Kidnapped and a Daring Escape

by Gian Bordin

  "Would it help to disclose André’s inferences about who is behind the kidnapping now?"

  "No, as I told you yesterday I am reluctant to do that at this point. If it ever comes to court, that is the time to use that information and go on the attack. From what you told me about André, I think he would agree with that." Then he chuckles. "I would enjoy lobbing such a bombshell into Commissario Farnese’s impeccably prepared works."

  "I trust you. I just wish I could do something more to get André out."

  "You might have to do something more. I am pretty sure that Farnese will ask that you undergo a psychological evaluation. Have you ever had any mental health episodes? Depression? Nervous breakdown?"

  Bianca shakes her head vigorously. "No, never, but my mother had one, I think, when she was pregnant with my sister. She didn’t want another child."

  "Ah, that explains why Gabriela is always at loggerheads with your mother. It already started in the womb. But it’s good you didn’t have any. However, if Farnese insists, it is best to comply, although I will make sure that the psychologist chosen is not a friend or relation of hers. Rumors have it that some of them report what she wants them to. The evidence of one of her favorite experts was recently challenged in court by another and was subsequently dismissed."

  "Could I visit André? Could you arrange that?"

  "Sorry, Bianca. There isn’t a hope in the world. Farnese will never give permission, I’m sure you understand. André is accused of kidnapping you and then of manipulating you into believing that he is your rescuer."

  She suspected this to be the case, but tried anyway. She asks Gallizio to contact the Swiss Embassy. He promises to do that.

  He excuses himself after that and leaves. Bianca does not know what to do with herself. The inability to do something for André, anything, increases her distress. All she can do is wait and hope and fight her anxiety. She was so hopeful that Gallizio would get things moving, but he is stalled too, and what he told her has dashed her hopes that André will be released soon.

  She muses whether Gallizio’s remark about why her sister and her mother are constantly on a war footing with each other could be true. She remembers that already as a small child Gabriela always defied her mother. She often protected her sister; sometimes she even hid her in her room when her mother wanted to punish her.

  Gabriela drives up and parks her car illegally in front of Bocelli’s. She joins her. "What’s the news?"

  "Not good," Bianca replies, shaking her head, and then tells her what Gallizio said.

  "Come, sister. You have to keep your spirits up, think positive. From what you told me about André, he might spring a surprise on everybody. Didn’t you say he always does the unexpected?"

  Bianca nods, smiling in spite of herself.

  "You cannot imagine the atmosphere at home. Minus fifty degrees. Mamma is hysterical to the third degree. She and papà get into a shouting match the moment they see each other. They are digging up things from the past that have nothing to do with you or what just happened."

  "Papà was in on Franco’s denuncia, I’m pretty certain."

  "No, he wouldn’t," exclaims Gabriela and then looks around guiltily.

  "Yes, he gave himself away and didn’t deny it when I accused him of it."

  "Sister, you dared accuse him? I take my hat off. I also heard that you threw your credit card at him."

  "Not at him, just on his desk."

  "Then let me pay here, since you will now have to count your cents."

  "Thanks, Gabriela. I’ll cope."

  "You know, you’ve really changed. André has been good for you. So what are your plans now?"

  "Wait and wait some more. What else can I do?"

  "There must be things you can do. For instance, you can talk to your fellow students and find out who remembers Franco coming late to that dinner the night before the kidnapping."

  Yes and give Gallizio their names, she muses, and there is also Angela who came out into the corridor to check when I knocked so hard on Franco’s door before dinner. "No, Gallizio should do that; otherwise I might be accused of trying to influence potential witnesses. But thanks for reminding me."

  "Maybe you should write down all these things as they come to your mind."

  "Yes, good idea."

  "And what are you doing now?"

  "Eat lunch at a place I can afford."

  "Sister, no worry. Let’s eat here. I’ll pay. My credit card still works."

  * * *

  Midmorning on Tuesday, a guard calls André, handcuffs him, and leads him into the basement. He is put into a windowless prison transport vehicle with two other men already waiting. After what he guesses is some twenty minutes, the vehicle stops. They are let out into a high-walled courtyard. The two-storey concrete building with its small barred windows looks bleak and forbidding. Their handcuffs are removed and they go through another processing, this time to change into prison uniforms, including plastic slippers. He is handed a towel, a cake of soap and toothbrush. It looks like they intend to keep me here on remand for a while, he reckons.

  He is assigned the upper bunk in a cell that he shares with a man in his forties. The cell is barely large enough for the bunk bed, two chairs, a small metal table firmly bolted to the wall and the cover less, stainless steel toilet bowl. The door slams shut with a loud click. He observes the guard quickly look through the little barred spy hole in the door.

  "I’m André Villier," he introduces himself to the man who has risen from the bed.

  The fellow looks at him displeased and grunts. No welcoming reception this time, muses André. He shrugs his shoulders and inspects the cell. Another towel hangs on a short railing, with toiletries on a narrow shelf above. André adds his own stuff. Then he sits on a chair in reverse, facing the man slouched on the lower bunk. The little hair he has left is unkempt and greasy. His face is puffed up, and he badly needs a shave. He looks like somebody who could do with exercise. His potbelly bulges over his thighs. Not the kind of man with whom André would choose to share a room.

  "Since we have the pleasure of sharing this room, we might as well get acquainted, and you may even give me some useful hints on how to survive here, right? I’m a journalist and they accuse me of kidnapping a rich, pretty girl. So what may I call you?"

  "Pietro … Pietro Macalli," the man grunts.

  "All right, Pietro. What are you accused of?"

  "Theft."

  "And did you do it?"

  "You’re inside for the first time or you wouldn’t ask a stupid question like this."

  "Right. I get the idea. Rather dumb of me, I admit. Yes, this is my first time behind bars and it’s quite an education. But you know this place and how to survive here, don’t you?"

  "Yes."

  "Willing to teach me some tricks?"

  "You’ll get the hang pretty quick or you’ll have your nose broken."

  "Oh, that would be a shame. I like its current shape."

  "You’ll soon stop joking here, I can vouch for that."

  "So are you going to tell me or let me get my nose rearranged?"

  "Just watch out for the two tall fellows. They’ll want protection money. You better give it to them. They don’t fool around."

  "The guards are no help."

  He sneers: "They get their cut."

  "And how much is it?"

  "That depends on what they think they can squeeze out of you. It’s a euro a day for me, could be ten for you. You’ll find out before tonight."

  "I see. And what do you do all day?"

  "Nothing."

  "No books? No exercise?"

  "No, I only look at pictures in magazines and I’ve seen them all. The two guys keep them in their room and you have to pay to see them."

  "These guys seem to have set up quite a lucrative business. They may never wish to leave here."

  "Just go on joking. They’ll soon beat it out of you."

  With that he turns and lies down on
his bunk again. André stretches and does warm-up exercises, followed by a strenuous workout of half-an-hour.

  The door is unlocked at eleven thirty. Pietro rises and shuffles out the door and down the metal lattice corridor. André follows. Men come out of other cells, forming a column on each corridor on both sides of the open prison core, moving along and down the central metal staircase. Prison wardens with batons drawn stand guard on the ground floor, keeping a watch on the flow of prisoners. Somebody pushes him on the stairs, but he manages to balance himself and ignores it. Only at the bottom, as he turns down the hallway, does he get a glimpse of the fellow. It is indeed a tall man who stares at him menacingly.

  André joins the queue forming in front of the counter where three prisoners serve food. Following the lead of the guys ahead of him, he takes a metal plate and a spoon and presents it to the first man behind the counter. A blob of sticky rice is dumped on his plate, the next man adds some overcooked vegetables, the third pours gravy with a couple of small chunks of meat over the rice.

  As André starts to follow the man in front to one of the tables, he gets a violent push into the right shoulder. Unprepared, he stumbles. Most of the food on his plate spills to the floor.

  "Clumsy fellow," the prisoner behind him shouts. "Look what you made me do?" The man has indeed one foot in the spilled food. "That will cost you!" he hisses.

  André’s instinctive reaction is to floor the fellow who, he figures, deliberately pushed him, but holds himself back in time. It would be stupid to get in trouble over some spilled food. At that point, a guard approaches, berates André and orders him to clean up the mess, pointing to a bucket nearby. The ready availability of a bucket is a telltale sign that harassment of this type occurs rather frequently. André is convinced that the guard must have seen who pushed him. Without a word, he puts down his almost empty plate and takes the rag that hangs over the bucket. It is gray from use and lack of proper washing. He collects the food and dumps it into the bucket. Then he wipes the floor as best is he can. When he gets up with his empty plate, the guard beckons him to deposit the plate on a trolley and orders him to follow. At the door to the mess hall, he tells another guard to take the prisoner back to his cell.

  "Next time, be more careful," he admonishes André.

  So that’s my first meal, he muses, as he climbs on his bunk to lie down.

  Ten minutes later his cell mate returns, grunting: "I warned you to watch out for the tall fellows. You can expect their visit shortly."

  "Don’t they lock us in again?"

  "No, the doors are open for the next hour. Exercise time. We are supposed to walk around."

  It takes only a few minutes and the tall fellow enters the cell, while another one blocks the door. He only wags his head and Pietro scurries out.

  "Man, that was real dumb of you to aggravate me like this, making me step into your mess." He is standing close to the bunk. "And when I talk to you, you show me some respect." He grabs André’s foot, trying to pull him down.

  "Look man, just take it easy," André answers, climbing down from the bunk. "What do you want?"

  "Ah, that’s better," the guy sneers, looking him up and down threateningly. Turning to the one at the door, he asks with a grin: "Fausto, what do you think he’s worth?"

  "Twenty?"

  "That may be on the steep side. Let’s be more charitable." He appraises André again from top to bottom. "Say ten a day. We’re letting you off real easy, man."

  "I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you want."

  "Slow, isn’t he?" The fellow sneers to Fausto. "We want that you pay us ten euros a day protection money. Nobody’ll touch you then." He accentuates his words with repeated stabs into André’s chest.

  "And if I don’t have that kind of money?"

  "Then we aren’t responsible for what’ll happen to you."

  André decides to gain time. "Look, I’ve just arrived. I’ve not seen my lawyer yet. I can’t give you anything until I manage to arrange it with him."

  "Sure, man, we understand. I’ll give you until tomorrow noon. Then I want payment for the first three days. You get that real good?" He grins. "Call me Massimo, man." With that both leave with another menacing look and amble down the corridor.

  André hopes that he will see the lawyer before noon tomorrow and ask him to take steps to protect him. He doesn’t want to think yet of what he will need to do otherwise.

  Pietro soon returns to the cell and lies down again.

  "You were right," chuckles André. "They want ten euros a day. Should I be honored by such a high price?"

  "Just joke now. You will no longer by tomorrow," he grunts. "What happened at lunch is nothing of what they’ll do to you if you don’t pay."

  "Who said I wasn’t going to pay?"

  "You just sounded like that."

  "No, no, you can let them know that payment will be made one way or another." Let them interpret the meaning of this as they wish. He has little doubt that Pietro will pass on the message.

  To pass the time, he decides to keep an hourly diary. He asks Pietro where he can get writing material.

  "From the chief guard at the office downstairs."

  The chief guard gives him one sheet of paper and a stump of a pencil and tells him that any letter will have to be given to him open for vetting.

  One sheet is rather little to record what has already happened. So he sets out writing down his experiences in his tiniest handwriting, using little pressure to make the lead tip last. He hides the folded sheet inside the cover of his pillow.

  However, when by the end of the day, he still has not been summoned to see a lawyer, he begins to wonder. He is certain that, if not Bianca, then Carlo would have taken action to get him a lawyer. Maria would have passed on his request to her husband. So why has no lawyer shown up yet? Could the teenager have been right when he said that Commissario Farnese has the reputation for softening up her suspects and one way of doing this is to put obstacles in front of the lawyer, such as a needless transfer of the suspect to another prison?

  His first night in the prison cell leaves a weird impression. There is no quiet. His cell mate is snoring in loud bursts with short periods of labored breathing in between. But André could have coped with that. What is more disconcerting are the moans and occasional cries of other inmates and the intermittent rattle of metal coming from the cells, transmitted by the metal staircase and corridor and amplified by the high vault of the center core. He did not notice the metallic sounds much during the day when they were partially submerged in the hum of voices.

  He lets images of Bianca float through his mind. He sees her expressive eyes, her smile, her animated facial expressions when she speaks, her hand movements that underscore what she says; her silhouette in the moonlight at that enchanted lake when she squeezed out the water from her hair; her face asleep, relaxed. It is early morning before sleep offers relief.

  * * *

  Wednesday morning, shortly after nine o’clock, Maria rushes up to Bianca’s room, all agitated.

  "There is a Professore Visconti downstairs. He insists on seeing you. He claims to be your fidanzato. What do you want me to do? Send him away?"

  That is in fact Bianca’s instinctive reaction. But then she changes her mind. Sooner or later she will have to face him. "No, bring him up, but please ask Carlo to come up also and stay at the door, just in case."

  Two minutes later, Carlo ushers Franco into the room and then remains standing under the open door.

  Franco turns to him and says in a condescending tone: "Dear signore, I ask you to have the courtesy to give us privacy. Miss Pacelli and I want to talk alone."

  "No, Carlo, please stay here. I do not want to be left alone with Professore Visconti."

  "Bianca, we must talk in private. What we need to talk about is not for just anybody’s ears. How can you show such an unreasonable attitude toward me? Toward your own fiancé? I only desire what is best for you and for us both and f
or our families."

  "Carlo remains, or I will ask him to remove you from this room. In fact, I want a witness to what I have to say."

  "It is thus as I have feared. It indicates that you are in need of urgent psychiatric help, or else you would not perceive me as your enemy —"

  Bianca interrupts him: "Who gave you my address?"

  "That is hardly of any relevance. The important thing is that I am now with you to provide you with the moral support that you so lacked these last three days."

  "I can guess that it was Commissario Farnese. She had no right to give you my address."

  "She too only wants the best outcome for you, so she graciously acceded to my modest request —"

  "And she was also the one who advised you and my father to file a denuncia." It is only a guess.

  He seems stunned for a moment. "How can you know that?"

  "Because my father admitted it," she lies, experiencing a small triumph that he fell into her trap.

  "But don’t you see that this was the only responsible course of action to get you away from the corrupting influence of that man? All of us, your mother, your father, the Commissario, Dr. Zanni, and foremost of all, I myself have come to the irrefutable conclusion that this man had to be removed to give you space for the treatment you are so desperately in need of. That only then would you again have the ability to find your own inner self, free yourself from the delusions you currently live under as a result of the ordeal that he put you through so cunningly."

  Bianca decides to let him talk until he runs out of arguments.

  "We all understand that nobody can be expected to come out of an experience like this without deep trauma. Nobody blames you. It is only normal. We are all in deep sympathy with you. We are on your side. We only desire what is best for you and when this is all over, when you are healed again and have put everything behind you, then you and I can again come together and plan our future. Don’t you see that this is in your best interest? Don’t you think you should heed the wise counsel of those who know you and care for you?" He looks at her with a fatherly expression.

  "Are you finished? Have you said everything you wanted to say? … Yes? Then you listen to me while I will have my say. First, I am not delusional. I am of a saner mind than I was before the tour to Colombia. Then I was delusional, blinded by your expertise, by the way you could express yourself, enamored by the prospect of marrying into your family, but also blind to your deception — no, Professore Visconti, I let you talk. You now let me talk. In Colombia, I got to know another Franco, and after the kidnapping learned what André had discovered. I know who is behind the kidnapping. I know that you —"