Disappeared

by Colin Falconer

  Now the ochre stucco had been repainted, the ornate cornices and faded frescoes of Poldero de Caravaggio carefully restored. The building's latest designation was as an orphanage to be administered by nuns of the Franciscan order. It had been the brainchild of Archbishop Tomaszcewski and the freehold was now invested in the Catholic Church. But it had not cost the IOR a cent; the funds had been raised privately, from many of the wealthy guests at that afternoon's reception.

  White jacketed waiters carrying silver trays with flutes of French champagne moved around the loggias and vaulted marble hall. Luke found himself shoulder to shoulder with the rich and powerful of Rome, businessmen and industrialists in ardent conversation with highly placed members of the Curia, an unholy mingling of God and money. The men wore tuxedos and Gianni Versace suits, the women gowns from Renato Balestra and Mila Schön.

  “The money in this room,” he murmured to Jeremy. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”

  “No, they're not here. They couldn't afford it.” He sipped his champagne. “This afternoon's your chance to see some of the main players. That's Martini over there, from Milan. Strong candidate for the big hat.”

  “Any chance of talking to him?”

  “Better chance of getting an exclusive with God. See that chap there. Looks like a Chicago dentist? That's Regan. Must meet him. Used to be a priest, now he's a writer. Populist stuff. The Vatican and Catholic politics, all that. Plugging a new book at the moment. He'd adore to talk to you. Luke, are you listening?”

  Luke was staring through the crowd at a young woman with ash blonde hair.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Do you know that girl?”

  “Not here to pick up women, old sport. Maybe later.”

  “Who is she?”

  Jeremy frowned. “Forget it. Out of your league. Christ, what is it? Look like you've seen a ghost.”

  “What's her name?”

  “Her father's very rich and very unpleasant. Luke. Please.”

  “Her name.”

  “Rivera. Simone Rivera, but ...”

  Luke was gone, pushing his way through the crowd.

  ***

  She was deep in conversation with a Curial secretary, a young man with a florid complexion and a small, neat bald spot on the crown of his head, like a monk's tonsure. Luke took two flutes of champagne from the tray of a passing steward. He held one out to her.

  “Simone! There you are!' he said in his formal Italian. “I found you a drink.” He turned to the young cleric. “Can you give us a moment please? There's something we really need to discuss.”

  The cleric smiled graciously and turned away.

  Simone Rivera stared at him in astonishment.

  “I think he likes you,” Luke said. “Did you get his phone number?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “You looked bored. I thought I'd rescue you.”

  “Do I know you?”

  “No, you don't, and that's so wrong.” He held out his hand. “My name's Luke. Luke Barrington. I'm the ... features editor of the London Times.”

  Her hand was soft and cool to the touch. “You seem to already know my name,” she said.

  “I made a point of asking.”

  “You speak good Italian for an Englishman.”

  “Thank you. I have an affinity for Latin languages. I was born in Argentine. We spoke Spanish as well as English at home until I was seven.”

  Her expression softened. “Where in Argentine?”

  “Buenos Aires.”?

  “That's where I was born.”

  “Well. What a small world.”

  He gave her his best smile. And all the time his mind was racing ahead, trying to make some sense of this. It was uncanny. It was her, exactly. He had read somewhere that everyone had a doppelganger, an exact double. This was his sister, Diana. Her voice was the same, even some of her mannerisms were the same, the way she played with a loose lock of her at her cheek, just the way his sister did when she was nervous.

  “How old were you when you left Buenos Aires?” he asked her, but before she could answer an older woman appeared suddenly at his elbow. She was expensively dressed, but her make-up might have been applied with a trowel. She wore a large diamond necklace at her throat. “Excuse me for intruding,” she said to Luke, though she did not sound apologetic at all. “Simone, we have to leave now.”

  “All right, I'm coming, mama.” She turned to Luke. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “May I see you again?” Luke said.

  A soft and apologetic smile. “I don't think so.”

  “But I must.”

  “I'm sure you have a lot of girlfriends already,” she said and then turned and followed her mother through the crowd.

  He watched her from the loggia, climbing into a white Mercedes. He saw a handsome and impeccably dressed man climb into the back of the limousine after her. And then she was gone.

  Chapter 57

  “ONLY MET HER FATHER once,” Jeremy was saying. “He's part of the local colour. If you understand my meaning.”

  They were in a restaurant in Trastevere. Tables and chairs spilled onto the cobbled piazza under apricot-coloured awnings, vines cascaded down faded ochre walls. Another hot afternoon, the square echoing to pop music from the radios of the teenagers gathered by the fountain and the tinny rattle of their Lambrettas as they came and went. The statues of Rome's sixteenth century popes looking down scowling from beneath the basilica's campanile.

  “Mafia?”

  “Tired word that. Don't you think? Could mean anything. Not talking men in expensive suits with no necks. More sophisticated. Opus Dei and P2. Heard of them?”

  Luke nodded. Opus Dei was a supposedly secret organisation inside the Roman Catholic Church, politics somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun, dedicated to assuming control of the Church. It was said to have an international membership, with some extremely rich and powerful people among its members and patrons. During the seventies its activities had become intertwined with those of P2, a fascist organisation now believed responsible for a number of terrorist bombings and murders around Italy. As with Opus Dei, P2's membership included many of Italy's most powerful men, high-ranking members of the police and the armed forces, as well as television executives, bankers and politicians.

  “Remember Licio Gelli?” Jeremy went on. “Helped the Argies get their Exocets during the Falklands bother. Calvi helped him out. God bless him. All part of the Vatican Bank business. The left footers bankrolled Galtieri. Never mind, must forgive and forget. Gelli got very chummy with certain chaps in the Argie's military. After the Vatican Bank thing broke he decided to take his summer hols in Buenos Aires. Permanently. Waved to a few colonels going the other way. Which brings us to Signor Rivera.”

  “Her father.”

  “Real name's César Angeli. Former Colonel in the Argentine army. Not one for marching, evidently. Preferred tying people up and hitting them with things. Liked the cloak and dagger. Early seventies someone in the government gave him a diplomatic passport. Showed up in Madrid and Barcelona. Just about the time some South American political exiles died unexpectedly. A chap for a crisis. Multi-talented.”

  Luke blinked at him. Even on this warm afternoon he felt a sudden chill in his bones.

  “Old mate. Please. Day dreaming. Must pay attention.”

  “Sorry,” Luke said. “So her father was a colonel. Why did he come to Rome?”

  “Panicked. Argies had a brief attack of democracy in 1983. He decided it was time to see the sights. Could go back now, if he wanted to. No point. Doing jolly well where he is.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Arms deals, money laundering. Classic. Some of his colleagues also smuggled a little nose candy out of BA. Easy money. Ship it to the Camorra and the N'dranghetta in Rome, launder the proceeds through the Vatican Bank. Handsome commissions to be made. Use the profits to buy arms, sell them to the Middle East. Get Argentine end-user certificates for the weap
ons, the aircraft go in to Germany, are re-routed to Amman or Damascus. Word is they're putting a little nuclear materiel the way of the Syrians as well. The money all gets a thoroughly good wash and spin cycle through the Holy City. Praise the Lord.”

  “Why Angeli?”

  “Gelli gave him the contacts. P2, Opus Dei, the whole club. He became Gelli's front man. When in Rome, as they say.”

  “And the money is channelled through him?”

  “Angeli does jolly well. Sticky fingers when it comes to money. Learned to diversify. Financier to the whole world. Well, if one is of the right political persuasion. Two years ago police uncovered plans for a military coup, right here in Italy. Well! Large amount of shit and absolutely huge fan. Tremendous. Mafia, neo-fascists, army generals, all fell out of the same bed. Ugly. Someone blew the whistle. Still looking for the banker.”

  “Her father?”

  “Must be a story in it. Wouldn't if I were you. Bad for the health.” The waiter brought another chilled bottle of Orvietto Classico. Jeremy sipped it, appreciatively. “Make no mistake. Talking serious establishment here. Knight of Malta. Pope even made him a Gentleman of His Holiness. Whole box of goods. Still want to escort his daughter to dinner dances?”

  Luke shook his head. “Oh, Jesus.”

  “He won't help you. Not in this town.”

  “I have to see her again, Jeremy.”

  “May one ask why?”

  “I can't tell you that. Not right now.”

  “Lovely looking girl. Absolutely. But really, Luca!' He was the only one of his friends who called him that.

  “Just help me on this one.”

  “Want my advice?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I'll give it to you anyway. Forget it.”

  “Get me her address and telephone number. Please.”

  “Think about this a while first.”

  “I have thought about it. I have to see her again.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “Your funeral. Would you like lilies or white roses on the coffin?”

  ***

  Jeremy offered Luke a lift back to his hotel but Luke said he'd rather walk. He stood on the Ponte Sisto for a long time, staring into the brown waters of the Tiber. He turned the puzzle over in his mind. His parents had adopted Diana in Argentine. Simone had been born in Buenos Aires. Well, you didn't have to be a Rhodes scholar.

  Was it possible?

  He was tempted to ring his father and tell him what had happened but he was reluctant to do that, at least, not yet. First he had to find this girl again, talk to her, find out more. Next time he would be better prepared.

  He could not let this go.

  Chapter 58

  LUKE SAT ON THE BED, a towel around his waist, the telephone on his lap. It was not yet seven o'clock but already he heard the shouts and clatter from the piazza as the traders set up their stalls for the morning market in the Campo de Fiori. He picked up the receiver and punched in her number. He knew it off by heart by now. He had rung half a dozen times the previous evening but had got the answer phone and he had hung up each time without leaving a message.

  This time a woman's sleepy voice said: “Pronto.”

  “Simone? It's me, Luke. Luke Barrington. You remember? We met the other evening at the reception at the Casa di Maria.”

  A beat. “How did you get my number?”

  “I have influential sources in the government.” How Jeremy had got the number, he could only guess. “I have to see you again.”

  “I don't think that's a good idea.”

  “How about lunch?”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “I was hoping you'd show me some of Rome.”

  “Get a guide book.”

  She hung up.

  ***

  A solitary figure in a black tracksuit padded through the twisting cobblestone streets of the Trastevere. Her blonde pony tail was tied with a pink band, her Nike joggers as big as diving boots on the slight frame. A cat mewed and darted away, leaving behind the scrap it had found. Washing fluttered from the balconies above her, red peppers drying alongside, vivid against the honey-brown stucco walls.

  She avoided the traffic, keeping to the backstreets. She pushed herself harder than usual, trying to run out the feelings of anger and disruption left by Luke's telephone call. She felt flattered and outraged. How had he got her number?

  She had no use for a casual lover. There had been only one real relationship in her life, with a boy she had known since she was seventeen. When that affair had ended, she had been distraught. She had thought it would last forever.

  Most of her friends went through boyfriends as if they were tissues, but she was not like that. She wanted a man who would love her forever. So why waste time on this Englishman? He only wanted to bed her then he would fly back to London and forget all about her.

  And yet there was something about him; it felt as if he knew her. The tenacity with which he had pursued her both frightened and fascinated her.

  Oh, don't be a fool, Simone.

  ***

  When she got back to her apartment he was sitting on the steps in the courtyard.

  “There's something wrong with your telephone. When I was talking to you this morning the line suddenly went dead.”

  He smiled at her. To die for, he thought. Is my sister this pretty? I'd never noticed, yet they look exactly alike. Weird. Her track top was tied around her waist, her white teeshirt was wet with perspiration, almost transparent. Something about a woman panting and soaked in sweat. He swept the thought aside. That wasn't why he was here.

  She put her hands on her hips. “How did you get here?”

  “I walked.”

  “I mean how did you know where I lived?”

  “I'm an investigative journalist. It's what I do. Investigate.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I lied about being a features editor. I sell anti-perspirant. Can I order you a truckload?”

  Her expression reminded him of Diana when he teased her; her her lips compressed in a thin, white line. She shouldered past him, pressed some digits on a panel by the heavy door and pushed it open.

  I blew it again, he thought.

  She turned, hesitated with one hand on the door. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Are you offering?”

  “It sounded like I did.”

  He smiled and followed her inside.

  Chapter 59

  HER APARTMENT WAS at the top of two flights of stone stairs. The crumbling Renaissance façade belied a modern two bedroom apartment with terracotta tiles on the floor, soft white leather sofas, a huge glass coffee table, tubular steel and leather chairs. The main living area was decorated in fashionable tonings of black, taupes and creams.

  She led him through to the kitchen, set two cups on a bench top of black-veined marble, put coffee beans in the grinder. “I thought you were only going to be in Rome for a few days.”

  “That was before I met you.”

  “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

  “I don't know. Are you?”

  She tossed an errant lock of hair from her face with an angry flick of her hand.

  “I told you I didn't want to see you. Now you show up on my doorstep. Perhaps I should call the police.”

  “Let's have coffee first. I can't deal with the police until I've had at least one cup of coffee.”

  She filled the macchinetta and put it on the stove. “Take it off the range when it's boiling. As you so delicately pointed out, I need a shower.”

  He heard water running. While he waited he wandered around the apartment, looking for clues. There were silver framed photographs on the coffee table; Simone with a tanned fair haired man in a green polo shirt, and a handsome, older woman wearing too much jewellery. The man and woman figured in two other pictures; Simone as a teenager, another taken when she was even younger, in a white communion dress.

  He picked up one of the photographs, stared at the fai
r haired man in the polo shirt. So, this was César Angeli. He was not what he had been expecting. He did not look like a torturer. His hair was perfect, he had clear ice-blue eyes and a face unlined by age. He had expected Rasputin; this man looked more like a movie star.

  A lacquered bookshelf stood against one wall; there were textbooks on human biology and genetics alongside Alessandro Manzoni novels and translations of Shelley, Byron and Keats.

  The bathroom door opened.

  “Found anything interesting?”

  She had changed into jeans and a dark silk shirt. Her hair was still wet and she dabbed at it with a towel.

  “Let us have wine and women, life and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.”

  “Don Juan. You read Byron?”

  “My sister does. She loves the classics.”

  Simone went into the kitchen and took the coffee off the range. “Well you were no help. A typical Englishman. Didn't you know that should never overboil coffee?”

  “Is this your father?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “He's almost sixty years old. Doesn't look it, does he?”

  “Clean living. That's what I'll look like when I'm sixty.”

  She raised an eyebrow and he smiled.

  “What?”

  “That thing you did, with your eyebrow.”

  “I practised a lot when I was a child.” She poured the coffee into two espresso cups and handed one to him. “You're very persistent.”

  He shrugged his shoulders in acknowledgment.

  The apartment looked over a small piazza with honey-coloured stucco walls and green shuttered windows. A handful of teenagers crossed the square in stonewashed denims and designer basketball shoes, shouting and laughing, on their way to school.