Chapter Thirteen #2
To finish off, the man furnishes me with a leather wristband for the other hand and a pair of matching fingerless leather gloves, complete with painful-looking studs. I snort when I see the chunky black biker boots with a single strap and buckle.
Once I am fully dressed, the outfit feels remarkably comfortable. I take a moment to adjust myself before pulling off the cap and stepping back into the main room.
Dr Romano is talking to the man when he turns to look at me, and stalls.
Even the stylist, if that’s what he is, seems impressed.
He reaches into a drawer and pulls out a pair of round sunglasses before handing them to me.
I put them on, even though I hardly need them inside, and he leads me to an open door that he closes to reveal a full-length mirror.
I barely recognise myself. With cropped platinum-blond hair, a single black ear stud, a dark moustache and goatee, chevrons through my right eyebrow and dark glasses, I ought to look conspicuous.
And I am confident that if Lorenzo had chosen this sort of makeover, he would stand out.
But I am not naturally attractive like him, and this transformation gives me an almost risky edge, as though I have a ‘Don’t Approach’ sign over my head. I cannot help but smile.
“When you first came to Italy, you did not look healthy. I think you needed the extra kilos you have gained, and with regular exercise and sunshine, your skin and muscle tone are both much better. How do you feel?”
“Different. Surprisingly comfortable.”
“Good. This is important. The old you may have disappeared, but this new version will still need to be ready for action at any moment.”
The man who speaks no English hands me more bags of clothing.
Romano pays him and whisks me off to the next venue.
The woman in a small downstairs apartment is suited professionally.
She only needs to capture my fingerprints on a glass-panelled machine before taking my photograph using a floor-mounted camera in her small backroom studio.
The whole visit takes no longer than twenty minutes, but Romano hands over a great deal of money.
“What was that all about?” I ask as we head out to the car.
“New identification. We will return later in the afternoon.”
“I see. What will happen to my old passport?”
“That is already being taken care of. Let us go for lunch. Somewhere with outdoor seating. I need you to become comfortable with this new image.”
Romano takes me to one of the restaurants around a piazza, and we settle down for an alfresco lunch.
The weather is overcast and almost as unremarkable as the food, not a patch on what Mrs Bellacci serves, but I enjoy being out in the open.
I am also curious to see if people stare as I sit there, and I am slightly surprised to draw very little attention.
Perhaps Italians are more accustomed to people with eclectic fashion choices.
If I had walked into Callico House dressed like this, I am sure Albert and Alice would have had a few things to say.
“You haven’t once addressed me as Gabriel this morning,” I say to Romano.
“That’s because Gabriel has gone. I am having lunch with Aksel Larsen.
” Romano pulls an envelope from his inside pocket and places it on the table.
“This is a summary. I have a full file in the car for you to study. And, yes, I will be testing you. What’s listed here are the basics of your new identity.
But very briefly, you are a Danish national who served in the same UN peacekeeping force as Lorenzo, which is how you became friends and why you dress in a not-dissimilar fashion. ”
“You had all this planned?”
“Not everything. Your Danish passport is being assembled while we lunch.”
I read the overview of Aksel Larsen. An only child, I had a Danish father and an English mother.
He was a mechanical engineer, and she was a high-school teacher who taught and encouraged me to speak both Russian and English.
Both parents are deceased. According to the report, I am twenty-six, only a year younger than Gabriel.
I was born in Viborg, a city in central Jutland, and joined the Royal Danish Army straight from school after I turned eighteen.
My parents died in a car accident while I was deployed overseas.
I met Lorenzo during UN operations in Africa, both of us motorcycle fanatics, which is how we became friends.
“The folder has more comprehensive information, such as lists of family, friends, qualifications, skills, deployments—those kinds of things. Everything you need to know about the man.”
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“Not really. Aksel Larsen existed. He was a special services operative who was killed by pirates while deployed in Somalia. Due to the secret nature of his mission, his death was covered up and his body buried at sea, something only two members of his unit know about. Both are sworn to secrecy. As far as the world is concerned, he is still alive and serving in the army.”
This information stalls me for a moment. What would happen in the admittedly unlikely event that I met somebody who knew Aksel?
“Do I look anything like him?”
“You do now. And according to our records, Aksel’s mother taught him to speak flawless English.
We will furnish you with a file containing video footage of Aksel that will give you a sense of the man, an overview of his personal traits and idiosyncrasies, and accounts from people he knew and the soldiers he served alongside.
But honestly, unless you plan on visiting Viborg anytime soon, nobody is likely to know you’re not him. ”
“A few problems. I know nothing about motorcycles—I don’t even know how to drive a car—and I don’t speak Danish.”