Last to Die

Killing is easy. All you need is access and the proper tool, whether it’s a bullet, a blade, or Semtex. And if you plan it right, no cleanup is necessary. But extracting a man like Icarus, who’s alive and resisting you, a man who surrounds himself with family and bodyguards, is a far more delicate process.

Which is why we devoted most of that June to surveillance and reconnaissance and dry runs. The hours were long, seven days a week, but no one complained. Why would we? Our hotel was comfortable, our expenses covered. And at the end of the day, there was always plenty of alcohol. Not mere plonk, but good Italian wines. For what we were required to do, we believed we deserved the best.

It was a Thursday when we got the call from our local asset. He worked as a waiter inside the restaurant La Nonna, and that night two adjacent tables had been reserved for dinner. One table was for a party of four, the other for a party of two. Bottles of Brunello di Montalcino had been requested, to be opened immediately for proper airing upon the patrons’ arrival. He had no doubt for whom those tables were reserved.

They arrived in separate vehicles, one right behind the other. In the black BMW were the two bodyguards. In the silver Volvo, Icarus was at the wheel. It was one of his quirks: He always insisted on being his own driver, on being in control. Both cars parked directly across the street from La Nonna, where they would be in view throughout the meal. I was already in position, seated at an outdoor café nearby, sipping espresso. From there I had a front-row view of the precision ballet that was about to unfold.

I saw the bodyguards get out of their BMW first, and they watched as Icarus emerged from his Volvo. He always drove a Volvo, an unexciting choice for a man who could afford a fleet of Maseratis. He opened the rear door, and out climbed one of the reasons for choosing such a safe vehicle. Little Carlo, the younger son, was eight years old, with large dark eyes and unruly hair like his mother’s. The boy’s shoelace had come loose, and Icarus bent down to tie it.

That was the moment Carlo noticed me, sitting nearby. His eyes fixed on mine so intently that I felt a dart of panic. I thought: The boy knows. Somehow he knows what’s about to happen. I did not have children; no one on our team did, so children were a mystery to us. They were like little aliens, unformed creatures who could be ignored. But Carlo’s eyes were luminous and wise, and I felt stripped of all pretense, unable to justify what we were about to do to his father.

Then Icarus stood up. He took Carlo’s hand and led his wife and older son across the street, into La Nonna for their supper.

I breathed again.

Our team moved into action.

A young woman approached, pushing a baby carriage, her infant hidden under layers of swaddling. The baby gave a sudden wail; the woman stopped to fuss over him. I was the only one close enough to see her slash the tire of the bodyguards’ vehicle. Her infant fell silent, and the woman continued up the sidewalk.

At that moment, inside La Nonna, wine was being poured, two little boys twirled spaghetti, and platters of veal and lamb and pork emerged from the kitchen.

Outside, on the street, the jaws of a trap were about to close. Everything was proceeding as planned.

But I could not shake off the image of little Carlo’s face, staring at me. A look that reached into my chest and clawed at my heart. When you feel a premonition as powerful as that, it should never be ignored.

I am sorry that I did.