by David Downie
“Tut-tut,” Willem shushed her, “you’re a busy professional and I am one step from the boneyard.” He handed her the Zeiss binoculars and raised the battered vintage pair to his eyes. “I took these off a Kraut in the spring of 1945,” he chortled, lowering them again to tell the tale. “Best deal I ever made. An ounce of hot lead for the Kriegsmarine’s finest optics.” Willem smiled toothily and waited for Daria to react. “E. Leitz Wetzlar 7 × 50 magnification,” he added. “After I crashed the Spitfire and made my escape. You’ve heard the story before?” Daria nodded. “Well,” he said, only a little crestfallen, “I’d better cut to the chase, as your mother likes to say. How is your sainted mother, by the way?”
“Stainless.”
“Steel?” he laughed. “Well, well, well, let us hope we are all made of such stern stuff. Do you ever get back to Rome to see the poor creature? I know she misses you terribly and wishes you hadn’t moved away. We hear from her once in a great while,” he added, “whenever she needs something.”
“Barbie the Barracuda,” Daria laughed, using her mother’s nickname and trembling imperceptibly at the mere thought of her. “She is just fine.” Daria blushed and felt guilty. She had not meant to sound unloving. Surviving her mother had been a full-time job. “Why none of her five strapping sons, meaning my brothers, can find the time or resources to entertain her is a mystery to me,” Daria added, inwardly hoping her words would work sympathetic magic.
“It’s always the daughter,” Willem said thoughtfully, “and in addition to being the only female of the prodigious brood, you are the youngest, the great last hope, Barbie’s very own darling child, the unexpected girl, the beautiful look-alike, and, coincidentally, you’re the only one residing in this country and therefore exploitable.”
Daria nodded, relieved Willem Bremach understood and was on her side. He had always been on her side, a protector and nurturer, the perfect godfather. “I’m also the only one free of grumpy spouse and annoying children,” Daria found herself adding.
“But she is such a loving grandmother, isn’t she? Doesn’t Barbie rush around the globe giving hugs and kisses to the little ones?” He chortled again. But both realized simultaneously they had reached the end of the bantering session.
“Have we cut to the chase yet?” Daria asked.
“Tempus fugit,” he fended.
“I believe it’s also hora fugit,” she retorted warily, recalling the six grueling years of Latin and ancient Greek she had struggled through as a girl. “Time flies but justice remains?”
“Oh, good for you, Daria! You have out-quoted your feeble old godfather.”
“Justice is running out of time,” she quipped, “and patience.” Puzzled more than ever by Willem Bremach’s summons, she perched on the bench on the verandah and crossed her legs, her antennae up and waving. Had he already learned of the scrawled message left in the bakery van, she wondered? He must have. But how? With Willem Bremach, the question of how was nearly always unanswerable.
“Before we go any further,” he cautioned, “I want you to look out there at the promontory and find that wooden speedboat.” He walked Daria through the same visual itinerary he had sketched out for Priscilla earlier. “Did you get a chance to read up on old Giuseppe Garibaldi?” He asked the question nonchalantly as she followed his instructions.
“Mmmmm,” she said, unwilling to editorialize.
“By the by, I called Colonel Rossi at SISMI and told him I hoped the honorable, worthy, incomparable Italian military secret services would be generous if an information request just happened to come in this morning from DIGOS in Genoa. I gather you or Lieutenant Morbido made that request? I certainly hope you did. Your DIGOS profiles are never quite up to scratch, are they?”
Daria lowered the binoculars and stared at her godfather. Rossi at SISMI? That was the pinnacle, the nec plus ultra of the Italian clandestine universe. Willem was astonishing. Beyond the bluff, anti-PC sense of humor that rubbed so many young people and women the wrong way, he was disconcertingly well informed and well connected, especially for someone his age, a quarter century after “retirement.” This explained why the file on Joe Gary was so complete and up to date. “I saw enough to make me car sick,” Daria said.
“It is rather sick-making, isn’t it?” Bremach grinned a long-toothed grin and raised his long index finger again, pointing. “That’s Joe Gary’s boat you’re looking at, the famous Riva Aquarama.” He consulted his watch. “It’s been bobbing around out there since Garibaldi disappeared. Two and a half hours ago.”
Daria gazed through the binoculars, scanning the surface of the sea. “Disappeared?”
“We must assume he drowned, or was snatched, unless he was struck or scooped up by a helicopter or a water bomber. In that unlikely scenario, he would have been dumped somewhere inland, presumably on a fire, presumably unwittingly. It would not be the first time, at least not in literature.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said, flushing at the news, “you think it was an accident?”
Bremach grimaced but said nothing, staring out to sea. Daria waited in silence. Her godfather was known for his oblique references and peculiar manner of delivery. She expected him to flinch, but he did not. She caved and spoke first.
“Willem, are you pulling my leg?”
“Any gentleman would be very lucky to pull your leg, my dear girl, but I am your padrino and dandled you when an infant so it would be immoral and obscene for me to do so. I also know you’re rather too busy these days for a wrestling match.” He paused, admiring her dark blue linen pantsuit with an appreciative eye. It was creased and slightly soiled. “Been gardening this morning?” he asked in his signature teasing voice.
Daria, startled, glanced at the cuffs of her pants, then bent down to brush off the spots of dried mud from the roadside turnout. “I should not have worn linen,” she blurted unguardedly, “it’s far too hot today, and it wrinkles so easily.”
Bremach’s eyebrows danced. “What was all that about dead bodies in bags, by the way?” he continued in his jocular way. “Found in a mud bath? Sounds dreadful.”
Daria shook her head. “First let’s do Joseph Gary.”
“Yes, that’s wise,” he muttered. “People say I have become an old gossip.” He cleared his throat. “Now, before I tell you exactly what I saw and what I know, you might wish to consider alerting your own people at DIGOS or the cousins, if you prefer to play second fiddle to the Carabinieri or, even better, the Guardia di Finanza.” Daria shot him a startled glance and was about to respond, but he raised a hand and continued.
“In your place,” he said in an oracular tone, “I might speculate, for purposes of shared consumption, that you received a tip from an eyewitness—to wit, me—the gist of which is that what occurred was an accident, almost certainly, and that the authorities should get the underwater brigade in and start looking for him. You might want to put out an APB in the unlikely case he has been abducted. If you want Garibaldi to be your case, Daria, you’ll have to act. Soon.” Bremach studied her face. It remained impassive. Again, she did not have time to respond.
“I happen to know that Gary’s rather disagreeable factotum and manservant must already be on the alert,” he continued, more forcefully this time, “and that his charming lady friend, the self-styled Morgana Stella, will sound the alarm if her sugar daddy is any later. You see, Garibaldi is never late. Was never late. Now the clock is ticking for you, Daria. They may have reported his disappearance or rather his no-show already.”
Daria hesitated. “Two words, Willem,” she said. “Tell me in two words how you know whose boat that is and why you have such an interest in Joseph Gary.”
Bremach consented. “Fair enough. I met him again two years ago at the Rapallo yacht club. He needed a recommendation to join. Since for some mysterious reason he’d already been accepted by the blue-blood geriatrics at the Galler
ia Club and Jardin Club in Genoa and I knew, therefore, that Pinky and I would not be able to avoid him socially, I consented. During the vetting process, I asked certain sources for information. Pinky thought I should give the committee a thumbs-down. She doesn’t like the smell of him. It amused me to think of old Joe at the yacht club. We sympathized on a certain level once upon a time, though he was a swine. And I will admit, I only gave him a recommendation because I thought I could keep a closer eye on him this way.
“You see, Daria, I knew Signor Garibaldi very slightly a very long time ago, before you were born—a professional relationship, you understand. Your father knew him too.” He paused, weighing his words. “Do you remember the Aldo Moro kidnapping and assassination by the Red Brigades, those clumsy left-wing terrorists? How could you, you were a mere child, or perhaps you weren’t born yet. Moro, you know, of course, was the famous prime minister of Italy who attempted to engineer the ‘historic compromise’ between the Christian Democrats and the Communists. Around the table of men who decided to let Moro die at the hands of the Red Brigades was a certain former Navy Intelligence officer and one-time FBI agent who had switched and was batting for the CIA.” He paused significantly. “I’ve already said more than two words.” He paused again.
“Go on.”
“I’ve never known anyone so egregiously misnamed as Joe Gary Baldi,” Bremach continued, his voice warming to the task. “Granted, Giuseppe as a name is standard issue and Garibaldi is one of the most common surnames on the Riviera, as you know, especially around here. Open the phone book and you’ll find scores of Garibaldis. But this fellow was about as like the original Red-Shirted revolutionary Giuseppe Garibaldi as Pinky is like Lady Macbeth or Eva Braun. And then there was the famous heroic Red Communistic Garibaldi Brigade of the partisans in World War Two, and he certainly did not belong to them, au contraire.
“As to knowing that’s his boat,” Bremach added, “we have been out on it with him several times, over Pinky’s strenuous objections. You’ve read by now that Gary was a Navy Seal? He swam every day, even in winter. I often watched him go out there, always at 10:00 a.m., rain or shine. Not much rain since he moved here, lots of shine. I’ve been stuck in this contraption now for two weeks since I wrenched my knee playing tennis and have had occasion to observe him closely every morning. Suddenly he disappeared. It’s as simple as that.
“Except it isn’t simple at all, dear Daria,” he said, rolling on, the power and passion in his voice increasing. “Joe was a delectable gentleman. That’s why Pinky picked up his scent. I never said a thing about his glorious past to her. She’s terribly upright, you know, with a fine sense of smell. I’m more like Joe, a natural-born ruffian.”
Willem Bremach handed her a page torn from his notebook. On it were a neatly written series of airplane registration numbers, observation times, and short descriptions. “Seaplanes,” he said, “water bombers, commonly known by their trademark name, Canadair, though that is misleading since a dozen manufacturers make similar aircraft nowadays. In fact, I believe at least two of the ones out today were not built by Canadair but rather by Russian and Chinese consortiums, one of each. You would be able to find that out easily enough. Might one of these have accidentally or deliberately scooped up our Signor Garibaldi?”
Bremach raised himself slightly and pulled a wrinkled magazine out of the side of the wheelchair, then offered it to Daria. “Aviation Weekly,” he said. “I read it religiously. Once a flyer, always a flyer. As you’ll see, in this issue there just happens to be a rather long and boring article about the new generation of seaplanes. Naturally enough, the Chinese are making them bigger and better and cheaper than anyone else, and they are trying to win the lucrative southern European market, since the entire Mediterranean Basin seems to burn perpetually and be flooded with stranded migrants in need of search and rescue services. The Russians are also competitive.
“Both these countries’ latest planes carry a lot more water than the old Canadair models, but they have the disadvantage of being less responsive.” Willem paused for effect, his hands gripping an imaginary steering wheel. “In case you’re wondering, the reason the article is in this issue of the magazine is simple. There’s a three-day international air show going on right now in Albenga. Yes, Albenga, the Ligurian capital of artichokes way out west on the Riviera di Ponente. All the world’s seaplanes for search and rescue and firefighting are there, and if I hadn’t wrecked my knee I would be too. The air show might explain why I spotted several unusual-looking aircraft out this morning. I’ve placed asterisks by the registration numbers I could make out.” He smiled, pleased by his disquisition. “They were in transit, I suppose, or had been pressed into service because of all those fires you mentioned. That too will be easy to discover. Whatever you do, just remember the old ditty, ‘flyers are liars.’”
“Oh, Willem, stop that,” shouted Priscilla, who was eavesdropping, pretending to rearrange plates on the table in the dining room.
Daria took the handwritten sheet and the magazine, glancing at them and pursing her lips, wondering what she was getting herself into. After a moment’s hesitation, she walked to the end of the terrace and used her smartphone to call headquarters in Genoa. Speaking in concise, telegraphic sentences, she gave detailed instructions to a first voice, then waited and spoke deferentially and at length to someone else, doing her best to ensure neither Willem nor Priscilla could hear her. Bremach guessed the second speaker was her boss, the loathsome Questor, Carlo Alberto Lomelli-Centauri III, a pompous, useless reactionary ass from Genoa’s old-money nobility. Willem Bremach had crossed swords more than once with his nemesis’s grandfather, Carlo Alberto Lomelli-Centauri I, way back, during the Second World War, and with his father, Centauri II, during the Cold War, then, less belligerently, with the useless whippersnapper Centauri III, this time over a green felt-topped card table at the Galleria Club. The Centauris were among the club’s longest-standing members.
Several minutes later, Daria strode back to where Willem Bremach waited, pocketing her phone. “Okay,” she said, trying not to sound dramatic or hardboiled but calm, controlled, and professional. “Any incoming caller using the national emergency numbers to report the disappearance will be told the incident has already been reported,” she explained. “So, the case is ours. Our Carabinieri cousins can’t claim it. The scuba divers should be in Portofino in about ninety minutes. They’re coming from Genoa-Voltri. Our local Polizia di Stato and the Carabinieri from Santa Margherita will arrive shortly after. By then, Lieutenant Morbido and I will be ready to greet them.”
“Excellent,” Bremach said, making a tent of his fingertips and grinning toothily. “Now, your turn, about those bags and bodies…”
Daria was unsure how much to reveal. The phrase quid pro quo sprang to mind. More Latin. But this time even those who had never studied ancient languages could understand. She hesitated, drumming her lips, then caught herself and plunged forward. “The Minister of the Interior has already spoken to the Questor about this,” she reasoned aloud, “meaning Centauri is under pressure to deliver, therefore I am under pressure to deliver to Centauri,” she said. “The Minister is demanding results, saying it is a national outrage to have the anniversary of the Liberation of Italy besmirched by murders and mutilated bodies left in strategic sites in and around Genoa—in garbage bags. They say it is a left-wing conspiracy.”
“Do tell,” Willem said with undisguised delight, his bushy eyebrows rising.
The discovery of the bags would be on the mainstream news stations soon, Daria knew, and was already trending on social media. She glanced at her watch. With Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and the like, nothing could be kept quiet. Would they also report about the handwritten message left in the bakery van? That too may have leaked. It must have leaked already. How else would Willem have known?
“I might as well share what I know,” she said at last, relieved again to be able to trust s
omeone, “in case you have some insight into the matter.”
Giving Bremach an edited rundown, she started with the bag of body parts left in front of Villa Migone, the celebrated mansion in downtown Genoa where the Nazi surrender was signed on April 25, 1945, ending the Second World War in Italy. Then she moved on to bag number two, left in the piazza in the eastern suburb of Nervi, where the Insurrection of Genoa had begun two days earlier on April 23. She finished with a description of the muddy turnout behind Rapallo, fifteen miles or so east of the second bag. This time the bag had been deposited directly below a machine gun nest and bunker complex where, apparently, a dozen Communist partisans from the Garibaldi Brigade had been murdered in a summary execution by the Nazis and members of the Fascist Mussolini Brigade on April 24, 1945.
“Something of the kind was inevitable,” Bremach said with surprising alacrity. “The Krauts and Fascists lost the war but won the peace. Just look at our political parties and apprentice tyrants today. If Il Duce hadn’t been shot and hung upside down on a meat hook in Milan, he would be elected by a landslide today, or in a rigged farce of an election, like that imbecile across the Atlantic. Therefore, it would not be surprising to me if the bodies in the bags were those of neo-Fascists executed by a new Red Brigades or suchlike.”
Daria frowned. “That might be,” she said diplomatically. “Except they look more like unfortunate African immigrants than extreme right-wing activists.”
“Well then, perhaps that’s the message. Stop the immigrants, bring back the Fascists?”
“Maybe,” she said, wondering what Willem Bremach really thought and what he was holding back.
“Think,” Bremach added triumphantly, using his favorite jocular tone, “what would a cabalist say? Let us calculate. You have three bags and nine fires? Three is a very important number, the Holy Trinity, and nine is three times the Trinity. Three times nine is twenty-seven. Take the numerals two and seven and add them together and you get nine again. So, clearly, it is some kind of cabal, don’t you think?” He grinned. “Now you’ll have to count up the pieces in the bags and see if they also come to twenty-seven.”