by R G Ainslee
"Yeah, guess Hansen has an international reputation."
"No, I'm serious. What would you think if a couple of guys showed up from a vague sounding foreign organization, making a lot of inconvenient inquiries?"
"You don't expect cooperation?"
"No, and speaking of Hansen, where did he get the authority to send us here?" Asking relevant questions was one of Michaels' strong points.
"The White House, National Security Advisor—" Then it dawned on me: Hansen, is this another one of his self-aggrandizing schemes? "I'll bet the SOB's set us up. If we succeed, he takes all the credit. If we fail, we're the fall guys. He's probably doing this on his own."
"You know him better than me."
"Yeah, but what I can't figure is why Wilson would—"
The door opened, and an air force officer beckoned, "Mi scusi, my name Capitano Silvio Masini. Please, you see now the Tenente Colonnello."
We stepped inside as the capitano held the door open. A stocky man dressed in a blue dress uniform sat at an uncluttered desk. The stern expression on his face his only greeting. Capitano Masini introduced us and then turned back to us and said, "I translate. Il colonnello not speak good English."
I handed Il colonnello our letter of introduction, he read it, flicked the sheet back in my direction, and unleashed a stream of Italian. I recognized a few words from the taxi ride. He spared us the gestures.
"The colonnello says you have every available avenue of cooperation. He instruct me to assist you on this matter." The capitano saluted and ushered us out the door.
"You say we are to have every available avenue of cooperation." I said, followed by what I hoped was a sarcastic smile.
Masini caught the meaning. "Si, this is what he said."
"Does figli di puttana mean what I think it means?"
He arched his eyebrows. "The colonnello is a man, ah how would you say—"
"He's a SOB too." The colonnello had referred to us as sons of whores. I wanted to tell him he was Hansen's bastard son but didn't know how to say it in Italian.
Masini smiled. "Come, we go to the departmento of the analisti." I couldn't tell if he agreed with the colonnelo or me.
He led us to a large room filled with familiar electronic equipment. A man in civilian clothes greeted us and introduced himself in English as the director of analysis. We asked a few questions. He answered politely, but without showing much interest. Capitano Masini listened attentively but didn't speak. After several minutes, I shot a quick glance to Michaels. He nodded, and we thanked the man and left without finding out anything.
"Does anyone here have an idea what happened to the airliner?" I decided to roll the dice. "We were sent here by the President of the United States to find out." — Well, at least by someone next door to the White House.
The capitano glanced down the hall and said, "Please come. We talk."
Masini closed the door to his small office and motioned for us to sit. He gazed out the window, as if in deep thought, turned, and settled into his chair.
"Some people say la marina francese launch a missile in attempt to kill Gaddafi. Il francese could have the recording of radar from in the Mar Tirreno. The aircraft carriers Clemenceu were in our seas and landed Mirage at the time. Il francese had reason to be angry with Gaddafi. The relations not good."
Good, they're not trying to blame us. Pin it on the French Navy. — Whatever works.
"Any other theories?" asked Michaels. Knowing him, I didn't believe he bought the capitano's explanation.
"Some people accusano the Mafioso. Others, the Brigate Rosse." He shrugged. "Some, the Americans, of course."
Michael's continued, "Has there been an examination of recordings of activity by your air defense radars?"
"This is logical. The Squadriglia Radar Remota are capable of a better picture. Those on duty do not to remember and recording from the night are no more. Recording exist for the radar and talk ground-and air-ground of Ciampino. They tell nothing new."
Michaels fidgeted in his seat. I could tell he was impatient.
I asked, "How about intercepts from your intelligence sites?"
"Nothing has been reported. Why you ask?" His eyes gave away a sense of concern. Perhaps I was on the right track.
"We're not experts on civil aviation. Other people are handling that. I want to know if anything unusual happened that night, something not yet considered."
He sat up straight. "Tutto … Everything have been considerato." My question obviously irritated him.
I sensed an opening. "Could we review the ELINT logs for that evening?"
He inhaled nervously. I was on to something.
I needed to close the deal. "We need something to tell our superiors, to assure them we had every available avenue of cooperation. I'm sure you can understand."
After a long pause, he said, "I ask for you … domani … tomorrow, I tell you." He stood and waved his hand. "We finish for today. Please for tomorrow. The auto take you back to Rome. Arrivederci."
* * *
Outside waiting for the car, I asked Michaels, "What you think?
"Don't know. Got the impression you sparked some interest. Something he needs to think about. I'm with you; don't believe the radar track recording will tell us anything. It would be interesting to see if they had intercepts of airborne fire control radars in the area. If we're lucky, maybe we'll find out tomorrow. What's the plan?"
"Don't count on finding out anything. This whole trip is just a waste of time." I eyed my Timex. "You want to know — we ain't got no plan."
Michaels scoffed. "Okay, so we don't have a plan and we're sticking to it."
I shrugged. He was right.
"Say, that was pretty bold, telling him we were sent by the president."
I feigned surprise. "We weren't?"
He appeared worried. "Hope this doesn't get back—"
"Don't sweat it. I've been in a lots worse trouble. Now we got a free afternoon. Lisette wants to go to the Villa Borghese gardens. Want to come along?"
"No, don't want to intrude on your family time. Think I'll just stroll around town. By the way, what about the break-in, did you inform Wilson?"
"No. What's he gonna to do? Probably just some burglar."
However, I was worried. It didn't seem right. Lisette understood and agreed to stay at the hotel. Signora Alberti sorely embarrassed by the affair called in her nephew Carlo to keep an eye on us. He was young, in his early twenties, but looked like he could take care of himself. We bonded instantly when I showed him my knife and asked if he was armed. He pulled out a wicked looking 9-inch stiletto with a black horn handle and classic blade. He proudly informed me the masterpiece was a Due Buoi from Maniago. I was impressed.
* * *
The Villa Borghese garden has over 200 acres of open areas, paths, fountains, and statues, lots of statues. Italians are fond of fancy sculptures. Lisette seemed determined to see them all — every last one. She decided early on, this was my day to tote the kid. I had just completed the second diaper change behind a shrub.
"Come we must go, la statue de Victor Hugo is near."
"Who the hell is this Hugo dude?" It had been a long day and I was tired. He had to be French.
She sneered, started up the sidewalk, stopped, and spun around. "If you must know, Victor Hugo is un célèbre poète de la France … Les Misérables … Notre-Dame de Paris … ah, or as you say, the Hunchback of Notre-Dame."
"Yeah, I remember, think I caught the movie on late night TV." I was also miserable and getting hunchbacked from carrying the baby. I mugged a grin and carried on. This day was for Lisette. I would bear whatever burden it took to make her happy. I looked back. "Where's Carlo?"
"Oh, he stop, talk to pretty girl. Come, hurry, we must go.
I stole another glance, a guy down the street turned away just a little too fast for comfort. I sensed someone keeping an eye on us, and it wasn't Carlo. I muttered, “Let’s find that statue.” Lisette smile
d and continued down the path. I wanted to look back but restrained my impulse. If someone was tailing us, I didn’t want him to realize I was on to him.
At last, we found the elusive Victor Hugo. A big chunk of white marble. I pretended to listen as she translated the inscription. I wasn't sure about Old Vic, but it was obvious the Roman pigeons seemed fond of him.
Lisette wrapped up the recitation and beamed as she contemplated the célèbre poète. She held out the camera. “Une photo s'il vous plaît.” I passed the baby and maneuvered her into a position where I could see back down the sidewalk. The man loitered across the street about thirty yards away.
I raised the Pentax ME camera and snapped a picture of the proud devotee. “One more.” I maneuvered left and zoomed out the telephoto lens. The guy, wearing a pale blue tee shirt, came into focus. He glared straight at me, turned, and walked away before I could press the shutter release. I panned the lens as he strolled down the path and passed Carlo chatting up a redhead dressed in a skin-tight black outfit. The man disappeared around a curve in the street. I panned back. Carlo leaned in close—
“You have photo?”
“Yeah, here’s the camera, give me the baby.”
The redhead slapped Carlo. He gawked as she strutted away, waved a gesture of frustration, and jogged over to us.
“No luck?”
“Bel niente, the girl, she German. No like my fun.”
“Did you notice the guy wearing the blue Lazio tee shirt?”
“Lazio. Not me interessa. I am fan di Roma. Why?”
“He’s been following us.”
Carlo snapped his head around. “You want me…" He made a flicking motion with his right hand.
“No, not this time. Watch our back. He may return.”
Lisette said, “Avanti, come, we rest by the laghetto,” and took off down a path towards a small oval shaped pond with a fountain in the center. I hiked the kid up on my hip and followed.
Carlo trailed, looking for the guy in the Lazio tee shirt. Lazio and Roma were bitter rivals on the local soccer scene. He wasn't what you would call a tough-guy, but then he was no angel. Never did find out if he had a job, he seemed at home on the street and did like the ladies.
Lisette beamed with happiness as she sat on the stone rim surrounding the pond. She took the baby and checked to see if he was dry. I looked back, anxious over the new development. Carlo ambled along the path to a tree across the way, where he stopped, lit a cigarette, and leaned back with thumbs tucked into the top of his belt.
I returned my attention to Lisette, just as she gazed past me and cracked a sly grin. "Regardez! … la jeune fille follow Carlo."
The girl in black walked towards the statue of Victor Hugo as she glanced left in the direction of the laghetto. Carlo didn't notice, busy eyeing two teen-age girls splashing in the water. The girl disappeared behind the statue. Moments later, the man in the Lazio tee shirt halted in front of Victor Hugo. My sixth sense told me they were working together.
The pair appeared several more times, always at a distance, never together. Carlo caught sight of the girl, moved in with typical Roman boldness, only to be rebuffed once more with a flurry of German expletives. He said she was playing hard to get. I knew better, for some yet unknown reason, they were following us.
* * *
Later in the evening, Signora Alberti invited us for a meal in her private kitchen. It seemed Lisette had made friends with the entire hotel staff. A new bambino will do that for you. As we settled in, I asked, "Where's Carlo?"
Lisette translated. Signora Alberti threw up her hands and cut loose with a rapid-fire volley of what sounded like uncomplimentary remarks about Carlo. Lisette tried to stifle a giggle with a hand over her mouth. "She says a ragazza, a girl come to see Carlo and he go with her." The signora continued. Lisette's lips parted in surprise. "The girl from the park avec les pantalons serrés... ah the…" She patted her leg. "The pant sexy."
I wondered what Carlo was up to. "Ask her what he's—"
Lisette didn't wait for me to finish and spoke to her in Italian. Signora Alberti barked out a stern answer. Lisette nodded and answered in the affirmative.
"What'd she say?"
Lisette pursed her lips and stared at me for a moment. "She says: you know how men are?"
Carlo arrived about an hour later. After a professional grade chewing out from his aunt, he turned to me and shrugged. "The German ragazza, non è buona, she è un comunista.
"She's a communist?
"Si, she un membro della brigata scorpione."
"Škorpion Brigade — the terrorist group? How did you find out? She told you?"
"No, I see tattoo sulla coscia." He pointed to the inside of his thigh.
"Did she ask any questions?"
He didn't understand, and Lisette translated.
"Si, she want why you go Pratica di Mare."
5 ~ Škorpion Brigade
Friday, 8 August 1980: Rome
Michaels' hotel was a short distance in the bedlam of downtown Rome's morning traffic jam. The young Italian air force driver, Aviere Bartolucci, negotiated the chaos with the ease of an experienced cabbie, executing insults with military precision. Before entering the vehicle, I performed a through scan of the vicinity. Nobody seemed out of place and no sign of my shadows.
Carlo's comment about the girl's tattoo triggered a heightened state of situational awareness. I tried but couldn't make a connection between the notorious international terrorist group and our inquiries at Pratica di Mare. Had they been involved in the crash? I hadn't even considered the possibility. Was Carlo mistaken? Or did he just make it up? That still didn't answer the question: Why are they following us?
The car, an air force blue Alfa Romeo, pulled up in front of Michaels' hotel. He stood on the steps. I checked the area as he slid in and closed the door. A man wearing a reddish colored jersey of Atletico Roma caught my attention, Carlo's team. On the way to the hotel, I diligently searched for someone sporting the blue of Lazio. Several young men wore the colors, but none matched the description of the guy from the day before.
"Morning," I greeted Michaels, he responded. Then it registered — the Roma jersey — I did a double take. It was the same man. The driver started to pull away from the curb, I told him to halt.
"What's up?" asked Michaels.
"See that dude in the red soccer jersey?
"Yes, what about him?"
"He tailed me yesterday in the park, had a female accomplice."
Michaels sniffed. "Aren't you being a little paranoid? You've been hanging around Richards too much."
I tapped Bartolucci on the shoulder. "Stay here."
He nodded with a puzzled expression. I checked oncoming traffic, jumped out, and bolted across the street, dodging vehicles.
The guy in the jersey saw me coming. His eyes widened in surprise the moment I popped open the switchblade. His response immediate and decisive, he took off running down the sidewalk, knocking down a pedestrian. I halted on the curb and watched him disappear into the crowd.
A police whistle sounded as I hurried back to the car — Bill had the door open — jumped in and yelled, "Avanti, let's get the hell out of here." The young driver popped the clutch and burned rubber, leaving the police officer in his wake.
"What was that all about? Were you going to kill someone just for following you?" Michaels, a PhD and engineer, not a field man, didn't understand.
"The dude in the red jersey may be working with the Škorpion Brigade." The driver's neck snapped right, he understood. I'd have to be careful what I said.
"How did you come to that conclusion?"
"The girl he was with has a scorpion tattoo on the inside of her thigh."
Michaels was incredulous. "You're here with your wife and baby and you got time to check out strange women's inner thighs?"
I caught Bartolucci's smile in the mirror. "Well, I—"
"And I suppose you know all the secret signs of every terrorist
organization in Europe. Give me a break."
I took a deep breath and sighed. "Maybe you're right, but I've learned the hard way, you can't be too cautious."
"Okay, whatever you say. We'll be out of here in a couple of days. I guess you're trying to live up to your reputation as a cowboy."
Bartolucci gave me an inquisitive glance in the mirror. I told him, "Yeah, I really am a cowboy." He responded with a blank smile.
* * *
Once again, we sat outside the door of Tenente Colonnello Urbani. The driver escorted us to the office and thirty minutes later, we had spoken with no one. I wasn't even sure he was in. The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced the Italians had their own version of Colonel Hansen.
"What do you think?" I asked.
"More of the same. Be lucky to do anything today. I'm beginning to believe you're right. This is a waste of time."
Just as I was about to doze off, a snap of the fingers echoed down the hall. Capitano Masini motioned for us to follow. We marched into his office, he checked the hallway, and closed the door behind him.
"Mi scusi for the late. I have notizia for you. Si prega, take the seat." He picked up his phone, spoke briefly, and hung up. "I have someone to meet you."
A few moments later, a knock on the door, a nervous young officer entered and saluted. He introduced himself in English as Tenente Francesco Rossi and told us he was stationed on Isola di Lampedusa off the Libyan coastline. I remembered the island was the site for a U.S. Coast Guard Loran navigation station and a small SIGINT listening post.
Masini gestured for him to speak and he drew a deep breath. "I was the chief operator on duty the night of the tragedy. One of my men for the intercept of radar called to me with a strange transmission from air defense radar in Libya." The capitano, motioned for him to continue. "The transmission change the form of the wave." He hesitated as if trying to find the right words.
My pulse raced in anticipation as I interrupted. "Changed from an almost perfect sine wave, and then to a saw tooth pattern at short random intervals."
