Spymaster

CHAPTER 29

Figurati was one of the hottest restaurants in Rome. Located on the glamorous Piazza Navona, it was at the intersection of Italian politics and culture. Frequented by celebrities and politicians alike, Figurati was the place to be seen, especially on a Friday night.

The tables in the main dining room were booked months in advance. Only the most powerful and most famous could get a table on short notice, and sometimes not even then.

Contessa Chiara Di Vencenzo had a standing reservation. Every Friday at nine o’clock, the buxom and vivacious Neapolitan, who had married well and divorced even better, held court at a round table in the center of the dining room. Her guests varied wildly. They included authors, filmmakers, actors, models, painters, poets, dissidents, politicians, and titans of industry.

Hers was one of the top tables in Rome, and an invitation for Friday dinner with the Contessa meant you were seen as a very big, very important deal.

On Fridays, the paparazzi parked themselves outside on the sidewalk waiting to snap photos of those she had invited. The next morning, newspapers across the city and websites throughout Italy ran their pictures, as well as stories about who else had been seen at the restaurant that night.

For those who couldn’t get a table in the dining room, there was always the slim chance they might find space in the bar. It was standing room only by seven o’clock, but worth it just to catch a glimpse of the rich and famous who came to dine. As long as you were well dressed, Figurati was happy to have your business.

On this particular Friday, Jacopo Romano was very well dressed. He had polished his shoes until they shone like mirrors. His new navy blue suit was perfectly pressed, his crisp white shirt heavily starched.

In his girlfriend’s opinion, three days’ growth of beard was the perfect length for his handsome face. His taut, olive skin set off the deep green eyes on either side of his perfectly proportioned Roman nose. He was the picture of Italian good looks.

In his left hand, he carried a large Prada shopping bag. Inside it was a box, elegantly wrapped in gift paper and tied with an enormous satin bow. Taped to the side of the box was a bright yellow envelope, presumably containing a greeting card of some sort.

Romano navigated his way through the crowd and patiently waited for twenty minutes before a barman took his order. The restaurant was filled with the sound of laughter, animated conversations, and the tinkling of glasses. Overhead, speakers in the ceiling pumped out an eclectic mix of jazz and bossa nova.

Romano paid for his Campari and soda with cash, then stepped away from the bar and faded back into the crowd.

At nine o’clock on the dot, a jolt of electricity surged through the restaurant as the first of the Contessa’s guests showed up. It was a British actress, filming a movie in Italy, who was alleged to be having an affair with the current, married, Prime Minister.

She looked absolutely stunning and was followed by another woman, just as gorgeous — a model who had been tapped as the new face of Gucci. After they were shown to the table, two men arrived — an Italian soccer star and a young fashion designer who was said to have been taking Milan by storm.

The remaining guests passed through a meteor shower of camera flashes outside, and then ten minutes later, the Contessa arrived.

It took the flaxen-haired beauty half an hour to make it to her table. Every two feet she was being stopped by someone or other, kissing her on both cheeks, asking how her family was and where she planned to spend the summer. She was quite visibly in her element and loving every moment of it.

Making a full circuit of her table she doled out hugs and kisses on both cheeks to each one of her guests. Pleasantries were exchanged back and forth until she insisted everyone sit.

Bottles of champagne were brought to the table, glasses were raised, and toasts were made.

There was no need for menus to be passed around. That was not the kind of restaurant that Figurati was. What’s more, the Contessa liked surprising her guests.

The only clarification necessary was whether anyone at the table had any food allergies. They had become prevalent these days. The Contessa actually found it quite astounding. Growing up, she hadn’t known a single person with a food allergy.

According to a physician she knew, the best science could understand was that first-world medicine had beaten back so many ailments that without anything to fight, immune systems were now turning against themselves. She found it fascinating that food allergies didn’t exist in the developing world.

Having informed the waiter that there were no food allergies at their table, the Contessa turned her attention to her guests. As was her custom, she went around the table, asking her guests to introduce themselves with their name, their occupation, and what famous person they would like to sleep with.

It was a randy opener, to be sure, but it helped break the ice and set the mood for the evening. If you weren’t any fun, the Contessa didn’t want to have anything to do with you. Life’s too short had always been her motto.

Accompanying the Contessa was her longtime boyfriend, Giovanni Lorenzo. A retired diplomat, Lorenzo had served as Italy’s Ambassador to the European Union, as well as Deputy Secretary of NATO. Currently, he was president of a little-known NGO called the NATO Defense College Foundation.

Established to further the goals of NATO, the foundation worked closely with the Rome-headquartered NATO Defense College.

The college had been the brainchild of Dwight D. Eisenhower, the first Supreme Allied Commander of Europe. The idea had been to create a university where both civilian and military members of NATO could pursue training, which would result in the strengthening and constant improvement of the North Atlantic Alliance.

Romano was pleased to see Lorenzo there. It had been a fifty-fifty shot. While the retired diplomat was a regular guest, he didn’t attend every one of the Contessa’s dinners. She was a good twenty years younger, had a lot more energy, and craved the limelight much more than he did.

Stepping across the threshold into the dining room, the handsome Italian moved to the side to allow others to pass. He set the shopping bag down on the floor next to him and pretended to scan the room for a group of dinner companions.

Inches away was a waiter’s station. As his eyes moved from table to table, he saw people engaged in their own conversations, occasionally glancing at the Contessa and her guests, but not paying attention to anything else, much less to him.

Casually parting the fabric skirt of the waiter’s station, Romano pushed the bag underneath, greeting card facing out, with the toe of his beautifully polished shoe.

With his package placed, he strolled out of the restaurant, stopping only at the front door to depress a button on the wireless key fob in his pocket.

He was more than a block away when the bomb detonated. Even then, the blast was so intense that it shattered all of the windows around him and knocked him to the ground.

Within hours, newscasters would be calling it the worst bombing in Italy since the Marxist terror attacks of the 1970s, and the People’s Revolutionary Front would be known as the deadliest European terrorist organization since the Red Brigades and the Baader-Meinhof Gang.