by Blanca Miosi
I got overwhelmed listening to him. I felt like we were all pieces on a giant chessboard moved by invisible strings, a chessboard on which we believed we lived and moved about freely but that was actually covered with delicate chains that forced us to act a certain way, leaving us no opportunity to choose. In my case, in those moments in particular, the chains pulled in two opposing directions, as if the force doing the pulling could not make up its mind. How I longed for the days gone by! Things used to be so simple! At least I lived with the illusion of being the one to determine my own actions....
Nicholas did an abrupt reverse out of his philosophical musings: “You said there were people who had something to gain by knowing your movements. The question is, then, who doesn’t know your plans yet? Who would benefit from knowing them?”
“The truth is that nobody knows my plans,” I was surprised to hear myself say. “I don’t even know them. What I mean is that right now everyone who knows me, even you, is suspect.”
Nicholas blinked several times and watched me through squinted eyes.
“You’re absolutely right. Nobody knows what you’re going to do. And I wouldn’t dare ask you. But in terms of the people who might do you harm, who would you mention?”
“Right this minute...Caperotti. And the Jews. I don’t know if Caperotti knows about the formula, but if you’d seen him, I think you’d put him on the list.”
“You’re forgetting about the priest Martucci,” Nicholas reminded me.
“Right. For all intents and purposes, he does know about the existence of the formula, though I doubt he’s looking to benefit from it.”
“Do you think that because he said he was likely to die soon?”
“Yes, of course. It wouldn’t do him any good,” I concurred.
“So we should frame the questions from a different angle: who would be willing to do anything, even commit murder, to get their hands on that formula? And why?”
“I know Merreck wants the formula. And he’d do it for eternal life,” I said. “The Jews would do it to keep the formula from being developed. I think we can scratch Irene off the list. She doesn’t know the formula exists.”
“Exactly. And I would also scratch Merreck off. He made a really good point: they had nothing to gain by knocking off your uncle, nor would they now by getting rid of you. Caperotti is a possibility. He might be out to get the formula, presuming that he even knows it exists,” Nicholas suggested.
“Quentin said he was really close with Uncle Claudio, that they talked every day. It’s possible he knew. But Nelson thinks that the man from the restaurant who was following us was one of Caperotti’s men and that he was actually trying to look out for me. Probably so nobody kills me before I can get his money back.”
“Unfortunately, the only one left is Martucci.”
I shrugged apathetically.
“Martucci is in love with my mother. Therefore, he wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”
Nicholas ran his hand through his hair in frustration.
What I really needed to do was get in touch with Fabianni. I called the number on his card and he himself answered.
“Buona sera, Mr. Fabianni.”
“Signore Dante, buona sera...”
“Mr. Fabianni, please, I need to speak with Bernini. He’s in charge of the financial state of the Business, right? I need a number to reach him. I left his card in Rome, and I’m in New York now.”
“Just a moment.... Ok, I have it. Are you ready?”
I wrote it down and then immediately called Bernini. After a brief wait, his secretary put me through.
“Signore Massera, how may I be of service?”
“Is Merreck & Stallen Pharmaceutical Group one of the companies or businesses that the Business deals with?”
“Absolutely not,” was his immediate reply. “I know by heart all the companies that are part of ours.”
“Have you ever heard of them?”
“No...well, actually, yes. But nothing having to do with us. Merreck & Stallen is one of the leading laboratories in the world. Could I ask why you are interested in them?
“I was just wondering if they were worth buying.”
A long silence ensued.
“Don’t worry; I’m only joking.” I could not contain my laughter.
“Mannaggia, signore mio, you’re as much a jokester as your uncle, may he rest in peace.”
“Thank you, Bernini. We’ll talk soon.”
And I hung up.
“Well, now we know for sure where all those millions ended up. Uncle Claudio really was involved up to his neck in this research; so why would he hide the formula? Let’s see what news Nelson brings,” I said, giving up for the time being.
“I need a cigarette, Dante. You don’t smoke at all?” Nicholas asked.
“No way, friend,” I answered, smiling at the tragicomic slant of his eyebrows.
Investigations
The National Security Agency, NSA, has protected the information systems of the United States of America since 1952. Given the millions and millions of bits of data filling its archives, it was the perfect place to search for what I was after. The NSA works in close collaboration with the CIA and the FBI. Thus, if there were any doubt whatsoever about a person, it would surely jump out with flashing neon lights from one of the files. Almost without knowing it, I had walked into a web that would have been modus vivendi for Uncle Claudio yet which I would not even have realized existed had I not needed to get answers to the unknowns that grew more obscure by the day.
As I had presumed, Nelson still had connections with agents in the CIA. They pointed him to the FBI, and a contact there gave him access to the National Crime Information Center, which has information about arrests and all kinds of felonies and crimes. The database serves as support for state and city governments, making it possible for authorities to access any information they need within seconds. As a result, thousands of fugitives and criminals that would otherwise have slipped under the radar are detected and subsequently jailed every year. At least that was the brief explanation Nelson took the trouble to give me before continuing with his report.
“Jorge Rodríguez Pastor, which is the victim’s full name, was of Colombian origin and had become a U.S. citizen six years ago. He studied business at the Cali campus of the Universidad Estatal del Valle, in Colombia, and graduated with honors. He got a job with a U.S. company that moved him to New York, and then he started working on his own as a stock broker, advising clients who wanted to invest capital. He was married and had two children, and their economic situation was stable. At the time of his death he had three million, seven hundred and twenty thousand dollars in his checking account. He shows up in the FBI records for two reasons: at one time a client filed a complaint that Rodríguez had misused funds by investing in low-return stocks. Nothing came of the accusations, but the information is still there. The other instance was for driving under the influence of cocaine. He seems to have been a user. He was being watched to see if he was involved in a drug ring, but there was no indication of any connections, so in his file he appears only as a user. The immigration department registered several entries into Italy, four of them in the last year and a half. His death was the result of a traffic accident. He was run over by a truck that witnesses say never even stopped. They said it seemed the truck was intending to run him over, but, in a country like Colombia, any death could likely be called a murder. No one got the license plate number of the vehicle.”
“In other words, he was never in jail like Martucci had told me.”
“That is correct. And a review of his bank account indicates that for the past six months his average monthly deposits had increased.”
“Why would Martucci say he’d been in jail?”
“That’s something we’ll have to find out.”
“And what do you know about Irene Montoya?”
“Irene Montoya is her full name. She has no other last name, which, in South America, means s
he’s using her mother’s name, which would indicate that her father is unknown. She lived until she was seventeen in Medellín, Colombia. She became involved in prostitution at age thirteen. She arrived in the United States at age eighteen with a tourist visa, and this is where it gets interesting. She was a special case of citizenship, recommended by the Italian embassy. The name of the person who sponsored her is never mentioned. It must have been someone very influential because there is no trace of who it was. Her entries and exits from the country show that she occasionally went to Italy. At first she worked in New York at a beauty salon and within a short time bought the business. A review of her bank accounts shows that she holds quite a respectable amount of money, an average of ten million dollars. Jorge Rodríguez was her financial advisor. The flower shop is very lucrative, with branches in several other states and agreements with similar businesses in many other countries. They make home deliveries of fresh flowers to any part of the world. The flowers come from Colombia. She has no criminal record in this country. She’s clean.”
“She said she’d known Rodríguez since they were kids.”
“They were both from Medellín. He went to Cali to study, but he was born in Medellín. It’s likely that they met and kept in touch later.”
“Do you have any idea why Rodríguez was murdered?”
“Murders of this sort typically happen when somebody wants to keep someone quiet. His file didn’t mention any enemies, but something must have happened, or somebody needed to silence him about something. I plan on talking with his wife. She might know something without even realizing it. That tends to happen.”
“Thank you, Nelson. You’ve been a huge help.”
“It was good to catch up with my old friends,” Nelson shrugged and turned to go with something like a smile playing over his face.
So Irene had a risqué past. The scar on her backside could indicate nothing good. But that was not what was important to me. Each person is the master of his or her own past. What mattered to me was finding out the connection between her and the mysterious high-up Italian. And my interest had nothing to do with feelings; it was simply a matter of survival. I thought the time had come to have an honest conversation with her. I waited for Nelson and Nicholas to get back with the cars since mine was still parked near Irene’s house and the other was in a public lot.
Thanks to his new black Reeboks, Quentin’s signature gait no longer announced his arrival. They gave him a very casual look, and he seemed quite content walking around in them. He came into my office with a cup of hot chocolate and his signature homemade donuts. That was the best part about having him around. He always knew exactly what I wanted.
Yet as hard as I was trying to distract myself from thinking about Merreck, I could not get him off my mind. Four billion dollars would not keep me from utter ruin, but if Merreck offered more for the missing documents, surely I would no longer have to worry about Caperotti. There was no doubt in my mind: if Caperotti were watching out for my life, it was because he did not want to lose his money.
And once I again I wondered why Uncle Claudio had hidden the formula. If he had let them keep going with the research or even finish the studies, he would perhaps still be alive. Everything indicated that he chose death instead of continuing the endeavor. Maybe he discovered something macabre about the experiments that made him reconsider. Mengele was not exactly a saint. The little I had read about him would make anybody’s hair stand on end. I could picture him in a lab like Merreck’s, with all the money in the world at his disposal and the technological advances of the day. It would be frighteningly easy for him to get human guinea pigs even without a concentration camp. I recalled the sensation I had had when I broached the subject with Merreck: “Everything we do here is legal.” He had said it as if he were speaking about that particular spot. Semantically, it was correct. He spoke with extreme caution, as if aware that each of his words would be evaluated. The laboratory they called the “ranch” was huge. Perhaps something unthinkable was hidden on any one of its ten underground floors—and there may have been more.
Or maybe it was simpler than I thought. Before sealing the deal, I could make it a condition that they show me everything about Mengele’s studies, and by everything I meant everything; then I could make a responsible decision. If I had the guts to.
I let out a long, pent-up sigh. It may not be this way for everyone, but for me sighs are like the pressure relief valve on the pressure cookers Quentin used to use. One day he took the time and patience to explain to me how they worked. To me it seemed like an incredibly dangerous instrument to use around the house. But I was starting to get off track, as I often do when my mind prefers not to focus on the important matters at hand.
The Past
“Wait here. If I don’t come down in ten minutes, you can go and come back in about three hours.”
Nelson nodded. It was the only plan I could think of. It would have looked really bad for me to give my bodyguard a call while I was with Irene.
And there I was again, waiting for her to open the door. I am not in the habit of showing up to places unannounced, but those days it seemed like I was upending all my paradigms. Just when I started to think she might already have company, the door opened. She looked lovely. Her brown hair fell loosely about her, and she was wearing the silk robe that always drove me crazy—the combination was too sensual to make any inquiries beyond the physical.
“Are you alone?” I asked, fervently hoping that the answer was yes.
“Yes.”
That was all I needed to hear. I forgot entirely about what I had planned on asking, and I kissed her like a man on death row. Her unique smell invaded my senses. Before, I just thought it was the scent of flowers, but back then I was an immature fool, an idiot. I realized now her fragrance was the essence of female. Hitherto I had not adequately appreciated the delicacies that women like Irene had to offer. It was so much more than easy sex. And when I thought about “back then,” I meant just a few weeks prior.
Recent events had sharpened my senses. I looked at everything through a different prism now, one that allowed me to study several angles at once. Irene was a woman to savor but not the type that could satisfy. That night it was like I made love to her for the first time, and though it may sound harsh—perhaps obscene or even sacrilegious—I understood why a man like Francesco Martucci could love a woman so much. Or a man like Claudio Contini-Massera. There is a kind of woman for every man; evidently they had the same preferences. And for me, Irene was the woman.
But I had gone there with a purpose, and, being a human being at the core, after savoring the deliciousplat de résistance, I finally turned back into a primate, hopefully of the hominid variety.
“When are you going to tell me about how you got that scar?” I asked, stretched out beside her as I stroked her buttock.
“It’s not worth remembering.”
“Why not?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“You don’t want to tell me?”
Irene pulled away a bit and pulled the sheet up over her chest. But I was not going to give up.
“I know a few things about you. But I want to hear them from your own mouth.”
“I can’t.”
“Then I’ll have to assume you’re part of a conspiracy. I need answers. Uncle Claudio survived two murder attempts. I presume you already knew that. The last time I came here, a man tried to follow me. My life is in danger, and you’re refusing to cooperate with me. What am I supposed to think?”
“I would never do anything to hurt you, love. Rest assured of that.”
“I can’t believe you. Why can’t you answer my questions?”
“I had nothing to do with the attacks on your uncle. And I haven’t gotten anybody to follow you. Why would I?”
“You tell me. Just tell me the truth. There’s a lot at stake. If you truly feel anything for me, just tell me.”
Irene sat up. The sheet over her chest b
ecame a shield. Her face transformed from its youthful vigor to a look that really showed her age. I waited, and she began to speak.
“I imagine you know I worked as a prostitute. That was a long time ago, Dante. A very long time. In Medellín you do what they want or they kill you, and I had been recruited by one of the most powerful men: Pablo Escobar. But it wasn’t just a typical prostitution gig. It was a luxurious house where they treated us like queens, except for the fact that we had to sleep with Pablo Escobar’s friends whenever they wanted us to. Politicians, diplomats, military leaders, clergymen.... Little girls picked up on the streets, if they were pretty enough, ended up at the Mansión Rosada, the Pink Mansion. I had lost my mother. I was thirteen years old and had nowhere to go. One of his men found me wandering around, and from that point on I started working for them. I have always looked younger than I am. You have no idea how many perverts are out there. There are men who can’t fuck a female unless it’s a little girl. And they don’t care how much it costs. Some paid to have us for an entire week, and I’m not going to go into what all they made us do. Everything went into Pablo Escobar’s bank account.
”As I got older, I was moved to the ‘special division,’ a huge luxury home near his famous Hacienda Nápoles, near the Magdalena River. That’s where I met Pablo Escobar, the ‘drug lord.’ I was with him a couple times. I remember him as being a pretty nice guy—as nice, of course, as one can be within the parameters of the world he ran. In those days he was really involved with his lover, Virginia Vallejo, so we girls were just playthings on the side for him.
