Frame-Up

by Gian Bordin

  "Why shouldn’t I? I warned you the other day to keep away from the girls. You didn’t believe me. Do you believe me now?"

  "Si, signorina. Please don’t kill me." He is back to the formal ‘Lei’.

  "No, I won’t, because you will now work with me rather than against me."

  I release his hair and get up. He turns over to sit.

  "Give me your other knife," I order.

  "I don’t have another knife."

  "You want all your front teeth smashed in? The knife!" I hold out a hand.

  He reaches for the instep of his left boot.

  "Slowly, no sudden movements!" I warn.

  He slides a small, thin blade from the boot.

  "Hold it by the blade and pass it to me."

  He does.

  "Where is your gun?" I question.

  "I don’t have …," he starts and then changes his mind. "In my suitcase over there."

  "All right. Go over there, kneel down, and open it slowly."

  Again he follows my instructions. When the suitcase is open, I say: "Uncover the gun, take it by the barrel and hand it to me."

  He seems to hesitate for a second.

  "Don’t even think of anything silly if you don’t want to live the rest of your life as a eunuch."

  He removes several pieces of underwear, grabs a small handgun by its barrel and passes it to me. I slip off the security, assuming that he would hardly have the gun unloaded.

  "Now get up slowly … Sit on this soft chair." I point to the right.

  He does. While not letting him out of sight, I retrieve the first knife I dropped. Then I return, standing about five feet in front of him, the gun in my hand.

  "And now, listen carefully. I will say it only once … I do not have the two million pounds that Signor Carvaggio was cheated out of. I am as much a victim of this scam as he is. Somebody fed me a false rumor, managed to get it confirmed to me by a third party, and then bought the Sanvino shares and sold them a day later for a two million windfall. The police have shown me the bank account over which the transactions were executed. It’s in the name of I-Consolidated. As a result of Signor Carvaggio’s accusations, the police questioned me. The only way to clear my name is to find out who did it. Once I know, Signor Carvaggio can claim his money from them … So, harming any of my relatives or me will not get his money back. And you know as well as I that if you fail to get that money, your life is worth nothing. Your own people won’t tolerate a failure." I briefly pause. "You got that all?"

  He nods.

  "I have currently three likely suspects who could have done that scam, and your ill-informed and ill-advised actions have kept me from finding firm evidence that pinpoints to the culprit. So rather than work against me, I want you to work with me. Are we agreed so far?"

  "Yes, signorina."

  "So you will leave my relatives alone and you will convince Signor Carvaggio of the wisdom of working with me."

  "Yes, signorina."

  I lock eyes with him. After two seconds or so, he lowers his gaze.

  "What’s your name?"

  "Fausto."

  "Fausto what?"

  "Fausto Bergamini."

  "Fausto, I’m willing to help you get that money, but I warn you. Don’t even think of trying to cross me because trying is all you’ll manage. I can kill you barehanded with a single blow, and I won’t hesitate to do it if you make the slightest wrong move. You got that?"

  "Yes, signorina." He says it without the slightest hesitation. I have never seen an arrogant guy like him transform into a subdued underling. I reckon that this is the reaction of low-ranking members when confronted by a superior force. It’s bred into them by their Mafia culture.

  "Fausto, I ask you again. Are you willing to cooperate with me? Do what I ask you to do?"

  "Yes, signorina."

  For a moment I hesitate whether I should make him swear to it by the Mafia code of honor. But I doubt that this would make any difference. Also swearing to an outsider may not be binding. "OK. This is my tentative plan. Over the next few days and nights we will try to pinpoint who the likely culprits are. I will hack into their computer files to see if I can trace any suspicious fund transfers or e-mails, while you will shadow them. I want to know what cars they drive, with whom they associate, what their movements are. We may have to break into their homes to search for evidence. When the time comes, I may even ask you to rough one or the other up, see if something falls out when they are shaken. That should be right up your business."

  For the first time a smile flits across his blood splattered face. He needs to be cleaned up.

  "Before we get down to business, let’s clean you up now. Take your shirt off and wash yourself."

  He rises slowly and looks at me questioningly.

  "The bathroom," I say pointing with the gun.

  He takes off his jacket.

  "Give it to me. I’ll rinse out the blood," I say, securing the gun and sticking it under the elastic of my pants.

  He removes his shirt and hands it to me too. He has an impressive torso. I follow him into the bathroom. While he washes his face, I soak the shirt in a layer of cold water in the bathtub. Then I check the jacket for blood. There are some small drops on the left lapel and left cuff. I rinse them out and dry the cloth with the bath-towel. He could have attacked me then, but doesn’t. He is studying his face in the mirror, touching his nose gingerly.

  "Fausto, there is nothing that can be done about the nose. It will heal by itself."

  He murmurs something I don’t catch.

  "Is the cut in your hand still bleeding?"

  He checks it and shakes his head.

  "And now get dressed. And have the shirt cleaned by the hotel laundry service."

  I hand him the jacket.

  Two minutes later, he has donned a clean shirt and is putting on his jacket.

  "And now you will drive me to my apartment, where I will give you the details of the first person I want you to shadow." Then I hold out his two knives. He seems puzzled. "They are of no use to me. My hands and feet are my weapons, but I’ll keep the gun for now. You’ll get it back when we are through."

  He takes the two blades almost hesitantly. I can see that he is thoroughly confused by the blatant audacity of my action, but a new sense of appreciation appears on his face, as he looks at me for several seconds. Then he quickly inserts the smaller one in the instep of his left boot, while the other disappears up inside his left cuff.

  On the way to my apartment, I get him to talk about himself. He is reluctant at first, but then opens up. He grew up in one of the Camorra controlled suburbs of Naples, steeped in the Mafia culture. He has two younger sisters.

  "Aren’t you afraid for their future? From what I’ve read, they might be the ones punished if you are accused of a violation of your code of honor."

  He shrugs his shoulders. "That’s life. They are proud of me and my older brother."

  Is he really unconcerned or simply resigned, accepting of their fate?

  At the apartment, I disinfect the cut at the thumb and place a plaster on it. Then I cut out Long’s small face photo on the Lewis’ employee list and write his home and work address on its back, the likely places where he eats lunch and drinks after work, and the car he was driving about a month ago. "Right now, all I want is to know whether he has a different car and with whom he associates. You have a camera? No? A local cell phone?"

  He shakes his head again.

  "I’ll lend you mine."

  I fetch my small digital camera and the card cell phone, including its charger, the police returned to me, and briefly explain how to use both. I enter the number of my iPhone into the old cell phone memory.

  "This is the number you can reach me at any time. If anything unusual happens, I want you to report it. Keep it on all the time, so I can reach you. Recharge it every night. And take telephoto shots of the people Long associates with."

  When we part at six o’clock, we sh
ake hands in Continental fashion. My grip is rather firmer than usual, another message to take me seriously. In fact, the change in his demeanor toward me is startling. Gone is his superior attitude. He treats me like somebody who has the right to command him, always addressing me as ‘signorina’.

  Wednesday, 7:10 p.m.

  After a hot shower, a change of clothing, and a small snack of cheese and crackers, I call my dad from my cell phone. He is extremely upset about what happened that afternoon. I have the vague sense that he blames me, which I can easily understand. I tell him that I confronted the mafioso in his own hotel room after the incident. "I am quite certain that he now believes that I am as much a victim of this scam as his boss. I got his promise that he will make no attempts to harm any of you. He even agreed to help me find the real culprit."

  "But can you trust him? He may simply have said that to deceive you."

  "That’s a possibility I can’t discount. For this reason I still think that it would be a good idea for Lucy and the girls to go into hiding." Although I’m pretty convinced that Fausto won’t turn on me, at least as long as he believes that we will recover the money, I pray that dad will now agree to send the girl’s to Lucy’s parents.

  He hesitates for a moment. "Yes, Cecilia, I’m afraid you are right, although I hate to have them possibly miss several weeks of school."

  I give an audible sigh of relief. "Thank you, dad. Look, the girls are smart and Lucy can teach them. They won’t fall behind … One other thing, dad. Make sure nobody knows where they go. Make up some story for the neighbors, even for the school, as well as for the people in your office."

  "We will, and, Ceci, be careful. The guy is still a mafioso."

  "I will watch my back carefully, dad, I will."

  Only after I hang up does it fully sink in how dad’s willingness to take the girls to safety lifts a heavy worry off my mind

  I few minutes later, I’m off to see Sally. Not only do I want to hear what happened at the family planning clinic, but I also want to make sure that Mr. Harper is keeping to his promise. Didn’t I promise that to the girl? Besides, I’ve taken I liking for her.

  Mrs. Harper ushers me in and then calls up the stairs: "Sally, Miss Walker is here."

  The girl comes rushing down within seconds, and we spontaneously hug. She looks fine. That’s reassuring. Mr. Harper gets out of his soft chair when we enter the living room. The television is going. He turns the sound down with the remote. We shake hands. He invites me to sit, and the three sit in a circle around me.

  "And how are things?" I ask.

  He responds: "Good! Aren’t they, Sally? She did her homework without having to be reminded."

  She beams. "Yes, dad."

  "Good." I give the girl a smile. "Tell me what happened at the clinic."

  It is Mrs. Harper who answers. "They checked Sally thoroughly and said she is fine. They want to take another blood test in three weeks, and they gave her the pill."

  Mr. Harper seems visibly embarrassed by the talk. He clears his throat and says: "Ahh, Miss Walker, you said that you’re a City stockbroker. Ahh …"

  "Yes, I am."

  "You see, I thought it would be wise to invest in some shares, ahh, rather than simply leave the money in a savings account. But now with the financial crisis, … the share prices have tumbled, and I wonder now whether I should hold on to them, ahh, or sell them. You understand? Everybody tells me to sell before they go down even further. Ahh, you don’t mind me asking you, seeing that you’re an expert."

  "I’m happy to advise you. What kind of shares do you hold?"

  "They’re mainly Tesco shares and a few United Foods, you see, and they’ve lost already twenty percent of their value."

  "I think you should hold on to them. Look, Mr. Harper, food always sells. People have to eat even during a recession. In fact, you invested very wisely and prudently."

  "You see I work for Tesco. They urged us to invest in their shares, even gave us a special deal."

  "And you bought these shares as a nest egg for the future, not to speculate. So look at it from a long run point of view. I’m confident that their value will recover within two or three years. Selling them now and putting the funds into a savings account would make your loss real, whereas right now it’s just a paper loss, and didn’t Tesco announce the other day the same dividend as last year? Besides, interest rates on savings accounts are currently very low, so you would be worse off. Also, if you hold on to the shares, nothing has really changed for you. As I said, you invested wisely and prudently."

  He looks proudly at his wife. "You see, mother, I told you so. Miss Walker says I did right."

  I’m bemused that he addresses his wife as ‘mother’, the way his daughter would call her, rather than by her first name. The woman is at a loss of how to respond, so she nods, murmuring: "Yes, you did."

  For a moment there is an awkward silence. Then Sally exclaims: "Dad has promised to take me to the next Chelsea match, didn’t you, dad?"

  "Yes, this Saturday when they play Arsenal."

  "I’m so excited. I can hardly wait."

  I’m surprised by the change in the girl. The night before she seemed depressed, downcast, and now she exudes hope and joy of life.

  I’ve never watched a top class football match live, only on TV. On the spur of the moment I query: "Mr. Harper, would you find me fresh if I asked you to take me along too. You see, I’ve never been to a real football match. Obviously, I’ll pay for my ticket. And I’ll take Mrs. Harper along for company."

  "Oh, yes, please, dad, take Miss Walker and mom along."

  His face turns all red, I guess, from embarrassment, but he replies: "Yes, it would be fitting if Miss Walker joined us."

  So we arrange where to meet. He offers to get a ticket for me too. I give him cash. On the doorstep, he says: "Please, Miss Walker, don’t wear anything red. Blue would be best, if I may be so bold as to ask."

  I figure that implies Arsenal’s colors are red, while Chelsea’s are blue.

  Wednesday, 8:50 p.m.

  The evening has turned cold and the van has no functioning heater. When I enter Il Corno d’Oro, Silvio comes rushing from behind the bar to greet me. We exchange a fleeting kiss.

  "Silvio, I’m cold and starving."

  "Come, your usual table is free, and then I’ll fetch you just the right food for a night like this."

  He leads me to the back of the restaurant, goes into the kitchen and a short time later returns with bottle of wine and two glasses.

  "The food will come shortly," he remarks, as he slides out a chair and sits After we ‘cin’cin’ and take a sip he urges me: "Tell me what happened. Don’t let me suffer in agony."

  I tell him, playing down the violence of it.

  "And he took it just like that? Agreed to work with you?" Silvio is clearly baffled.

  "Yes. I guess he has never got a beating from a woman, and he also realized that I could have easily killed him."

  "And he did pull a knife on you?"

  "Yes, he did. I gave it back before he drove me to my apartment."

  He places a hand on each temple, shaking his head. "Ceci, you’re crazy. How do you know he won’t use it on you?"

  "If he wanted to use a knife on me, he can easily buy another. No, by accepting back the knives he acknowledged my superiority. In fact, I think he is so awed that it wouldn’t even occur to him anymore to attack me. But rest assured, Silvio, I’ll be vigilant. And I think he now realizes that he needs me, or else he’ll be the one who gets punished."

  A waiter brings two plates of steaming soup — minestrone, just what I need — while another places a basket of bread and a dish of grated Parmesan on the table.

  We eat in silence. I savor each spoonful. Only my mother’s minestrone comes close to this one.

  "Ceci, you are playing a dangerous game. I worry about you."

  "Good," I reply with a smile.

  "What do you mean ‘good’?"

  "It
means that you love me."

  He now also breaks into a smile.

  "I do. Did you mean it when you said you loved me this afternoon?"

  "Yes, you heard right, I did love you this afternoon. I did even more," I grin, "but I didn’t mean that I loved you just this afternoon." He frowns, puzzled. "I intend to love you for a long time."

  The frown dissolves. "Good. I plan to do the same."

  The second course is a piccata Milanese with rice. I stay till closing time. Silvio is disappointed when I tell him I can’t spend the night with him, that I still have to finish the job that got interrupted the night before. I briefly describe the task and then recount the attempted theft of the van and the confrontation with Sally’s parents.

  Thursday, 30th October, 12.50 a.m.

  I again park the van in the alley behind Lewis’ offices. This time I get in on the first attempt. I laboriously download all of Long’s recent e-mail files on a ten-gig memory stick. Then I scan through his correspondence files. After more than an hour, I give up, not having found anything that could have been directly or indirectly related to Sanvino or a numbered bank account. But I discover evidence of another insider trading transaction that netted him close to twenty thousand pounds.

  "What a fool, to leave evidence of that sort in his files," I mutter to myself. Does he want to get caught, I wonder, or is he either too cocksure of being safe or not even aware that computers can be hacked into? On the spur of the moment, I copy the relevant files too, just in case. I don’t know why or what I might do with them.

  Next I make a half-hearted attempt to get into Fred Garland’s machine. After three guesses of possible passwords, all related to his family, all of them failing, I log out. I didn’t really expect getting in on mere guesses. The trojan horse approach seems to be the only way in. Tomorrow I will look for a suitable animation — one bordering on pornography will most likely tempt him. I’ll have to embed a code that searches for his password and then e-mail it to my private e-mail address. Wait! I caution myself. That’s not a good idea. It will leave a trail in his e-mail files that an expert might discover, even if I delete the message from the ‘sent mail’ folder. If the result is forwarded to Long it will be less suspicious, but if he opens it, that will blow the scheme. I ponder on that for a while. What if I send it to Long also in some disguised form?