Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  "Both nights?"

  "Yes."

  She feels confident that she absolved herself well and that it was less of an ordeal than she had feared. Only a small nagging worry remains why they were so interested in André. Won’t his debriefing give them all the details they want? It is one o’clock when Marni accompanies her out of the office and back into the foyer. She is eager to see André.

  There is nobody in the Foyer.

  "Where is Signor Villier," she questions Marni, as he is taking leave.

  "I am sorry, Miss Pacelli, but Signor Villier has been taken for questioning to the Questura."

  "But why," she cries. It feels as if somebody had pulled the rug from under her feet.

  "I am not in a position to talk about that."

  "But I need to know. I want to see him."

  "I am sorry, I cannot help you further."

  "But where can I find out?" Her voice trembles. Tears are on the verge of spilling.

  "I suggest that you inquire with the Questura. They might be willing to give you some information, but frankly I doubt it. Goodbye Miss Pacelli."

  He leaves. She wants to run after him but her feet seem solidly stuck to the floor. She feels lost without André. He has become the tower of strength she could always fall back on, and now he is gone. Finally, she stumbles out of the building. She does not know where to go, where to turn for help and solace. The only person that comes to mind is Gabriela. But she can’t even call her without a cell phone. Hers was stolen by ‘la bête’. She has an old one in her room at home. She goes back into the foyer and begs the receptionist to allow her to make a local call. The woman reluctantly gives her the phone. She calls Gabriela’s cell phone. When her sister answers, she burst out: "André has been arrested."

  "Arrested? Where are you?"

  "At the Ministry on Piazza del Viminale."

  "Stay put, I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m only a few blocks over."

  She thanks the receptionist and hurries outside. It takes less than five minutes for Gabriela’s red Punto cabriolet to roll up.

  "Hop in," Gabriela calls out and Bianca does.

  Gabriela drives off immediately. "What happened?"

  "We went to Foreign Affairs for a debriefing on the kidnapping. When I came out, I was told that he had been taken to the Questura."

  "Poor Bianca." She hands her a tissue.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To Bocelli’s, Ernesto Gallizio is usually there at this time."

  "Ernesto Gallizio? Who is he?"

  "You know, that flashy lawyer friend of Chris Pozzi she is always hanging out with. He may know what to do. At least, he may be able to find out why they arrested André."

  Gabriela spots Gallizio on the outside terrace, seemingly enjoying the meager winter sun coming through a milky sky.

  Gabriela introduces them.

  "Ah, I have seen you on TV. That man with you seems to be quite a character."

  "He is why we are here to talk to you," says Gabriela. "Tell him, Bianca."

  Bianca briefly recounts what happened.

  "And you would like me to find out why he was taken to the Questura, I guess," he muses. "Look, it may just be that they debriefed him there rather than at Foreign Affairs." Bianca’s hopes rise. "Have you in fact checked whether he is not already back at the hotel?"

  "No. I’ll do it right away. Gabriela, lend me your cell phone."

  She goes two steps to the side, searches for the card of the Pensione de’Fiori, and dials. Maria answers. No, André has not returned yet.

  "Please, tell him I will be back by two thirty, if he returns before me."

  "So he is not back," remarks Gallizio. He seems to ponder something and then says: "I can give a friend of mine at the Questura a call. She might know."

  "Please do, Signor Gallizio," Bianca pleads.

  "I will, but call me Ernesto."

  He makes the call and initially flirts for several minutes. Finally he asks his friend for a confidential favor — why André Villier was taken to the Questura. He has to wait several minutes before he gets an answer.

  "It seems that there was a denuncia —"

  "Somebody denounced him?" exclaims Gabriela.

  Two people immediately flash through Bianca’s mind — Franco and her father. She begins to breathe deeply to stave off the nausea that threatens to swamp her.

  "Yes, and obviously they are under no obligation to reveal who that is. They booked him under suspicion of having kidnapped you."

  "But how could he? He was taken hostage with me."

  "They suspect that this is just a cover story."

  "But … but he risked his life several time for me."

  "Sorry, Bianca. I don’t know what evidence they have to suspect that. I just reported to you what my friend told me."

  She slumps down on a chair, tears streaming down her face. "This is a horrible mistake. What am I to do," she sobs.

  Gabriela pats her shoulders. "We have to find out why they think that, and then you may be able to refute it."

  "It’s not quite that simple," interjects Gallizio. "At this point in time, they will not yet reveal what evidence they have." He pauses, frowning, and asks: "Somebody told me yesterday that you and Villier are going to get married …. Ah, it was you, Gabriela. So they will not give much value to any of your statements. In fact, they may claim that your attachment to Villier is simply the manifestation of the Stockholm syndrome."

  "The Stockholm syndrome?" Gabriela questions.

  "The attachment, even love, a hostage may develop toward her keeper."

  "But André was never my keeper. He was the one who rescued me."

  Gallizio shrugs his shoulders. "They may request that you undergo a psychiatric assessment."

  Suddenly it clicks why a psychologist was present at the debriefing and the nature of her questions. Anger wells up inside her. They aren’t going to put that over me, she swears silently. I will fight them with all the means available to me, even if it means dropping out of university. She wipes her tears.

  "Can you advise me what I should do?"

  "The first thing is to get a good lawyer."

  "Would you be willing to be our lawyer or can you recommend somebody?"

  He looks at her for several seconds, obviously pondering that and then answers: "Yes, I think I would be willing to take on this case. It offers a real challenge. But I warn you, I’m not cheap."

  "I can give you five thousand US dollars right away."

  He laughs. "No hurry, my beautiful girl, all in good time. And now smile. This is not the end of the world. But you better tell me your side of the story."

  "You have to tell him everything," Gabriela urges her, "including what André overheard in that bar."

  It takes the better part of an hour. Gabriela drives her to the pensione afterward.

  * * *

  At the Questura booking office, André is formally charged, processed and fingerprinted. They want to know his current address. He has no choice but to tell them. He has to surrender all his belongings, and is told to remove his belt. The arresting officer asks to see his shoes. They have no shoelaces. After that, he is locked into one of four holding cages. Half a dozen men of various ages sit or doze on the wooden bench along the wall. The place smells of mildew, piss and unwashed bodies.

  André sits next to a teenager and studies his surroundings. In his mind, he already sees the title of a potential newspaper article: forty-eight hours on remand in a Roman jail. He hopes that it won’t be much longer than that. He also wants to make his one phone call promptly. He needs to alert Bianca to remove his computer from his suitcase and hide it to prevent the commissario from getting hold of it. There are copies of his letters to French and Spanish political figures about his intended trip to Colombia, asking for help in facilitating contact with FARC. He hopes that Baldetti stuck to his promise not to disclose why he went to Colombia, although strictly speaking that promise was for the DAS.
The commissario could easily construe these letters as evidence that the real reason for such contacts was to arrange the kidnapping.

  The holding cage to his left has another motley collection of men, including a group that looks like mafia enforcers. In the one to his right some twenty women, several streetwalkers it seems and a group of gypsies, including two children, are talking and intermittently screaming. One of the streetwalkers is leaning against the coarse wire mesh that separates the cages. The wires press into her bottom, revealing much flesh below her short short hot pants. The teenager next to André suddenly reaches over and pinches her. She screams, pouring a flood of swearwords at him, and then spits. Her aim is true. He only grins.

  He nudges André. "Have a cigarette, man?"

  "Sorry, I don’t smoke."

  "Ah, you one of those. What did they nab you for? Drugs?"

  "No, I rescued a woman from kidnappers and now am accused of having kidnapped her."

  The teenager looks at him properly for the first time. "Ah, you the guy on TV. Man, you must be crazy to burn 50 grand."

  André only smiles in response.

  "Are you that loaded you can just shrug off that kind of money, man?"

  "No, the money didn’t smell right."

  "Man, you’re a real weirdo. Money’as no smell."

  "Oh, yes, it has. The money you earn honestly and for a job you enjoy smells sweet. The puny money you earn when you feel exploited tastes bitter. The money you steal is dirty and smells foul. The money you get selling drugs tastes acrid and quickly goes up in smoke. Haven’t you noticed?" André made an educated guess that the teenager was caught selling drugs.

  "You really’re weird. How did you know they nabbed me for selling P?

  "It’s carved into your face that you are on something."

  The teenager actually rubs his hand over his forehead.

  "Not just there," André adds, "all over, here, and here." He slides the index finger of both hands above his eyelids and his cheekbones. "Your face is just skin and bones."

  "Can’t help it. Life’s not worth living without it."

  "You sell P to finance your drugs?"

  The guy nods.

  "So for how long will you be in?"

  "Six months and cold turkey, then out for two or three, then another six to nine months. At least while I’m in, I eat. It started with just three, but this is the third time, so it will be six."

  "And they have never offered you counseling or treatment?"

  "No, it’s out of sight, out of mind for them pigs."

  "It’s not the cops that are at fault. They are only doing their job. It’s the men and women who govern us."

  "Yea, they think giving big speeches and then stuffing themselves in flashy restaurants solves all the world’s problems."

  "It keeps them off the streets."

  "You are wrong, man, dead wrong. I’ve sold many a high to these pisspots and even to a couple of them bitches."

  "So, why don’t you use your one phone call and call up one of these guys? Tell him you will spill the beans unless he helps you."

  "You think I’m dumb? I tried it once and then got promptly beaten up by the guards."

  Loud screaming erupts in the adjacent cage. Two of the women are tearing at each other’s hair and clothing. "Give me back that joint," one of them screams, while the other cries: "You owed me one from last time."

  A guard appears, rattles the cage and shouts: "Quiet," and then leaves again. The women ignore him. They are finally separated by some of the others.

  "Why are these girl allowed to keep their handbags, while they took everything from me?"

  "They’re only holding them for a few hours and will let them go when it’s time for them to go back on the beat. They took your things, because they’re gonna keep you for while."

  I’m getting quite an education, André muses.

  Hard punches and subdued moans come from the cage on the other side. André tries to see.

  "Don’t look. They are beating up some guy. They don’t like you to look. Stay away from them as far as you can, especially once you’re inside."

  "Thanks for the advice. I don’t expect to remain here for long."

  "You never know, man. I thought that too the first time. Who is your commissario?"

  "Farnese."

  "Bad luck, man, real bad luck. She’s the worst. She drags things out until you’re sick and confess."

  That’s good to know.

  A guard calls out André’s name. He goes to the cage door and identifies himself. The guard takes him down the corridor where two phones hang on a dirty, scratched section of wall.

  "Make your phone call."

  "Officer, what’s the time?"

  "Make your phone call. No more than three minutes."

  "The person I want to reach is only available after two." He expects that by then Bianca will be back at the pensione.

  "Look, my orders are to let you make your phone call now. You do it or I’ll report that you refused and that’s it. No more phone calls."

  André is in a quandary. "Officer, I need a phone book."

  "No phone book. Make your call now or I’ll take you back."

  André dials the pensione. The phone rings and rings. He is almost ready to give up, when Maria answers, out of breath. He briefly explains that he was arrested. Maria begins to lament. He can just make out that Bianca called a few minutes earlier. He interrupts her: "Please, listen Maria, I have only a minute. Tell Bianca when she comes back to get me a good lawyer urgently. She should also take her computer and the rest of her money from my hard case." He is confident that Bianca will guess he means his computer and the half of the twelve thousand dollars that is in his case. He is also relieved that the police haven’t yet gone there to search through his things. Maria would have volunteered that. He just hopes that Bianca returns before they show up.

  By late afternoon the teenager shows signs of withdrawal. His hands begin to shake. He starts pacing up and down the cage. The guards take him away before dinner together with three other men. André forces himself to eat the soggy pasta, served in an unidentifiable sauce, and boiled carrots. He reminds himself to take it philosophically, to see it as a life experience. He doesn’t really think that any charges will stick, but is worried how Bianca will cope. However, as time passes, he begins to wonder why no lawyer has yet come to visit him.

  Several drunks are more or less thrown into the cage. One of them urinates in a corner. That reminds André that he needs to relieve himself too. He calls for a guard. Nobody comes. He calls again. Still no response.

  "Rattle the cage," one of the new arrivals mutters.

  He does. It makes a loud racket. A guard promptly appears, shouting: "Stop that!"

  André puts his request and is accompanied to a stinking urinal with piss all over the floor.

  They keep him in the cage overnight. If the teenager is right, then this is the start of softening me up, he reckons.

  * * *

  Hope for André’s speedy release returns after Gallizio promises to inform the Questura that he is representing him and that he will request to see him as soon as possible. But he tells her not to expect his release today. The wheels of justice turn slowly in Rome, he reminds her.

  Back at the pensione, Maria corners her immediately, informing her of André’s phone call, lamenting the injustice being done to him. Bianca asks her to repeat exactly what André said. It is then that she learns about his request to remove her computer and her share of the money from his case. But it’s his computer, not mine. Mine is in my suitcase. Suddenly she knows what he means. It’s his stuff he wants removed. He doesn’t want it left in his case, should the police come by and search. They may want to take everything of his along for checking. He put it that way since his call was probably monitored.

  Then another idea strikes her. It may be wise to hide his computer and most of the US bills somewhere else. Then if the police want to see it, sh
e can show them hers and the twenty or so US bills she plans to keep in her room. She asks Maria, and the latter offers to keep the two things in their safe. At the last moment she also searches for the list of telephone calls Franco made at the Cipriano and failed to pay. She hides it among her own papers.

  It is mid-afternoon and she has not eaten anything since breakfast. She tells Maria that she will briefly step out to get something to eat. The woman insists on offering her a cold lunch. She is finishing the prosciuto sandwich, when two policemen arrive. They ask her to accompany them to her room and hand over André’s belongings. They briefly rifle through the case and remove any papers and written material. They check all walls of the empty case. "Nothing hidden here," one comments to the other. They even check through her things and then asked her to power up the computer she has purposely left on the table. One of the guys scrolls through her directory. He opens her e-mail files and briefly checks through ‘Sent items’ and ‘Old mail’. He opens a couple and then gives up, shaking his head. Finally one of them asks about the money. So André’s conversation was noted down in detail. She shows him the small wad of twenty-dollar bills.

  "Is that all?" he questions.

  "Yes."

  He hands them back. They leave with André’s papers. She hopes there is nothing indiscriminating in them and cleans up.

  For a while she simply looks out the window, not really registering what she sees, her mind wallowing in hatred for Franco. She has no more doubt that Franco made the denuncia, rather than her father. There is one thing she knows about her father. He doesn’t act in an underhanded way. He is too proud and too sure of being right when he takes action. He would have confronted André directly, nor does he yet know the full story of her kidnapping. Only Franco knows some of it, but not the rescue. He even received a phone call from ‘la bête’ the day after, probably telling him that she was taken hostage, she reminds herself.