by Ken Hansen
Lieutenant Patismio’s jet-black hair was slicked back underneath a black peaked military-style cap exhibiting the wavy silver emblem of the Carabinieri. The red-bordered silver lapels of his black suit matched the red stripes on the sides of his pants and completed the uniform. His thick mustache remaining nearly still, Patismio said, “The explosion did not even open the vault. We think it was a pure diversion.”
“For the kidnapping.”
“Yes. When the bomb exploded, hotel security directed all of their resources to the safe—away from the kidnappers, apparently. They sent a signal to the Polizia station ten blocks away. The Polizia mobilized, quickly cordoned off an eight-block area and sent a team to the hotel. It was nearly a half hour later that we realized no robbery could have occurred.”
“Did your men search all the vehicles coming through your cordon area?”
Patismio put his hands on his hips. “They are not my men. I am with the Carabinieri, not the Polizia. But yes, they searched every vehicle, questioned the drivers and detained anyone who was suspicious. But there was nothing. Certainly no kidnap victims. They would have seen them.”
“But they were looking for bank robbers,” Huxley said.
“It doesn’t matter. In fact, that would have been even more suspicious. No, we have interviewed all of the Polizia officers and I don’t believe that could have occurred. Besides, we think the kidnappers took the victims in the laundry van.”
“The laundry van?” Huxley said.
“Surveillance cameras outside of the hotel showed a large black van with the logo of Lenzuola Pulite, a local laundry company. It left the rear of the hotel a minute after the explosion. We checked with the company and they had no trucks here this morning. It was a ruse.”
“Any license plate or other info you can trace?” Huxley asked.
“No license plate was visible,” Patismio replied. “We are looking at other video feeds in the city, but they are pretty sparse.”
“When did you realize this was a kidnapping?”
“Our officers searched all the rooms, just in case the bombing perpetrators were holding out there. They found the bodyguard’s corpse in the emergency exit stairwell near Rosenthal’s room. He had an entrance wound in his forehead, and ceramic fragments were found in his brain. Looks like they used some kind of ceramic projectile. Not sure how they fired it. He’d been killed instantly and nobody in the hotel heard or saw anything.”
Huxley looked at the wall for a few seconds. “Ceramic fragments and no sound. Did they find a tube or small compressed gas container nearby?”
“No. What you getting at?”
“Could be a purpose-built, compressed-gas weapon,” Huxley said. “Best way to surprise a bodyguard if you have the resources to put one together. These guys are well-funded. Approach with a tube tied to the inside of the arm and swish—no loud bang to alert guests. Ceramic projectile tumbles around a few times after entering the guard’s brain and breaks up. The big bodyguard falls without even knowing he’s been hit. Then they snatch and grab the scientist and family.”
“Could be. It looks like he was killed outside the door and dragged to the stairwell. Elevator was locked down when we arrived, so that would have reduced foot traffic.”
“Makes sense. You have any other video from hotel security—maybe from yesterday and the night before?”
“We are going over that in detail now, but in the first run through nothing looked suspicious.”
“Please send a digital copy to this Homeland Security server.” Huxley wrote down the information on the back of his card. “Our facial recognition folks will see if one of the bad guys pops up. I’m sure you have Interpol working on that; still, we may have a larger database to search.”
“Pictures from your drones over the battlefields?” Patismio asked.
“You never know. Can I see Rosenthal’s room?”
“It’s been gone over by our crime scene folks and sent off to RaCIS for analysis. They’ve photographed and inventoried everything already.”
“You have their work on digital?”
“We have entered the 21st century here, Mr. Huxley.”
Huxley nodded gently. “Sorry, plenty of places are behind the times, including in the States. Can I get a copy?”
“I have been instructed to cooperate in any way possible with you, so, yes, I’ll have a copy sent to your server right away.”
“Grazie. Mi dispiace, if I offended you, Lieutenant. You have been very professional and very helpful.”
Chapter 14
“Is this dinner expensive enough for you to spill your guts to me?” Huxley asked in his best teasing voice.
“Just wait until I order the dessert,” Sonatina responded. “If you agree to that, you can have whatever you want from me.”
Huxley raised his eyebrows. “My mother used to say that great food brings out the best in people.” He raised his glass of merlot and she followed with her pinot noir. “To a mutually beneficial relationship, then.”
She frowned. “As long as your credit card doesn’t bounce. I can’t imagine they pay you government ragazzi enough for dinners like these.”
“Hey, I get a $50 per diem from Homeland Security. That’ll cover the salads and a quarter of your glass of wine.”
She laughed. “I am not always this high maintenance, you know. Only when American agents want to squeeze top secret information out of me.”
“It is my pleasure, but I’ll try to avoid squeezing you too hard.”
Sonatina smiled coyly. “That’s your best move. I’m more of a peach than a grapefruit—squeeze me too hard, and I’ll only bruise.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that. I’ve always loved peach cobbler though.”
“Ahia! Now you’re slicing me up for your pie?”
“Mi dispiace, Signora D’Amare, I think I carried the metaphor a step too far.”
“Nessun problema. I took no offense. Anyway, I think we have progressed to Sonatina, don’t you think? May I call you Christian?”
“No, but you can call me Chris.”
“That is what I remembered, but your assistant called you Christian when she set up our breakfast meeting.”
“Sounds like her—she likes to mess with me. She probably heard your lovely voice and decided that would be great fun. I rarely use my full first name, not since my college days.”
“Chris, then, though I think Christian suits you better.”
He sighed. His damn name. If he had to explain it one more time… No. Let it go. He took in the ambiance of the restaurant. It was a place where Hanna would have fit right in: twenty-foot ceilings, ornate Italianate architecture with Romanesque columns, a dark wooden floor set off by the bright white of the linen tablecloths, and the thing Hanna would like most—waiters in black tuxedos. The woman sitting across from him now was very different than Hanna. Sure, she had that same playful manner, but she seemed to lack that dark little conceit that would hide in Hanna’s shadows, emerging only when his guard had been lowered. At least he hadn’t glimpsed a sign of that from Sonatina yet. I hope I never will.
Sonatina was beautiful but not bewitching like Hanna. Still, her generous smile and her dark yet glowing eyes radiated through him. It was charming the way she twirled the waves of her hair by her ear whenever she thought deeply. A tingle traveled down his spine. Stop it. Lock it down, Hux. Play the game, get what you need, and get out before she breaks your heart.
Sonatina broke the silence, “Where did you attend college, Chris?”
“Northeast U.S.”
“Oh, whereabouts?”
“Boston area.”
“Boston College?”
“Uh, close but not quite. Across the river.” Huxley held up his hands. “Enough about me. You enjoy working at the Vatican?”
“Si. Mostly.”
“Mostly?” Huxley raised his left eyebrow.
“Do not get me wrong, Chris, I love the museums, and most of the people are great.
”
“Most?”
Sonatina smiled but said nothing.
“Okay, I get it,” Huxley said. “How did you end up there?”
“I had a few…opportunities…after school that I explored first, but I always wanted to come home.”
“You left Italy?”
“Si. The Vatican does not hire many right out of school.”
“No, of course not. Where did you go?”
“A few places. Singapore. Moscow. London.”
“Moscow? You speak Russian?”
“Enough to get by. It wasn’t the best place for me. At first, I thought Russia might enter an artistic renaissance of sorts, but with the organized crime and Putin bringing them back toward the cold war… I left as quickly as I could.”
Huxley grinned. “I did not realize I was dining with such a world traveller. You almost put me to shame.”
“I doubt that very much. What about you? Have you always been an ugly American spy?”
“Ugly yes, spy never.” Huxley opened his palms to her. “I’m just a lowly investigator trying to find his way.”
Sonatina rested her chin on her fist and gazed at him. “Yet you never seem lost.”
Huxley chuckled. “If only perception were reality. Should we talk shop?”
“If you would like. Have you learned anything new about your case?”
“I was just going to ask you the same thing. The hotel kidnapping was no coincidence though I am afraid I cannot get into details.” Details. He wished he had more of them. Damn Yadin had not answered when he called in the afternoon on his “home” cell. And Kira had called to tell him DOD and CIA were dragging their feet on his requests. Was Mayer holding this up? Maybe he would need to prod them himself. The only useful bit of information pointed back at the Vatican. He needed to keep playing his best hand here. “So what can you tell me about Mr. Tocelli and the Swiss Guard?”
“The fob you mentioned generally accesses most of the exterior doors of the Vatican and many of its interior doors.”
“How do you know this?”
“It’s not a state secret, and I do have an admirer or two among the Guard.”
“How do they know?” Huxley asked.
“It is the card each Swiss Guard soldier is issued.”
Huxley smiled. Yep. “Is Tocelli listed among the Guard? Is he listed anywhere?”
“No, I am afraid not. I can set up a meeting with Colonel Zaugg for you. Perhaps he will recognize the picture you showed me.”
“Please do that. Did I show you this, yet?” He brought up a picture of one of the items found in the Israeli Chemist’s room and handed it to her.
“A visitor’s pass to the archives,” Sonatina said.
“I thought so.”
Sonatina sat up straight in her chair. “Tell me you are not one of those conspiratorial types who believe the archives contain a stack of secret Catholic documents that tell the real truth about Jesus and Mary Magdalene? The archives aren’t really secret, you know.”
“No?”
“No. The name of the place does not translate well into English, though they have used it since the Middle Ages. They really should be called not the ‘Vatican Secret Archives’ but the ‘Private Papal Archives.’ The pope opens them up to select researchers, but they aren’t really owned by the Vatican itself. They are the property of the pope, and their ownership transfers directly to the next pope upon his election. Mostly personal papers and the like. Kind of like your presidential papers, but passed down from one pope to the next.”
Huxley leaned forward. “Okay, I get it. Any thoughts, then, on why an Israeli chemist would want to see the pope’s private papers, or why they would grant his request?”
“Who knows?” she asked.
He sat back in his chair. “You ready for that dessert? How about a chocolate espresso cheesecake?”
Sonatina smiled and licked her lips slowly. “I thought you would never ask.”
Huxley’s temperature began rising again, but then he felt a vibration in his pocket. “Excuse me, I am waiting on a few calls.” Huxley motioned for the waiter. “Can you order for me?” He pressed his phone. “Hello, Kira, do you have something for me?”
“Hi Mr. Huxley, sorry to disturb your dinner with the bellezza Italiana, but Deputy Under Secretary Blount just called. He wants you on a plane heading back here tonight.”
“I can’t get a flight out tonight.”
“Oh, yes you can. DOD has a flight coming back from Aviano Air Base in three hours. A Black Hawk will pick you up in one hour at the helipad coordinates I’m texting you.”
Huxley frowned and shook his head. “They called a helicopter for me? What’s up?”
“Looks like your inquiries created a little ruckus at CIA. They won’t tell me, but something riled them up. Anyway, the boss wants a complete debrief on your mission tomorrow morning.”
“Okay, hold on.” Huxley stood up, motioned to Sonatina to eat dessert without him, and headed out of the restaurant. “What about the face recognition on the hotel tapes? You get any hits?”
“One big one,” Kira said. “Esnanimen Kharun Udani was seen in the corridor of the hotel earlier in the day. Nobody even knew he was in Italy. You remember him, don’t you?”
“We still haven’t pinned any terrorist activity on him, have we? He keeps showing up around the time of some minor terrorist activities attributable to the group Ungues Pardi. But no direct link or cell phone activity or anything. He was in Guantanamo for a year and he didn’t say a word. Some sheik from Dubai got him released. Said it must have been a mistake. Some huge coincidence. Udani was from the sheik’s security staff and was just in the vicinity checking out dangerous places. Or some crap like that.”
“You let him go?” Kira asked.
“Hey, it wasn’t me,” Huxley said. “He is our only link to Pardus. There has been suspicion that he may be Dracoratio, Pardus’s reputed right hand man, but we have no confirmation that Udani even knows Pardus. Nevertheless, everyone else with a possible connection seems to have either ended up dead or ignorant about the boss. Pardus is a ghost—‘the Ghost Leopard’ we call him since Pardus is Latin for leopard. We don’t even know who he is or what he looks like. Hell, we are not even sure of his ethnicity. For all we know, he and his group are just legends that get blamed or credited with a few attacks every year when the other terrorists don’t want to take the blame.”
Kira cleared her throat. “That’s a bit more than I had on him. You on a personal quest or something?”
“Nope. But it’s the guys you don’t know who end up killing you, and we don’t know Pardus. We got a location on Udani?”
“No sir. I’ll let you know when we do. I do have one interesting bit of intel for you though.”
“And that would be?” Huxley asked.
“The facial recognition software would not have even found him if it weren’t for recent events—he wasn’t even in the database. But I thought, just in case there is some connection, I’d run a special scan.”
“Of whom?”
“Abdul Saboor Anwari.”
Huxley leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Shit, he was in the hotel?”
“He sure was. Now what was he doing there?”
“Maybe I’ve underestimated his role in all of this. Good work, again.”
Sonatina was sitting and waiting for him at the table. A piece of chocolate espresso cheesecake stared her in the face while his tiramisu waited for him across the table. “Mi dispiace, Sonatina. It could not be helped, and now it looks like I will have to cut our evening short and catch a flight back to the States.”
“Our evening? I thought this was just a dinner business meeting?” Sonatina smiled coyly.
Huxley tilted his head, smiling, and nodded a few times. “Of course. So back to business.”
“Is there something else I can do for you?”
“Well, yes. I mean no. I doubt it.” Should he trust her more? The Vatican
could be involved somehow, so why not her? It was unlikely, but… Then again, if she were holding back, he might see that. He had mastered that investigative technique long ago—throw just enough out there so the person of interest thinks you trust them, then let their reactions and covers give them away.
“Have you decided, yet?” she asked.
“Decided?” He nodded softly. “I’m wondering if you’ve ever heard of Pardus?”
“The Leopard? You are speaking in Latin, now? I don’t think so, unless he has changed his spots.”
“He seems to change them continuously. Pardus may be the most elusive terrorist we have ever encountered. Some do not think he even exists.”
“Then why is he important?”
Huxley smiled, slowly leaned forward and whispered, “He may be behind all of this.”
Sonatina shook her head. “Really, when you get stuck, you turn to ghosts?”
He shrugged. “Anyway, I sure would like to figure out that contacts list.”
“Don’t your supercomputers at Homeland Security handle those patterns for you?”
“Perhaps.” They could try if I let them. He had not reported the contacts list to Homeland. If his boss saw the personal connection, he would probably take Huxley off the case even though he was probably the only one who could figure out clues obviously intended for him.
Her eyes narrowed. “You haven’t held that back from them, have you?”
He stared back at her. She reads me well. He gave her his best sly smile. “Who me? Why would I do such a thing? And what if I did?”
Sonatina looked down pensively for a few counts, then leaned forward, put her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands above them. She spoke gently, “I think you are a clever man, Chris, but can you handle the emotional baggage?”
“Baggage?”
“Your mother has passed away, and the clues seem to involve her. ‘Deceased and Forsaken?’”
Huxley winced. “That’s not my mother. Her name wasn’t Maryam.”
“But your madre, she is dead.”
