White Shotgun

by April Smith

  “I’m not exactly trusted kin.”

  “Not yet, but it could be a good fit. We had been looking at you going undercover, but last night’s events pushed the time frame.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The fact that you were on Edgewater Crescent Road. We had to ask ourselves, was it a coincidence you were there during the attack? Mike Donnato calls from Los Angeles to inform you of our interest, and an hour later our agent is caught in a hail of machine gun fire. Did someone overhear that conversation? Is someone out to eliminate Ana Grey—or the entire operation? The better part of valor is for you to leave London.”

  Vacation was definitely over. I’d been awake twenty-four hours and traumatized more than I knew, overwhelmed by manic exhaustion. The notion of putting up a front for some long-lost relative seemed beyond my capabilities. I found myself staring numbly at a jumbled drawer of T-shirts.

  Audrey Kuser looked at her watch and began to fold each one and lay it flat in the suitcase.

  “When you raise three boys, you get good at this,” she said briskly. “Let me help.”

  THREE

  Rome is burning in the blaze of June. The heat comes at you in scorching puffs, like the fiery breath of seraphim, that eternal chorus of angels who do nothing but praise God. They must work extra hard in this fervent air, singing their adoring prayers in clashing discord with the earsplitting racket of motor scooters and jackhammers.

  The ancient, toothless cabdriver has installed a navigation system in his vehicle, but not air-conditioning. We ride with the windows down, ripening by the minute, like olives. The summer crowds are global, colossal. As we come to a standstill in heavy traffic yet again, I am starting to feel as if I might evaporate along with my own sweat, leaving an empty black Brooks Brothers suit on the seat.

  The taxi crawls up the Via Veneto. Every town in the U.S.A. has a “Via Veneto”—an Italian restaurant or shoe store named after the famous avenue lined with sycamore trees. Swank cafés have taken over the sidewalks in front of stately old hotels and apartment buildings, flaunting awnings and wicker chairs, tables separated by gauzy billowing curtains. I am not going there. I am going to an armed fortress.

  The American embassy in Rome is housed in the Palazzo Margherita, which sounds grand, and probably was, until the threat of terrorism made it prudent to enclose the entire block in a web of concrete buttresses. We used to build embassies with walls of glass to demonstrate the pride of an open democratic society in a foreign land. Now the symbol of American diplomatic presence has been buried inside a depressing and impenetrable military stronghold.

  I disembark on the Via Veneto at a confusing maze of stanchions, furnace-heated air gusting up my skirt. Somewhere close by is the disconcerting sound of fresh bubbling water. The driver has left the cab idling in the middle of the street in order to fill a water bottle from an archaic moss-covered fountain behind the barriers that has survived since God knows who was emperor. I would like to stick my head in it.

  Young carabinieri are directing traffic while talking on cell phones. There are a lot of uniforms, but none seems to know the location of the main entrance, or how to interpret my paltry Italian. Why did I assume Americans would be guarding the American embassy? After several phone calls and three separate checks of credentials by three humorless Italian officers, I go through the gate and am met by a robust young lady from Virginia, who guides us through a blazing inner courtyard, zigzagging through a den of construction, until at last we come to the old chancery building, home of the ambassador and the site of sensitive consular activities, where I am relieved to be greeted by a pair of alert on-duty U.S. Marines.

  We go through a gap in the scaffolding and enter a hundred-and-twenty-year-old palazzo, cross burgundy marble floors, and trudge up a stone staircase. It gets weirder.

  Rome is not a solid city bound to granite like New York, but a fluid stratum of centuries of cities that seem to rise and fall and remake themselves by the hour. It exists in layers; layers of history, layers of paradox—visible and buried—all bound up in a modern hodgepodge. Nothing in Italy is only as it appears. The nice young woman describes two-thousand-year-old fresco paintings preserved in an underground passage beneath this very building. Maybe in Rome one should expect such juxtapositions, but after swishing down a mosaic-lined hallway with gold tiles, it is a bit of a shock to open a door to an exact replica of the same standard-issue FBI office that you would find in Omaha, Nebraska.

  The air-conditioning is freezing, American-style, the tiny room jammed with steel filing cabinets; Old Glory droops in a corner. On the walls we have plaques and awards, and a display box of medals with the familiar caption, “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Coming out with hand extended from behind a wooden desk identical to the one my boss has in L.A. is the FBI legat in Italy, Dennis Rizzio—a balding, moon-faced paesano from Brooklyn.

  “Agent Grey! How ya doin’? Welcome to Rome.”

  The accent is unrepentant.

  “What can I getcha?” He opens a small refrigerator. “How about a cold soda? Outside, you could fry eggs on the sidewalk.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  We sit across from each other in Bureau-issue high-backed leather chairs that always make me feel like a midget in a neck brace. They fit Dennis, however—a big man, easily six foot four—soft from too much gnocchi and nobody breathing down his neck to pass a fitness test. He’s wearing the traditional white shirt, gray suit, and dull-ass blue tie. The wardrobe is deliberately neutral. The mind is like a diamond drill.

  I press the icy can of soda to the back of my neck.

  “Coming in, did you pass the Colosseum?”

  “Yes, it was kind of a surprise. You’re going through a slum covered with graffiti and then—wow. There it is.”

  “Did you know you could scuba dive underneath it?”

  I must have stared blankly.

  “Yeah. Under the Colosseum. They still have sewers from ancient times, underground rivers filled with statues and all kinds of crap. People go down there. Scientists. Oh, man, I thought I died and went to heaven.”

  “Swimming in crap?”

  “That I could do in New York,” he deadpans. “No, when I first saw the Colosseum. I always wanted to raise my girls in the old country. I wanted to hear them speak the language of my father. I can’t tell you how many years I had to finagle and kiss ass in order to get over here.”

  “Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway is from Brooklyn.”

  Dennis’s sallow face almost lights up. “I just spoke to Bob on your behalf. About you coming on board. We worked the organized crime squad together in the early nineties. That sounds strange. ‘The early nineties.’ Like it was another century, which it was. How’s he doin’? Still with the turtlenecks and the cigars?”

  I nod. “He was my boss on a deep cover case. I had total confidence. Always knew he had my back.”

  Dennis grins. “Bob’s got a gift for undercover. This was during the famous crack cocaine epidemic we had in New York City. We did good. Put a lot of creeps in jail. Bob and I, we were working out of the social clubs on Mulberry Street. I consider myself from Little Italy, even though I had to move to Brooklyn because the yuppies came. My entire family grew up in Little Italy, four generations. My great-grandparents came over from Napoli. There was this volcano called Vesuvius?” He looks at me with round, sad eyes. “You heard about it?”

  I have learned, sitting in a room like this across from Robert Galloway, that you always answer New York irony with New York irony. Otherwise, they think you’re a moron.

  “I heard about it.”

  Without changing expression, Dennis goes on. “I got so good at communing with the mafiosi, the Bureau brought me here to oversee operations against drug trafficking by the mob. Excuse me, tasked. I was tasked—like taking out the garbage. And we don’t say ‘mob’ anymore; that dates me. It’s ‘mafias,’ to distinguish the fact that there’s no single organization but—aren�
�t we lucky?—lots of family-operated crime groups in Italy. So I hear you were in London and it was no picnic. Not exactly a cruise on the Thames.”

  “You saw the 302s?”

  “London sent a priority alert. Whenever there’s an agent involved in a shooting incident, they wake up the legats and tell us about it.”

  “Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

  “Sorry for the bullets whizzing by your head. Thank your lucky stars.”

  He knocks on the wooden desk. I knock on the coffee table.

  “I have your debrief with Inspector Reilly from New Scotland Yard. You had a pretty good look at the gunman. What was it he said to you?”

  “He said, ‘Want a cigarette?,’ but I’m not sure he meant me.”

  “Just the general public?”

  “I don’t know, Dennis! Do terrorists have a sense of humor? It’s the kind of thing a lowlife jerk-off would say before he blows out a restaurant. Like, Want a cigarette, asshole? Here’s a match.”

  “Anything else come to mind that’s not in the report?” Dennis asks.

  “The attackers knew there was a party, and who was there.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The street. A feeling I had.” I am remembering the stillness of the cherry trees. “When we came out, it was quiet. Deep quiet, the way it is past midnight on an upper-class street. The place was dead—I would have noticed something, but there were no lookouts. Nothing hinky. Then right on cue, a car speeds past. Twice as fast as you’d expect in that neighborhood. Doesn’t stop, opens fire. Hits multiple targets.”

  “The Metropolitan Police are investigating the victims for links to terrorism or organized crime. The Italian government has asked for our assistance concerning the mafias, so we’re into this on both accounts.”

  “Talk to the owner of the restaurant. His name is Martin.” I surprise myself by saying this, as I had thought of Martin as a decent, if somewhat unctuous, guy. “He was nervous and didn’t want to seat us. Interesting that he didn’t turn out to be one of the victims.”

  “You think Martin was the tip-off?”

  “The knuckleheads knew the targets were there. Somebody must have told them.”

  Dennis nods and jots a note.

  “Got some new intel from the Met.” He indicates the monitor of a massively outdated computer. “It was a Ford Focus, right? The attack vehicle? Kinda old? Bad paint job? Do you recognize the year?”

  He shows me a group of Ford Focus photos. I can’t reliably tell the difference between the models.

  “London has more video cameras than God,” I say. “They should check surveillance tapes of the nearby intersections. Interview everyone in every apartment building in Edgewater Crescent. I hope they understand that this is a boots on the ground operation.”

  “They’re on it. What’s your gut on the motivation?”

  Dennis makes his face go slack. Open to whatever the subject wants to bring.

  “It was a brazen act, meant to send a message.”

  “Not just random?”

  “I can’t believe it’s random when you drive into an upscale neighborhood and shoot seven people with automatic weapons, with the city on high alert and cops patrolling the streets, in some tucked-away little square with not a lot of options for escape, unless you’ve got a compelling reason.”

  “Money?”

  “Or you believe in something.”

  “Like radical Islam, you mean? I’m sure the British Counter Terrorism Command is looking very carefully at who the targets were—if there’s a connection to the extremist attacks they’ve had the past few weeks, or similarities to other crimes.”

  “It’s not necessarily the individuals who were targets. It could have been English society in general. It’s a very tony area they hit. Diplomats, businesspeople. And a fourteen-year-old kid.”

  Dennis shrugs. “Collateral damage. What do they care? This is fun for them. Tell me again why you were there?”

  The question is not as casual as it sounds. I had ducked it before, with Inspector Reilly, in order to protect Sterling. Now Dennis is watching me with an intensity I know very well.

  “I stopped in at Baciare for a glass of wine.”

  “Just on your own?”

  I give him a look. “I’m a big girl, Dennis.”

  “No doubt.” He slaps a passport on the desk. “This is for you. Official government business.”

  “I feel like James Bond.”

  “Don’t get cocky. We’re dealing with ’Ndrangheta, not Dr. No,” he says.

  “Isn’t ’Ndrangheta based in the south?”

  He nods. “In Calabria, at the shit-caked bottom of Italy’s boot, which they’ve turned into the distribution hub for cocaine in Europe. We’re talking a multibillion-dollar crime syndicate made up of a hundred or so tribal families with strong blood ties, six thousand strong, holed up in remote mountain villages.”

  “Like Afghanistan.”

  “From a tactical point of view, it’s the same. Just like the Taliban, ’Ndrangheta operates out of an inaccessible fortress, where they hook up with other trans-national crime organizations, running heroin from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the port of Napoli, and eventually, to Hometown, U.S.A. That’s the FBI’s interest, aside from helping our Italian friends. We want to know how and where these drugs are entering the United States.”

  “Where does Nicoli Nicosa fit in?”

  “He could be a ’Ndrangheta affiliate, working behind a screen of respectability to run cocaine in the north. To do business at his level in society—believe me, nobody is clean. They all swim in the same swamp.”

  Dennis opens both hands like a book.

  “Let me introduce you to your new family. Nicoli Nicosa is forty-eight years old. Drives a Ferrari, travels by private jet. He’s made a fortune with a genetically engineered coffee bean—started out providing coffee to upscale restaurants, and now he’s got his own chain of stores. Have you been inside a Caffè Nicosa?”

  I shake my head.

  “Did you ever take the train in Paris? Ever been to the Gare du Nord, where the Eurostar goes?”

  “No.”

  “Ever taken a train in London? You don’t take public transportation? What are you, a snob?”

  He leans forward and puts his big paws on his knees. I can see him admonishing his little girls in Brooklyn. Whatareya, stupid? How could you not know this?

  “If you were ever on a train, or spent two minutes walking around Rome, you would know that Caffè Nicosa is the Starbucks of Europe. You don’t get your cafés into major train stations without heavy-duty connections and bribes, and that’s just the beginning.”

  “What about the wife, Cecilia? My relative. The one who called the Bureau?”

  “She’s a medical doctor and a socialite on the Italian scene. Always in the magazines. She never contacted you before?”

  “I didn’t know she existed until the London legat told me on the way to the airport.”

  “So, why is Cecilia Nicosa calling you now?” Dennis asks rhetorically.

  I consider the question. “Does she know her husband was cheating on her?”

  “The world knows. It was in the papers.”

  “Does the world also know that his mistress, Lucia Vincenzo, disappeared?”

  “The mafias make sure of that. Every so often someone who vanished after refusing to pay shows up in the ocean or as remains in a vat of lye. It keeps the little people on their toes.”

  “Cecilia could be afraid for her life.”

  Dennis presses the intercom, instructing the girl from Virginia to get Dr. Nicosa on the landline.

  “If we really are related, am I supposed to spy on my own family?”

  “Go and observe, then we’ll decide. Don’t bitch; this is a high-class assignment. Siena is a beautiful city. Plus, they have the best gelato in your life—at a hole-in-the-wall called Kopa Kabana. And you’re there for Palio,” he adds, his eyes taking on a rare s
parkle.

  “What’s the big deal about a horse race?”

  “It’s not a horse race, it’s ‘a spectacular,’ as my father would say. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it—tens of thousands of people squeezed into a piazza, all going nuts.”

  “Security must be interesting.”

  He nods. “They have their hands full. Siena is made up of what they call contrade, like neighborhoods—actually little city-states, with their own seat of government and coat of arms—who have hated one another for centuries. Instead of killing one another, they have a race. It’s the most dangerous, fastest horse race in the world. Ninety seconds, that’s it, in the middle of town, on a track with mattresses stuck in the corners. The jockeys ride bareback and do anything to win—make deals, shove one another off the horse. The whips are made of the skins of calf penises. It’s so crazy Italian.”

  “Calf penises?”

  “They use them to whack the hell out of each other. It’s a blood sport. Someone always gets hurt. God forbid the horse. The horse eats at the table. I kid you not. They have outdoor dinners, and the horse eats at the table. Kind of like Thanksgiving at my in-laws’ house,” he muses, screwing in an ear pod as the phone rings with my alleged new family member on the line.

  “Oh, Ana!” exclaims Cecilia Nicosa when I’ve picked up and identified myself. “How beautiful to hear from you! I was hoping I would, but I was never certain that you got my letters.”

  Her accent would be hard to place. Latin, but not quite.

  “I was on vacation in London when I got the call from Los Angeles that you were looking for me,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Dennis.

  “Where are you now?” she asks.

  “At the FBI office in Rome.”

  “Rome! That is just two hours from us!” she says, and immediately invites me to come and stay with her husband and their teenage son, Giovanni, in their “little house on a hill.” Dennis gives the thumbs-up. We settle on a train the following day.