Killing Pace

by Douglas Schofield

  That not-unwelcome feeling of connection with fellow pedestrians rendered all the more bewildering her encounters with Sicilians behind the wheel. All signs of order and respect disappeared when locals took to the road. City traffic was really just a form of ordered chaos that never quite sank into complete anarchy, but often came dangerously close. Outside the city, on the autostradas, driving was a bit more manageable for someone who had cut her teeth on the interstate highways of America, but the incessant tailgating and the white-knuckle speeds at which her fellow road users blasted by were sometimes unnerving.

  Her host country’s liaison officers included not only Marco Sinatra, but also two younger officers from the Italian Customs Agency, Elias Terenzi and Filippo Morelli. The pair, both unmarried, made no secret of their extracurricular interest in this American agent with the glint of steel behind her dark eyes. Not that it was going to get them anywhere. The idea of dating while on a mission—much less dating a coworker—was something Sarah viewed with a jaundiced eye.

  Equally intriguing to Sarah’s fellow officers was her spoken Italian, delivered not with an English speaker’s accent, but with a regional one that reminded Elias, he said, of cousins who lived up north, near Bologna. When he mentioned that, she made a vague comment about learning the language from her grandmother, who was born somewhere near there. She kept her expression carefully blank when she delivered this information.

  She had a very good reason for being closemouthed. She knew that nothing in Italy was a matter of indifference. The last thing she needed was to be drawn into a long discussion about the Fascisti and the Nazis and the Resistance—a topic that even now, two generations on, could arouse strong emotions.

  * * *

  “Read this book,” her grandmother had ordered. “You are old enough. You will be strong for me, and you will read every word. When you are finished, I will tell you the rest of the story.”

  It was an old book. Published in the 1960s, it was twice as old as the fifteen-year-old girl who lay on her bed that night and opened its battered cover.

  Inside, she found a list.

  A list that went on for nineteen pages. Before the preface. Before the first chapter.

  A list of the dead.

  She stopped counting them after one thousand names.

  There was also a list of survivors.

  Just sixty-two names.

  The author explained that the list of the dead was incomplete, that no one knew the exact number.

  Every name was Italian.

  She read each of the sixty-two names, her eyes ticking down the columns, tracking across the pages. She imagined faces, ages, clothing …

  One name riveted her attention.

  Her grandmother’s.

  The author told the story of seven days of mass murder on the slopes of Monte Sole, in Romagna, in 1944. He documented a succession of massacres of civilians, perpetrated by Waffen-SS troops, assisted by Italian fascists. Back-to-back massacres that ended the lives of over eighteen hundred Italian civilians.

  Grandmother Silvana—“Nonna,” as she had always called her—had been born in a village near Monte Sole in 1928. She was twelve years old when Italy entered the war, and had just turned seventeen in September 1944, when she and her mother were gang raped by a squad of SS soldiers who had accused them—wrongly—of supporting a local band of partisans. Her mother was so severely beaten during the attack that she died three days later. In years to come, Nonna would discover that the attack had left her permanently damaged and unable to bear children.

  Two weeks after the rapes, the SS arrived in force.

  “My father was dead,” she told her granddaughter. “I had nowhere to stay, so I moved in with my aunt Clarissa, my father’s sister, and her three children. They had a small house in Casaglia. It was a village on the mountain. It is not there anymore. Clarissa’s husband was away. My mother had told me he had joined the partisans, but my aunt never admitted that to me. Then, a few days after I moved in, three men came to the house. They were GNR—Fascisti police. They said the German army was making an antipartisan sweep through our area and for our safety we should join the rest of the civilians at the church. So we went. When we arrived, villagers told us the Germans and the Fascisti were burning down all the farms because they believed the farmers were providing food to the partisans. Then they came to the church—German soldiers and those same fascist police who had come to our door. They came and they said we had been supporting the partisans, that we had been hiding their weapons. They herded us to the cemetery. There were nearly two hundred people—villagers, peasants, women, and children. Lots of babies and old people.” Nonna stopped speaking and fixed her with haunted eyes. “You know what happened next.”

  “The graveyard … it was surrounded by a wall,” she had replied, still deeply upset by the account she had read. “The only way out was through the gate. The Germans set up a big machine gun. They threw grenades. They fired into the crowd. They mowed the people down.”

  “I only remember the explosions and the screams and the raging of the gun. Then I was unconscious. I don’t know for how long. When I woke up, I was lying under bodies. There was blood everywhere, but I had no pain. No bullet had touched me. I was soaked in the blood of other people, and with urine, and … worse. I stayed there. I didn’t move until I was sure the soldiers had left. Then I worked my way out. It was very hard. I was weak, like rubber, almost helpless from the horror I had witnessed, and the bodies above me were heavy. My auntie and my cousins were all dead. I found a place where I could climb over the wall. I got away through the brambles. I slept in the forest. When I woke up, I knew what I had to do.”

  Her grandmother had awoken to a single realization. Her father had died four years earlier, during Mussolini’s failed invasion of Egypt. And now, in less than a month, she had lost her mother, her aunt, her cousins—and uncountable friends—to the unspeakable brutality of fascism.

  Her grandmother’s conversion from weeping teenager to partisan fighter was complete.

  * * *

  During her first month on the job, Sarah came to enjoy Marco’s company, and he hers, and she dined twice with him and his wife, Marta, at their home. Marta’s initially wary reaction when her husband showed up at their home with a fetching young woman at his side soon evaporated, and the couple’s warmth and generosity provided Sarah with a welcome respite from long hours spent on the docks. Marta even offered to give her a few lessons in Sicilianu.

  “Sicilianu?” she had asked, a bit openmouthed.

  “Our dialect. An ancient language, older than Italian. Your grandmother never told you?” Marta answered her own question. “Of course. She wouldn’t! Northerners always looked down on us. After Risorgimento, they were running the country. They didn’t understand our speech, so they forced us to learn Italian. In Sicily today, Sicilianu is not even taught in the schools.”

  Sarah heard the deep, long-held resentment in Marta’s voice, and she thanked her stars she had a way out. She smiled and said, “My Nonna left Italy when she was very young. She probably had no idea Sicilianu even existed. But I’m here, and I would like to learn.”

  And so, with a grunt of forgiveness, the lessons began.

  She’d tried to return the Sinatras’ hospitality by taking them out to dinner at Catania’s top-rated restaurant—top-rated, at least, by a prominent travelers’ website. Marco and Marta both admitted to her that they had never been there. The meal was terrific, but Marco and Sarah had no trouble ruling that Marta’s cooking was superior. They agreed that all future get-togethers would be back at the house, with Sarah supplying the wine.

  The morning after that dinner out, and their two-person straw vote, Marco told her that Marta’s face had shone with delight all the way home from the restaurant.

  Other than those occasional social moments, and when she wasn’t dealing with flirting Customs officers, Sarah spent some of her off-shift hours masquerading as a tourist. Decked out in T-s
hirt, tight jeans, and a short jacket, a messy ponytail swinging, she would drift in and out of waterfront restaurants and bars, pretending she spoke no Italian, hoping to pick up any snatches of conversation that might provide a lead in her counterfeit trademarks investigation. The disguise was designed so that no one would take her seriously, but it came with a downside—fending off passing pickup artists. Even the nerdy stage-prop glasses she’d bought before she left the States (saucily marketed as “Bookworm Chic”) didn’t always dampen her would-be suitors’ ardor.

  But fend them off she did. After her last investigation, after all that turbulence and betrayal and media madness over her role in the arrest of a United States senator, the last thing Sarah wanted right now was a man in her life.

  4

  “There’s a man out here to see you,” the receptionist informed her.

  Sarah was working her way through a pile of paperwork in her cubicle. She’d been forced to slide a stack of files aside just to reach the telephone receiver. The local head of Customs had promised to find her better accommodations as soon as he was given clearance from Rome. Based on what she’d been hearing about the Italian civil service, that might take weeks.

  “What man?”

  “He sounds American.”

  “Did he give you a name?”

  She heard a muffled exchange, followed by, “He says he is Signor Nelthorp. He says you do not know him.”

  As Sarah marched toward reception, she wondered darkly if her visitor had been sent by Consul Nicosia to snoop into her activities.

  There were only two chairs in the small reception area, and the man in question wasn’t occupying either of them. He was hovering near the receptionist’s desk, his eyes fixed on the door leading to the operations area. As soon as Sarah opened that door, he broke into a smile.

  It was a late-thirties, carefully groomed, square-jawed, perfect-teeth smile.

  Oh, great.

  “Agent Lockhart?” He held out a hand. “I’m Conrad Nelthorp.” His warm, firm grip, and his mellifluous baritone, prompted an inward groan.

  “Sarah Lockhart. What can I do for you, Mr. Nelthorp?”

  “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “Maybe. But first, how did you know I was here, and how did you know my name?”

  “Elias Terenzi is a friend. He mentioned you’d been stationed here.”

  So, Terenzi’s not only a flirt, he’s a loose lip.

  She filed that away for later discussion with Marco.

  “Okay. And?”

  Her bluntness seemed to catch him off guard. “And, uh … I’m in the private security business. For the last two years, I’ve been working for Durasteel Aftermarket. They’re a U.S. auto parts manufacturer. Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  “I have.”

  “My job is to track and intercept shipments of counterfeit merchandise bearing the company’s trademark. It’s become a real problem.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”

  A few feet away, the receptionist was shuffling papers and rummaging in her purse. It was obvious she was getting ready to leave for the day.

  Trying for a quick recovery, Nelthorp glanced at his watch. “Look, I understand your reticence. Obviously, you need to be careful.” He plucked a business card from his shirt pocket. “Here’s my card. Why don’t you check me out with Durasteel, and with your people at Homeland? After that, if you’re comfortable, give me a call on that direct dial number. It’s a landline in Trieste, but it forwards to my cell.”

  “All right. And assuming you ‘check out,’ what are you proposing?”

  “Lunch tomorrow. I believe we can help each other.”

  “I’d have to think about that. And I’d need clearance.”

  “Thanks. That’s all I can ask.”

  They shook hands again, and he left.

  At the man’s mention of counterfeit merchandise, Sarah’s suspicions had been raised. Her investigation into that illicit trade was the sole aspect of her mission that wasn’t documented. So, was there a leak in the department, and someone had alerted Nelthorp? Or had he approached her only because he’d heard she was in Catania and that she worked for U.S. Customs?

  “Never trust a coincidence,” her grandmother had always lectured. “Look behind it.”

  It was coming up to noon on the U.S. East Coast, so she sent an encrypted heads-up to Phyllis Corbin, the CBP’s Miami area port director. Corbin had been her supervisor when she was working the docks there, and she was her designated line manager on this operation. She attached a scanned copy of Nelthorp’s business card to her message. She knew her boss usually ate lunch at her desk, so she waited a few minutes and then tried a call.

  Corbin answered on the second ring. She’d already read Sarah’s message.

  “Why do you want to know about this guy?”

  “He’s courting me.”

  “You mean…?” The bated note of lubricious curiosity in her boss’s voice caught Sarah by surprise. Corbin was in her early forties and had never married. She was what snide Hollywood critics would refer to as a “fading beauty”—one who, in this case, might have retained some of her youthful allure had she favored a less severe hairstyle. But Corbin was a woman in command of a hundred-plus, mainly male, Customs agents. It wasn’t difficult to understand why she’d decided that short hair and a hard-bitten manner would make her more effective.

  Whatever was going on behind the woman’s exterior, Corbin had always been careful to keep her private affairs determinedly private, so it struck Sarah as mildly amusing that the word “courting” had sent her imagination straight to amore.

  “I mean courting us. The department. He’s looking for cooperation.”

  Instantly, Corbin was all business. “Okay, I’m on it. Watch your emails.”

  When Sarah checked her inbox the next morning, a message from Corbin was waiting.

  He looks okay. Hear him out. Report back.

  Sarah shook her head. Phyllis Corbin’s emails were as curt as her conversation.

  * * *

  “Why Trieste?”

  Sarah and Conrad Nelthorp were sitting in a back corner of Osteria Antica, a restaurant tucked into a small square near Catania University. The waiter had taken their orders and they were getting acquainted over a couple of cold Peroni’s.

  Nelthorp was doing his charming best to break the ice.

  “My cases take me all over Eastern Europe, so I set up my base there. Trieste is part of Italy, but it’s almost completely surrounded by Slovenia. It’s only connected to the country by a narrow strip of coastline. It’s a great gig, Sarah—it’s a city with a fascinating history, mainly as a haven for exiles and misfits. I get the feeling that’s what some of my stateside friends think of me.” There was that commercial smile again, and Sarah couldn’t help wondering if the surreal gleam of his teeth was a shade of white actually known to nature.

  “Seems a bit remote,” she observed, keeping her tone carefully neutral. They’d met on the street less than ten minutes earlier, but already the man was busy radiating warmth and camaraderie. Sarah wasn’t quite ready to bask in it.

  “That’s the perception, and it works for me. It’s not crowded with thousands of tourists like Venice, and I can easily get to anywhere in the old Eastern Bloc from there. It’s also nice and handy to Geneva.” He took a pull on his beer. “As you probably know, most knockoffs originate in China—designer clothes, Rolexes, and a lot of the deadly stuff, like pharmaceuticals—but Durasteel’s core business is auto parts, and most of the fakes flooding our market are coming out of Russia and Eastern Europe.”

  “Do you speak any of the languages? From the Eastern Bloc?”

  “Nope. English is all I’ve ever needed over here.”

  “From what my Guardia friends tell me”—Sarah left the reference to Marco ambiguously plural—“counterfeit designer stuff doesn’t just come from the Far East.”

  “That’s right. Back in the eighties, a
lot of fake Italian labels came out of Romania. Most of it was smuggled across the Adriatic from Montenegro. That route was disrupted during the Kosovo war, but it’s coming back.”

  “What about the mafiosi?”

  “You mean the Cosa Nostra?”

  “Since I’m posted in Sicily, they come to mind. Anything you can tell me?”

  “They were in deep at one time.” He took another pull on his beer. “Not now.”

  “I’m listening.”

  He set down his bottle. “They were pretty powerful during the Cold War, and that’s the period most people remember. They had strong ties to the Christian Democratic Party, which was Italy’s strongest political party after ’45. The politicians figured they could help keep communists and union agitators in line, so they formed an informal alliance with them. For years, whenever some cop or prosecutor got too enthusiastic about an investigation, some padrone would call a politician and the case would go away. But that only worked until the Soviet Union collapsed. After 1990, the CDP was scrambling to hold on to power and they lost interest in protecting their criminal friends. When the Sicilians realized they were on their own, they made the mistake of assassinating a couple of well-known prosecutors. They also thought the Church had betrayed their traditional hands-off policy, so they bombed a couple of Catholic churches in Rome. It all backfired. The media and the public started calling for action, and the cops and the courts got the backing they needed. A lot of Mafia guys ended up in prison, along with some of their old politician friends. So—bottom line—these days there’s not much Mafia involvement in the fake goods trade.”

  “Sounds like you’ve made a study of all this.”

  Nelthorp flushed. “Yeah. Sorry for the lecture. That was lifted from one of my boardroom talks.”

  Despite herself, Sarah chuckled.

  “I figured I’d better learn the history,” Nelthorp added. “Helps with the investigations.”