by Ward Larsen
Like most young boys, Davy loved everything about trains. His face was pasted to the window as he gawked in youthful wonder at trucks and cows. A distant hot air balloon brought a squeal of delight. It would all be captivating to any toddler, but was especially so for a boy accustomed to palm trees and pods of whales. Davy was reluctant to get off at Rome’s Termini Station, as were his parents, albeit for very different reasons. They watched their son’s excitement build a second time as their taxi rounded a playground full of children near Villa Borghese. Davy kicked the seat with his heels and gestured wildly to be let out, wanting to join the fun. On any other day they would have indulged him.
The United States embassy in Rome is fronted by Via Veneto, but Slaton called ahead using the number Sorensen had provided, and she met them at a side entrance. As they were escorted toward the building, Slaton gave its exterior security measures a hard look. He had to admit they appeared solid. He saw staggered concrete barriers, metal gates, and multiple layers of guards—professional-grade contractors on the outside, graduating to uniformed Marines on the inner ring. Inside was a screening area that looked thorough, built in the form of a mantrap with sealable entrances on either side. There were cameras everywhere and, most encouragingly of all, a notable alertness among the staff.
He was sure that unseen layers of protection were embedded—motion detectors outside the walls, strategically placed bomb sensors at street level. It was a good setup, but no less than one would expect for a facility that could only be characterized as a high-value target. Comforting as it all was, Slaton knew every security plan had its weaknesses.
“This is the working section of the embassy,” Sorensen said as she guided them deep into the building. They bypassed a maze of offices where Davy drew finger waves from men and women in cubicles. A narrow hallway brought transition to what looked more like living quarters. At an ornate set of double doors a guard in civilian clothes stood waiting. He was a big man with a lantern jaw and active eyes. By Slaton’s instantaneous evaluation—a learned habit—he looked quite competent.
Sorensen addressed Christine. “This is the visiting dignitary suite. The ambassador himself stayed here last year while his quarters were being renovated.”
“Does that mean we have to act dignified?” Christine asked, looking warily at Davy.
Sorensen laughed. “Hardly. It’s not scheduled to be occupied again until next month.”
She introduced them to the guard, whose name was Nick, and who was almost certainly CIA. Everyone passed through the doors into a lavish suite styled in Old World decor. The floor was a patchwork of ornate carpets, the walls trimmed in gilded mirrors and oil paintings. Multiple chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving the impression of a crystalline ice storm. There was a nice scent as well, something feminine that could only come from a sachet.
Ignoring it all, Slaton addressed Nick. “Any other entrances to the suite?”
“One window. It’s bulletproof and not an exterior—overlooks the courtyard. Also a set of doors that leads to the embassy veranda.”
“The window is okay, but I want two like you on each door, twenty-four seven, until I’m back.”
Sorensen and the guard exchanged a look.
“I can make that happen,” Nick said. His stone face then cracked into a smile, and he bent down to reach eye level with Davy. He beckoned him with a curled finger, and when Davy came near, the guard whispered something in his ear. Davy looked to the far end of the room and ran off.
Christine looked at the guard questioningly.
He said, “I told him he was allowed to play on the big couch.”
Everyone watched Davy climb on a couch that had to be ten feet long.
Nick expanded, “I told him it was owned by a famous man a long time ago, back before Italy lost a big war.”
“Who was that?” Christine asked.
“Benito Mussolini—at least that’s the rumor.”
“Must be priceless,” Slaton said distractedly, his eyes still sweeping the room. He saw the window, and the doors leading out to the veranda. Beyond that a manicured garden blended into the embassy’s interior courtyard.
Christine sided up to him and said, in a voice only he could hear, “Looks pretty nice.”
“It’s not a vacation. Remember, you can’t leave the embassy.”
She looked across the veranda. “Well, as prisons go, I give it five stars.”
Satisfied with the arrangements, Slaton forged a smile for his wife’s sake. “It looks solid,” he said.
She didn’t smile back. “It’s not me and Davy I worry about.”
“I’ll be fine. It’s just like we talked about—a little consulting work.”
“Consulting. Did I ever tell you how bad you are at understatement?”
“A couple of days. That’s all.” He held up one of the phones he’d purchased that morning. “If anything here goes wrong…”
“I know,” she said. “If the tea is cold, you’ll hear about it.”
She leaned into him for a moment, then Slaton broke away and went to the door with Sorensen. He stopped for one last look before leaving. His wife was chatting up the guard in what looked like an amiable conversation. His son was using Mussolini’s couch as a trampoline.
* * *
Slaton left the embassy with Sorensen in a generic rental car. The traffic was Rome’s usual, which was to say abysmal. While she drove, he helped navigate using her agency-issued smartphone. Once they reached the southern outskirts, he put the handset to other uses.
“What are you doing?” she asked as he typed and flicked across her screen.
“Research.”
Sorensen nearly said something, but then relented and went back to the road.
For two hours they backtracked much of the route Slaton had covered with his family by train that morning. They passed through Cassino, the modern and vibrant version that had taken the place of the old city, which had been bombed to virtual ruin in 1944. Beyond the bustle of Naples they skirted Mount Vesuvius, at the base of which was the ill-situated ancient city of Pompeii. The sun was threatening the horizon when they arrived at Sorrento.
In further testament to Sorensen’s efficiency, a police launch collected them at the municipal pier. Two amiable junior carabinieri, clad in orange life vests, began a guided tour as they struck out toward the channel. They pointed out the ferry terminal and the docks where tour operators, in high season, ran trips for gawking at the seaside. For the more adventurous, jet skis and kayaks were available to assault the local grottos.
It was a twenty-minute crossing to the Isle of Capri, and when they arrived the harbor seemed subdued in the fading light. Most of the shops were closed, and likely had been for weeks, while only a handful of cafés remained unshuttered. Their carabinieri guides regaled them with colorful accounts, from a policeman’s perspective, of the rolling party that was summer in Capri. They told of the incognito celebrities who tried to hide among the crowds, and the legions of less famous who yearned to be seen, all against a backdrop of champagne baths and gold-plated madness. In the waning days of October, however, the beautiful people had moved on, and with them went their party planners, private chefs, and paparazzi stalkers.
The harbor soon fell behind, and in the distance Slaton saw their destination. Even from a mile away the yacht named Cassandra was impressive, her sheer size a testimonial to excess. Sleek and silky, resting effortlessly on calm seas, the ship looked like anything but the murder scene she was.
TEN
According to Sorensen, the inspector’s name was Giordano, and he was waiting for them at a gangway on the yacht’s leeward side. Slaton saw a modest man in height and build, yet noted a distinct air of gravitas in his deeply grooved jowls and furrowed brow. He wore civilian clothes, heavy trousers and a jacket with worn patches on the sleeves. A pair of round-framed wire glasses rested on a classically Roman nose, and beneath the jacket Slaton noted a subtle slope to the man’s shoulders�
�as if the weight of Capri itself was resting upon them. Behind him were two uniformed officers, younger and more upright men who, in the time-honored way of Italian males, had their eyes pinned on the attractive blonde next to Slaton.
Sorensen took the lead, greeting Giordano in English, then introducing Slaton. “This is the man I told you about, Inspector. He’s something of a specialist in what we’re dealing with.”
Giordano regarded Slaton for a moment, and when the two shook hands, he said, “I will not ask where you acquired your expertise. I only hope you can explain this mystery to me.”
Slaton could have answered in fluent Italian, and would have done so were he a diplomat or a fellow policeman. Being what he was, he kept his linguistic abilities to himself—he never gave away anything cheaply. “I won’t have every answer, but hopefully I can give you some direction.”
Slaton was encouraged that the inspector seemed amenable to their involvement. He imagined an alternate scenario in which the man had been forced by a supervisor, on the request from some distant government ministry, to handhold a contingent of visiting busybodies. Such forced cooperation was rarely productive. As it was, Giordano appeared legitimately interested in getting help.
The inspector turned toward a stairway that led to the upper deck. The two uniformed officers stayed behind at the gangway. There was no issuance of booties or gloves, which told Slaton the scene had been well gone over for evidence.
As he fell in behind, Slaton studied the ship. He’d become a reasonably seasoned sailor in the last year, and what he saw impressed him. The boat was tidy, the crew keeping up with things. Lines were coiled, the radar antenna turning, and the few deckhands he saw appeared smartly uniformed. It implied a degree of competence and professionalism. More practically, it told him the crew were still getting paid. He wondered how long that would last.
Slaton asked, “Has the ship moved since the night Ivanovic was killed?”
The inspector wagged a finger in the air. “No, the captain has assured me the ship remains in the very same position. The scene you are about to see is precisely what Ivanovic saw that night.”
They followed Giordano up a spotless teak staircase. The brass rails gleamed orange in the setting sunlight, and a brine-scented breeze swept in from the north. When they reached the upper deck, Slaton paused to take in the scene. Aft he saw a sprawling sitting area, and to one side a large wet bar. There was a covered hot tub that would accommodate at least ten people. What looked like a dance floor was surrounded by all-weather sofas. All the furnishings were outdoor contemporary, the frames brushed nickel, the upholstery the colors of the sea. Brilliant white lights were strung overhead in a decorative pattern, creating an atmosphere that was something between an operating room and a Christmas display.
“Has anything been altered?” Slaton asked.
“No. We secured this part of the ship immediately.” Giordano led to the aft section of the starboard rail. “Ivanovic was standing here when he was struck in the chest by a single large-caliber round. He died almost instantly and tumbled into the sea. The body was recovered within minutes by the crew. Unfortunately, we uncovered very little physical evidence. A few traces of biological material were found here,” the Italian said, pointing to a spot on deck that was marked with red tape and lettering.
Slaton looked over the rail and saw a twenty-foot drop to a choppy sea. “What about the bullet?” he asked.
“We’ve inspected the ship thoroughly, but it was not recovered. The post mortem report was very clear on one point—the round passed straight through the victim’s body. Given the angle at which it struck, and where Ivanovic was standing, it almost certainly continued into the sea.”
“Could it be recovered?” Sorensen asked.
“We considered a search. Unfortunately, Cassandra is anchored above a very steep drop-off. In the direction the bullet was traveling, the depth increases rapidly. There is no way to tell how far it might have carried before striking the sea.”
“What kind of bullet are we talking about?” Slaton asked.
“We believe it was a fifty caliber.”
“That’s a big round. Very high-energy.”
“Precisely. Which only further proves the point—any attempt to recover the bullet would require searching nearly one square kilometer of ocean floor, at depths ranging from fifty to seven hundred meters. To find something that size, under such conditions—it is beyond our abilities.”
Slaton nodded. Everything Giordano said was true. “It might not help anyway. A spent round can be matched to a weapon, but by itself it often doesn’t tell you much.” He stared out across the water, and began roaming the deck. Beginning at the starboard rail, he circled slowly to port. Slaton looked forward and aft, then at the distant island of Capri. He estimated the nearest shore to be three miles away. He could ask for the distance to be measured precisely, but he was sure his estimate was good to within ten percent. That was all he needed.
Not a chance.
“You’re sure this is where the ship was anchored?” he said to Giordano.
“The captain has shown me the electronic logs. Cassandra maintains a digital navigation record, and transmits the data regularly—insurance companies demand such assurances these days to protect their interests. The positions are accurate to less than one meter. The only variance at this moment involves the ship swinging on her anchor—which, of course, depends on the wind and the currents.”
“So on the night Ivanovic was killed,” Sorensen surmised, “Cassandra had to be within a hundred yards of where she sits right now.”
“Yes,” said Giordano. “I even cross-checked the insurance company’s data.”
“Did the ship keep a radar log?” Slaton asked.
The inspector smiled for the first time, an awkward process in which facial creases deepened and the eyes behind the glasses narrowed. “You are wondering if there were other boats nearby.”
“Yes.”
“The ship’s radar was active and being monitored—when anchored near a busy channel it is a standard safety precaution. The captain told me he checked the screen himself only minutes before Ivanovic was killed. He saw no other boats nearby.”
“That’s not exactly definitive.”
“This was my thought as well. As it happens, there is also a radar system on the island.” Giordano pointed toward Capri’s highest hill. “The light is poor now, but the antenna is there, overlooking the main channel. There is a good deal of traffic between Capri and the mainland, particularly during the summer. The Guardia Costiera recently installed a radar unit to keep an eye on things.”
“And they keep a record of the traffic … which you’ve already checked.”
Giordano smiled to say that he had. He took off his glasses, held them to the light, and used a small cloth to clean an apparent smudge. “At the time of the killing, the only other vessel in the area was two miles from Cassandra. I was able to track it down rather easily—it turned out to be a local fishing boat. I have already spoken to the man who operates it.”
“And?”
“I grew up with Mario. He was a lazy student, but could always find the red mullet. I can tell you he is a threat to no one.”
Slaton eyed Giordano. “You’ve been thorough.”
“I have been desperate. I went as far as to check the record of air traffic. There were no helicopters or aircraft nearby.”
Slaton grinned, wondering if even he would have gone that far.
Giordano was hailed from below by one of his men. He diverted to the stairs and began a discussion in Italian. Slaton caught a few words, enough to deem it harmless—something relating to another case.
Sorensen edged next to him and spoke in a hushed tone. “Well? Does what he’s saying make sense? Did someone take out Ivanovic with a fifty caliber?”
“Hard to say. It’s not a common weapon—especially outside the military. But it is the kind of gun a long shooter would use.” His eyes remained fi
xed on the sea and the island beyond. He tried to come up with a scenario that fit what he knew. Try as he might, he couldn’t. Apparently it showed.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He turned a slow circle, taking in the horizon all around. After a pause, he simply looked at Sorensen and shook his head. “Everything,” he said. “Everything is wrong.”
ELEVEN
Slaton walked Sorensen through his reservations one at a time.
“On the way here I used your phone to look up the weather conditions for the night Ivanovic was killed.”
“Is that important?”
“It’s vital for a long-range shooter. It was clear that night, with good visibility, but also very windy—twenty knots from the west, with stronger gusts.”
“So that would make for a tough shot.”
“Tough isn’t the word.” Slaton put both hands on the starboard rail. “The longest sniper kill ever recorded was in Afghanistan, and the shooter used a fifty cal. It came in at around two thousand five hundred meters, roughly a mile and a half.”
“Wow,” she said. “I’ve missed on the range with my service weapon from twenty-five yards.”
“So have some snipers. Long-range shooting is a different discipline. A different mindset. I don’t know the specifics of that mile-and-a-half shot, but I can almost guarantee that the wind was calm and the target essentially motionless.”
Sorensen looked out across the water. “How far is the island from here?” she asked.
“Three miles, minimum. At that range, on a windy night … a good shooter would do well to hit this yacht. But somebody managed to hit a human—and not only that, they hit him dead center of mass.”
“So you’re saying that whoever it was … they must have been closer somehow.”
“No other possibility. Problem is, there are only two ways to get close on open water.”
