by April Smith
It is roasting down there, and the steaming bundle of pipes overhead radiates warmth like a heat lamp. Cecilia can feel her scalp start to burn, and tries to communicate that she wishes to move. The goon barks obscenities and warns her not to speak. But while he urinates into the black lake, she inches the chair out from under the heat, feeling such triumph she almost cries. Her heart beats with insane hope. If she can do this, she can fly right out of there and escape.
Then everything changes. Fat Pasquale comes out of the darkness to take her upstairs. She can barely walk after all those hours in the chair, but, carried away by euphoric delusion, she is only too happy to go. She never had any doubt Nicosa would pay quickly and naturally assumes she is being released.
NINETEEN
Palio, Day 4—MONDAY, JULY 2, 3:30 P.M. Another day has passed with the wretched slowness only possible in the heat of summer, in a Mediterranean country where time is measured in centuries. There has been no word from Cecilia in almost forty-eight hours, which, in America, would have already kicked off a missing person report. In Siena, during Palio, it gets you a shrug.
Last night’s fervor at the contrada dinner has given way to a mood of lugubrious devotion as the people of Oca force themselves to put on the brakes for the last religious moment before the race: the blessing of the horse by the priest.
A grim, quiet pool of humanity is gathering in front of Santa Caterina, the contrada church on Fontebranda. Nobody is smiling. The quality of tension matches the overcast skies and the oppressive layer of heat trapped close to the ground. Even the press photographers behave with deference, willing to wait with endless patience for the star of the show.
“Sofri, I have to talk to you.”
We have found a spot near the front portal of the church. He looks very much the distinguished elder, wearing a beautifully tailored dark gray suit with a green Oca pocket silk, his long white hair artfully swept back, emphasizing the unapologetically noble nose.
“What is it, bella?”
“Now I understand why you said my sister is like the Mangia bell tower. Why she is lonely in her marriage.”
“Why is that?”
He is looking straight ahead, chin lifted and eyes narrowed with the emotion of the day. Before us, in the lane of pinkish houses, the crowned white goose flies from every window. The street is narrow as a stream and choked with people, but little boys still find a way to jump across it, doorstep to doorstep.
“I want to be careful how I say this.” I check for eavesdroppers. There is nothing at our backs but the church. The group in front of us is speaking German. “I’ve been told that in the past, Cecilia has been a special friend of the police.”
Sofri doesn’t answer.
“Do you know what I’m talking about?”
“We may become separated after the blessing,” he replies, instead of addressing the question of Cecilia’s affair with the chief. “The mood will change, you’ll see. Everyone is meeting at my palazzo. There will be plenty to eat and drink. It is the best spot in Il Campo to watch the race.”
“But Cecilia won’t be there. Will she?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Sofri, she’s been gone forty-eight hours. We should notify the police.”
“That’s up to her husband.”
“Nicoli seems to think he can handle it without the police. I think he’s wrong. They need to be involved.”
The crowd has begun to stir. We can hear the pattern of the approaching drum.
“Not today. Impossible. Look what’s going on here.”
“It has to be today,” I hiss. “If she’s been kidnapped, every hour that goes by means less of a chance of finding her and now we’re in the red zone.”
“Maybe in America. In Italy, these things take longer to become clear.”
The church doors open, and the bespectacled priest who was at the party at the abbey appears, wearing plain white robes and an Oca scarf. He shakes hands with Sofri and then descends the steps, so that we are in a position to look over the top of his pomaded head, at the upturned faces expecting a sign; but the priest just rests in patience, hands folded.
“They are coming now,” Sofri says tersely. “The comparsa.”
A cry goes up from the crowd and all heads turn toward the drummer and flag bearers appearing at the top of the street, followed by the duce and his men at arms, who are dressed in luxurious dark green velvet tunics embroidered with gold. Their tights are made of one red leg and one green, and there are lace cuffs at their wrists. I am impressed by the authenticity of the weapons—the lances, small swords at the belt, the large two-handed spadone carried by the duce with a blade that could chop off your head with one whack.
The alfieri spin the flags with confidence and finesse, just like Nicosa that night in the darkness of the abbey courtyard—the flags are rolled up, tossed into the air, caught behind the back. These two young men are the same age and height, and heartbreakingly good-looking. It would have been Giovanni, marching ahead of his proud father, who follows now with a group of other powerful contrada men, looking as beleaguered as the president of a country in wartime.
The soft white horse appears in the piebald medley of the human crowd. In place of a saddle, an Oca banner hangs over its back. It is wearing just a halter with a tufted pouf between the ears. The horse is calm and relaxed, led by a burly fellow in a beret with tobacco-colored skin and dark circles under his eyes, as if this awesome responsibility has kept him up for days. The horse is surrounded by its own bodyguards. The jockey, also protected by a security detail, is wearing an Oca tunic and jeans, considerably less dressed up than the horse. Clapping and cheering rise steadily from the crowd until the priest walks down the steps to where the horse has stopped, and then the people of Oca become so silent you can hear the clicking of camera shutters. The priest lays a palm on the forehead of the horse and speaks in Latin.
Sofri becomes utterly absorbed, transported by the prayer. It is hopeless trying to get his attention. The cell phone in my pocket vibrates silently. It is Dennis Rizzio, calling from Rome.
I text him back: Urgent?
Yes.
“See you at your apartment,” I whisper to Sofri and slip out before he can answer, weaving between the rapt parishioners and onto the street.
Dennis texts: Need to talk.
Not secure.
Where r u?
Oca district.
Via dei Rossi 63 in 15 minutes.
The GPS on my phone takes me to Via di Città, where I join a flood of humanity coursing down all eleven streets that lead into the Campo. I feel my heartbeat synching up with those caught in the race to claim a good spot near the track. There are three minutes left to get to the address on Via dei Rossi, where I assume Dennis Rizzio or one of his agents is waiting, and will evaporate if I’m not there.
Something has escalated. The Bureau must have gotten word of Cecilia. Jogging, I pass speed-walkers dragging their children, who curse the rudeness of Americans. Turning breathlessly onto Via dei Rossi, I almost run into a giant ice cream cone and realize with a start that Dennis’s directions have led to Kopa Kabana, described by him as having the best gelato in Italy.
Is this a joke? Number 63 is actually a few doors down—an open alcove without a door. It looks like a white-tiled Laundromat, until you enter, to the overwhelming stench of urine, and discover that it is a bank of red pay phones. Graffiti crawls up the walls, and the floor is strewn with trash. A phone in the far corner is ringing. I use a tissue to pick it up.
“Dennis? What the hell?”
“Welcome to the monkey house.”
“Smells like it.”
“First off, we have no evidence that Cecilia has left Italy or crossed an international border. We checked airports, boats, and trains, but you and I know there are a million ways she could have been spirited out. Has there been a demand for ransom?”
“Negative.”
“What’s the mood up there?”
“It’s insane. Today is the Palio race.”
“No shit. Are we still secure?”
The phone bank remains deserted. Outside the open doorway, stragglers stream by at intervals. Dennis has chosen a side street that foreigners wouldn’t normally favor.
“Clear.”
“When we ran a search for your sister’s movements through Interpol, something else came up. There was a no-fly alert at the Glasgow airport, with a name attached that sounded familiar. On closer look, I realized why. The incident was concerning you.”
“Me? I’ve never been to Glasgow.”
“That’s not the point. The officer on the Interpol request was our friend Inspector Reilly of Scotland Yard.”
“What was he looking for in Glasgow?”
“He got an ID on some suspects in the attack. The ones who left the getaway car in Aberdeen. The Brits worked some local boys and got them to flip. The geniuses gave up a couple of Italian nationals who had been staying with their lowlife Sicilian cousins in Aberdeen. The names were put on Interpol, and the Italians were picked up at the Glasgow airport, attempting to leave Scotland, booked on a flight through Cairo to Rome.”
“Sounds good. Do they need me to confirm the ID?”
“Might. The suspects are being interrogated. Let’s go back to family matters,” Dennis says. “How has your brother-in-law reacted to his wife’s disappearance?”
“Hostile and defensive. He thinks he can handle whatever happens himself.”
Dennis clears his throat. “You’ve only been in Italy a short while, Ana. You haven’t had a chance to really get to know your sister. Not like we do.”
“You ‘know’ my sister? What does that mean?”
“When she wrote to the Bureau looking for you because of the inheritance money, we saw a connection between you two, and an opportunity.”
“What kind of opportunity?”
“For you to get close to her. SAC Galloway put you on official business so we could see where it went. See if you and your sister could find some common ground. Build up trust.”
“Galloway was in on this?”
“Take it easy. It’s for her own protection.”
“Always is.”
I’m grinding a needle dropped by some crack addict with the heel of my shoe.
“And why would she need protection, Dennis?”
“Cecilia Nicosa owns three private medical clinics in northern Italy and one in the south. Her husband’s money built the facilities.”
“She told me that was the trade-off. Her clinics, his women.”
“Italy has a good health-care system,” Dennis goes on, “but there’s always a need for private hospitals. Your sister’s clinics cater to the rich, but they also help poor people who need certain types of operations. They do good things, and she’s a hero, okay? But the only reason they stay open—and do what they do outside the system—is because the mafias have given Cecilia their blessing. The reason for that is simple: she pays them off.”
“Cecilia has been paying protection bribes? Does Nicosa know?”
“Everybody knows how it works.”
“Dennis, you led me to believe my sister’s husband was the dirty one.”
“He is still the focus of our investigation.”
“That’s what Audrey Kuser, the legat, said in London. Nobody said Cecilia was part of it.”
“Don’t worry; we’re not interested in criminal prosecution of your sister.”
“Thank God,” I say sarcastically.
“Cecilia looked to us like a way into the mafias—a good citizen caught in the evil machine. We were hoping somewhere along the line we might be able to turn her. She was on our radar, but we had no idea you two were related, until she reached out to the Bureau to find you. Like I said, we saw the connection and took the opportunity.”
“But you intentionally denied me the information that she’s involved with the mob. The whole damn family is involved with the mob! Don’t you think that’s a crucial thing for me to know?”
“Your supervisors recommended against it.”
“Why?”
“Because you are a perversely moral person, Ana. They were afraid knowing she was doing business with the bad guys would prejudice you against Cecilia and screw up the whole shebang.”
Instead they let that piece of information hang, hoping I would fall in love with her and have a stake in the outcome. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how recruitment works. They get you hooked so they have something to manipulate.
“Right now your sister has been taken, in all likelihood kidnapped by the mafias because, like that dame Vincenzo who went missing, she stupidly fucked them over somehow.”
“Which means Cecilia is no longer useful to you.”
“We are committed to getting her back. She is the sister of an American national; it’s part of our mission.”
“Also a convenient way to keep me close to Nicosa.”
“I won’t lie. Absolutely it is. The wife being gone is scary stuff. He might let down his guard.”
“Damn it, Dennis.”
“I know,” he says with sympathy that is almost real. “It’s just the way things worked out.”
TWENTY
Kidnappings are a unique crime because they unfold in real time, simultaneously with the investigation. You never know which way they will go, but certain events are likely: if the suspects don’t want money, they’re in it for the torture and the kill. There has been no ransom demand, which bolsters Rizzio’s theory that Cecilia was taken by her own mafia bosses as retribution for some misstep. Which means they are not overly interested in keeping her alive.
Neither is the FBI legat, despite the “sister of an American national” speech. His agenda is still to use my proximity to Cecilia to get intel on the mafias. He’s got a hard-on for her disappearance because I am already established inside the abbey, where I can observe Nicosa make his moves, pick up on who he’s talking to. Rizzio sees this as an organized crime case first, a kidnapping second. Even if he believes Cecilia is already dead, playing it out could present “an opportunity.” Anything he can bring back on ’Ndrangheta will mean a bigger piece of the pie for the Bureau, and for him.
Leaving the phone bank from hell, I feel like a disembodied soul among the living, still trying to absorb the fact that earnest Cecilia has been paying protection bribes. The soft whoop of a siren parts the throng going to the Campo. A police car slowly plows along Via di Città, plainclothes detectives trotting on either side. Pedestrians attempt to move out of the way, people tripping over one another. Excited shopgirls are pouring from the stores.
A sophisticated-looking young woman wearing a black suit and pearls is watching coolly from the doorway of an expensive jeweler. I suspect that she speaks English.
“Who’s inside the car?” I ask.
She names an American movie star.
“Wow. You get some famous people during Palio.”
“Oh, molti.”
“Who is that with him?”
Beside the actor I can just make out another gentleman. Older and leaner.
“That is our Commissario of police.”
Without hesitation, I shoulder through the wall of humanity. It makes sense that Nicosa would not go for help to a police chief who had an affair with his wife. But what if the chief still has feelings for Cecilia? What if he would throw his weight behind an investigation?
In trying to get a look, I have drifted too close to the car.
“Get lost,” says one of the detectives in English, and I do, but not before snagging a close-up view of the Commissario. He looks like a tidy, underweight, middle-aged banker. The car turns into the Campo, where it is immediately swamped by military police. These soldiers are the real deal. They wear riot gear and carry automatic weapons. You’d need an armored personnel vehicle just to get their attention. I watch as the Commissario and his celebrity guest are absorbed into their ranks.
Someho
w I have been spit into the dead center of Il Campo. The genius of the design is hard to comprehend. How did they do it? The shell shape and the slope of the brickwork is exactly right to hold a crowd. The walls of one palazzo adjoin the next in a crescent that overlooks the bowl of the Campo, which is quickly filling from all eleven entrances with spectators from all over the world. They didn’t have sixty thousand people in Siena in the fourteenth century. How did they know? Turning in circles, I take in the maroon-draped balconies, contradaioli waving colors in the stands, clusters of medics in aqua scrubs, seas of law-enforcement blue, all simultaneously present inside the Campo for this one electrifying moment.
The afternoon is sultry, but at least the sun is hidden by clouds. I can pick out Sofri’s windows. Behind them is that red-and-white-striped couch. Iced aperitifs. Moist slices of melon, bruschetta covered with olive paste, and, no doubt, coffee-flavored gelato. Here there is a popcorn stand. I am almost in the same spot as Cecilia was during the choosing of the horses.
I will never get to Sofri’s; I am stuck. The density of population is multiplying by the minute. I see a sliver of space right up against the rail and make for it. A big man moves six inches to the right, enough for me to slip in beside him. I say, “Grazie,” and he says, “You’re welcome.”
He is American. In his forties and balding, with red artistic glasses, greasy slicked-back hair, and a graying goatee. At his feet is a plastic milk crate and a bag of cameras. Professional.
His name is Chuck. Chuck from Findlay, Ohio—a photographer, he says, for the Associated Press.
