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“I need you to find an attorney in Como, Italy – near Lake Como – who speaks English. Or a lawyer in Milan, that’ll do fine. I need you to hire them to represent me – Lars Andersen. Got that? Lars ANDERSEN.”
Gunnar knew something was up, but he didn’t say anything. “…okay…”
“And can you please front me the money? I’ll pay you back – I hate to ask, but – ”
“No problem, brother. I got you.”
“One other thing. I need you to find Rachel. I need you to track her down.”
“Um… yeah… remember I tried to do that one time, and it was impossible?”
“Gunnar, I NEED you to find her and let her know what’s happening. Please. Can you do that for me?”
“…I can try…”
“That’s all I can ask.”
The cop sitting near me made a circling motion with his finger like Wrap it up.
“They’re telling me I’ve got to go, Gunnar, so please – find that lawyer. AND Rachel. I really need your help, man.”
“I got you, bro. It’s gonna be okay.”
“Thank you.”
The cop tapped the phone like he was going to press the receiver down and end the call.
“I’ve got to go – thanks again, Gunnar. I owe you my life.”
“Sure thing, Lars – stay strong – ”
The cop pressed the button and hung up the call.
87
Gunnar came through for me – at least on the lawyer.
Silvia Altamura was around 50 and had a successful career as a defense attorney in Milan. She explained that the gun laws in Italy were extremely strict because of the anti-mafia code that had been enacted 40 years ago.
In my case, the suppressors on the guns made everything much worse. Suppressors were restricted accessories that could only lawfully be sold to the armed forces, police, and government agencies. Possession of an unregistered suppressor would double or triple my jail time if I was found guilty.
In Italy, people believed that only assassins used suppressors.
In my case, they weren’t wrong.
The good news: Silvia had an excellent working relationship with the district prosecutor for Milan, which is where I would be tried if the case went to trial. At Silvia’s urging, the prosecutor had agreed to drop the suppressors charge.
The bad news: in order for the charge to be dropped, I had to plead guilty to possession of unregistered guns.
Which meant I was looking at 5 years in jail.
When she came to visit me in my temporary holding cell, I asked, “What are the chances of you being able to get me a ‘not guilty’ verdict if we go to trial?”
“Do you have a better reason than you didn’t know the guns were there?” she asked with mild amusement.
“No.”
When I was first caught, I had called MI6 to see if they would extract me, yes – but once they refused, I accepted my fate as gracefully as I could. I wasn’t going to rat them out to keep myself out of jail.
