved my way past shop windows filled with merchandise and designer labels. The town stretched away from the harbour up into the hills. Above me, lights twinkled.

Across the marina, the tender had already come alongside. Fatman was onto the quay quicker than I'd have given him credit for – something I'd need to remember later.

After tying up the dinghy, he did the gentlemanly thing and helped Candy Girl ashore. I got my first really good look at them in the lights along the seafront. She was Eurasian rather than Chinese, and absolutely stunning. He was over-fed and greased up, and twenty to thirty years her senior. They didn't get a second look as they made their way towards the centre of town.

I tucked in around twenty metres behind them. The bells rang twice as they passed the church; it was six thirty. The girl was doing her best to slip her arm around Fatman's waist, but she wasn't finding it easy. They crossed the main square and headed down an alley. As I rounded the corner, I saw them duck into a doorway. I followed them inside, down some stairs and into a basement with bare rock walls. With its low lighting, little round tables and wine bottles stacked to the roof, it was the chicest cave I'd ever been in – including some pretty well-appointed Al-Qaeda hangouts in Afghanistan.

Fatman caught the waiter's eye and they were led to a table not far from the bar, still holding hands. I grabbed a stool, picked up a menu and pretended to check out the wine-list. The other tables were all heaving with glitterati picking away at bread, olives and cheese, sipping at their wine and not paying me the least attention. Candy Girl started to speak with a high, nasal American twang. She was still holding Fatman's hand, but looked around the room, checking out the other diners, maybe hoping to spot an even richer target, while he stuck his nose into the menu. Her gaze swept my way and for a brief moment our eyes met.

The spell was broken when, like a dickhead, Fatman clicked his fingers for some waiter-attention. When he opened his mouth, he confirmed what I'd already suspected: he was a Brit.