“Very well then,” I said to Henshaw. “I want you to take the Lear jet and fly to Rome.”
He nodded.
“How long will it take for you to get things in place?”
“Not long, sir. Two days at the most.”
“Excellent. See to it.”
* * * *
Gino Marrone returned to Italy. In a turn of events that was not unexpected, he was struck by a Fiat, whose driver lost control of his vehicle, crashed into a wall, and died in the fiery aftermath. Burdon wouldn’t be pleased to learn of that, but as I’d suspected, he shrugged it off as a hazard of the trade.
Marrone was taken to a nearby clinic, where he, also, was pronounced dead.
Shortly thereafter, his body was released for burial. There was a small funeral. The coffin was closed, due to the damage done by the accident, not that it mattered. The only attendees were a local priest, the doctor from the clinic, and a couple of people wrangled from MI6, who were there to see it went off without a hitch.