The Source - Michael Cordy [40]
When the Superior General had called yesterday evening Bazin had been waiting in a Manhattan hotel. His instructions had been both cryptic and explicit: a treacherous nun had joined forces with the atheist geologist and together they posed a mortal danger to the Holy Mother Church. They threatened to expose and abuse a sacred place of great power that rightfully belonged to the Church – and only the Church. At first, Ross was simply to be followed, but if he threatened to publicize any details of his quest Bazin was to apprehend the nun and silence him. Permanently.
After he had placed a simple digital listening device on the Kellys' home phone line, Bazin had gone straight to the hospital and concealed the surveillance equipment. In the last two decades the demands of his profession had become increasingly sophisticated. No longer was it sufficient to be expert in handling lethal weapons. Survival now depended on proficiency in a range of relevant technologies.
Bazin sat up straight, suddenly alert.
On screen, Ross entered the room and sat beside his wife. The tender way he held her hand aroused in Bazin a spark of emotion, which he quickly suppressed. He pressed the record button on the laptop and accessed Torino's private email, sending him the encrypted video files in real time. If Ross revealed anything it would be now.
There was a knock at his door.
The sound penetrated his headphones. 'I don't need Housekeeping. My room's fine,' he called.
Knock, knock.
'I said no, thanks.'
Knock, knock.
Frowning, Bazin took off the headphones, reached for the Glock beside his bed and walked to the door. He peered out of the peephole. The person was standing too close, blocking his view. He slipped the latch and opened the door. 'I don't need—'
Click.
Before Bazin could step back into the room, a gun, not unlike his own, had been levelled at his temple.
'Drop the piece. Nice and slow.'
Bazin did as he was told.
'Oh, my, this is too easy. I heard you got the big C, lost a nut or something. Didn't figure la mano sinistra del diavolo had become a total pussy, though. Step back into the room.' The man kicked Bazin's gun through the door then closed it.
It was Vinnie Pesci, the Gambini family's American enforcer. Don Gambini had hired Bazin in the past. Since he had pledged his allegiance to Torino, Bazin had kept a low profile, careful to use a variety of passports and identities, but he had always known the day would arrive when his old life caught up with him. 'What do you want, Vinnie? I've retired. I paid back the money the Gambinis gave me for the last hit.'
'That's not how it goes. No one retires until Don Gambini says so. Anyway, he figures you're full of shit and working for the Trapanis now.'
'I told you, I've retired.'
'Oh, yeah?' Pesci indicated the laptop and headphones on the bed. 'You're working for someone. Here's the thing. The old man wants the left hand of the Devil – in a bag. And what Don Gambini wants, Don Gambini gets.'
Bazin said nothing. In the past Pesci would never have dared come alone.
Pesci reached into his jacket and drew out a surgeon's saw and a folded plastic sheet, which he threw on to the floor. 'I always admired your style so you can see this as homage to la mano sinistra del diavolo. You know the score. Lay out the sheet and I'll do it quick. Just like you used to. Fuck about and I'll cut off your hand while you're still breathing.'
'Don't do this, Vinnie. Don't make me kill you.'
Pesci laughed at that. 'Kill me? What the fuck you talkin' about?'
'I can't let you kill me before I've had absolution.'
Pesci levelled his gun at Bazin's groin. 'I'll give you absolution, pal. Lay out the plastic and kneel like a good Catholic boy. Or I'll make you kneel. You hear what I'm saying?'
In his mind – and nightmares – Bazin