He was a big man with a folksy style, talking down to Ray in that bureaucratic voice, like Ray was an idiot.
"I have Agent Tracey's report right here. In it, he states: When you didn't check in, and didn't answer numerous phone calls, he went to your hotel room. He said he found you in an intoxicated, disheveled condition. In Agent Tracey's opinion, you were not in full possession of your mental and physical abilities. He observed a bottle of Scotch whisky in your room, and he said you smelled like you had been drinking. Further, when he questioned you about it you were belligerent and uncooperative. Agent Pope, you've demonstrated a pattern of behavior that is extremely troubling. This is your third breach of conduct. You're what the Service defines as a risk. Your bad judgment could've put the protectee and everyone in your detail in serious jeopardy. We can no longer trust you in a protective capacity. We no longer have confidence in you as a field agent, and as you know, trust and confidence are the core values upon which the Service was built."
He sounded like he was reading it out of the agency manual. He told Ray his behavior warranted dismissal, but they would make an exception and let him finish out his career in the uniform division. Ray pictured himself at the entrance to a foreign embassy, bored out of his mind, watching cars go by. He told the director "no thanks" and that was it.
Chapter Seven
McCabe opened his eyes and had no idea where he was. His head hurt where he'd been hit, a lump the size of a fifty-cent piece over his ear. The room was dark and musty. His hands were cuffed to a chain that went over the edge of the bed. He couldn't see its end point. Not yet, eyes adjusting to the light coming from a window high up on one the walls, light beaming in sharp and bright at the margins where the dark paper or cloth didn't cover it.
He heard water dripping. Heard a train, the ticket-ticketticket sound as it passed close by, shaking the beamed ceiling above him, sending dust through the cracks. He thought he was in the country outside Rome, no idea where, which direction. He pictured the farmhouses he'd seen on train trips to Florence, tile roofs and stucco walls painted colors like umber and sienna, colors he'd never seen anywhere but Italy. The houses and their outbuildings were built close to the tracks and he wondered why with all the acreage they had.
He heard a dog bark somewhere outside. Heard a car pull up, tires crunching on gravel. Heard two car doors close. And voices. He pictured the scene in Villa Borghese. They had cuffed his hands behind his back and picked him up and carried him to a van parked nearby. Borghese had streets and walking paths crisscrossing through it.
He tried to remember how long he was in the van, how long it took to drive there, but couldn't. He was dazed, in and out of consciousness. They blindfolded him and lifted him out of the van and led him across a gravel area through a doorway into the house and down an old wooden staircase that creaked and groaned, into the cellar.
He was lying on a stained mattress on a bed with a metal frame. The room was twenty by twenty, the walls made out of brick, reminding him of the ancient brickwork in the Forum, the same simple style. There was a chair ten feet or so from the bed. He saw something moving out of the corner of his eye, a rat walking along one of the walls, long tail dragging. The rat looking over at him. What're you doing here? This cellar is mine. The rat went through a hole in the wall and disappeared.
He'd felt something crawling on him during the night and swatted it off. Probably the rat checking him out. He thought of the movie Papillon, Steve McQueen in solitary confinement, making friends with a bug. If McCabe was down here long enough, he might hang out with the rat, give it a name. How about Caesar? That sounded like a good Italian rat name.
He was handcuffed to a chain that snaked across the floor and looped around one of the wooden support posts that held up the house. Picking the lock or breaking the chain wasn't going to happen, so he'd have to come up with another way to escape. Behind him he could see meat hanging from ropes attached to the ceiling, cylindrical rolls of salami and the skinned carcasses of game animals.
There were shelves against the far wall. He moved as far as the chain would let him and looked at the jars of canned fruits and vegetables, McCabe starving, thinking it had been close to twenty-four hours since he'd eaten, but the chain wouldn't go far enough. There were also wine racks against a wall, filled with bottles. He couldn't reach those either.
He went back to the bed and sat with his legs over the side, feet on the floor. He thought about Angela setting him up, if that was really her name. Did this have something to do with the newspaper article that transposed his name with Chip's? The kidnappers thinking they had the son of a United States senator, a slam-dunk ransom. McCabe didn't have his wallet with him, rarely carried it unless he was traveling and needed ID. He'd left it at school so there was no way they could identify him. All they knew, he was Charles Tallenger III. Eventually they'd find out he was the wrong guy. They'd call the school and Mr Rady would check and see that Chip was in Sicily, call his cell phone and that would be that. They'd realize McCabe wasn't who they thought he was and let him go.
Hours later he heard keys rattle and a door open upstairs. Then he heard someone coming down and saw him appear, first his feet and legs and then the rest of him. It was the big guy, the nose guard from Villa Borghese, carrying a tray like he wasn't used to it, taking small steps so he wouldn't tip the wine bottle over. He still wore the blue-and-white bandana over his face like an outlaw waiter. He came over, stood in front of McCabe, fingers thick as sausages, holding the tray that had olive branches painted on it.
"Mangia," he said.
McCabe took the tray, staring at the plate of salami, bread and cheese, and put it on the mattress next to him. The big man picked up the wine bottle, filled a stemmed glass about halfway and handed it to McCabe. He took the wine bottle and the other glass and sat in the chair. He drank wine, lifting the bandana to bring the glass to his mouth.
McCabe folded a piece of salami in half and put it in his mouth and drank some wine while he was chewing. He ate some cheese, broke off a piece of bread and washed it down with more wine.
McCabe said, "Where are we?"
He looked at him but didn't answer, poured another glass of wine. Drank that and filled the glass again. When the wine was gone he put the bottle and glass on the brick floor. Closed his eyes, leaned back and a few minutes later he was snoring, big chest rising and falling, big body dwarfing the chair, making it look like it was designed for a little kid.
He'd been asleep for a few minutes when McCabe got up and gathered the chain, trying not to make noise. He was watching the big man's face, not paying attention, and kicked the wine bottle over, rolling on the brick floor, making a racket. McCabe picked it up and stood frozen next to him, holding his breath, expecting him to wake up and hoping he wouldn't. Now he heard a voice calling from upstairs.
"Noto…"
McCabe was squatting next to him, staring at the ring of keys on his belt. He heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone came partway down and stopped.
"Noto, you down there? What are you doing?"
"I tell him I have one of his students," Mazara said. He took out a pack of Marlboro reds and lit one, blowing smoke across the table.
Angela sipped cappuccino and wiped foam from her upper lip with a napkin. "What did he say?"
"'Who are you?'" Roberto said.
"You can't criticize him for that, uh?"
"I say, 'Signor Rady, it does not matter who I am, it is who I have.'"
"That's a good line," Angela said.
"He say, 'What is this about?' I say, 'It's about a kidnapping.
Angela said, "Is he stupid? What did he think it was?"
"He must be. He say, 'Who do you have?' I say, 'Chip Tallenger.' He say, 'How do I know you have him?' 'I tell you I do. Check around. Do you see him? No, because he is not there.'"
"What did the man say?"
"You will not believe this. He say, 'Call back in twenty minutes.' "
Angela said,
"Come on, he did not."
"I say, 'Listen, I am the one give the orders. You have twenty-four hours to get this money, half a million euro. Do you understand?' He say, 'That's 650,000 dollars.'" Mazara took a long drag on the cigarette, blowing out smoke. "He say, 'What if we need more time?'"
"Did you tell him there is no more time?"
"Yes, of course."
They were sitting at a table at a tavola calda in Orvieto, Angela sipping cappuccino, Mazara smoking.
Angela said, "Did he understand? I do not have much confidence in this Signor Rady. Is there someone else?"
"It will be okay. Signor Rady will call the father and the father will know what to do."
"Did you tell him Signor Tallenger's life is in danger? Does he understand what will happen if the ransom is not paid? Did you impress that upon him?"
Roberto nodded. "I made sure to tell him."
Angela said, "We better go, uh?"
"What is the hurry? He is not going anywhere."
Angela was thinking about the American. She was expecting him to be different, this student from a wealthy family, the son of a well-known American politician, a senator, an important man. The senator was profiled in Corriere della sera as a self- made multi-millionaire living in Greenwich, Connecticut, one of the wealthiest cities in the United States. The one she met didn't seem to fit this background — his attitude, his clothes.
Pulling the thief off the motorcycle was the first indication. That was unexpected, but made it all work. Her job was to get his attention and hope he wanted to meet her. The thieves had made it much easier. But what really surprised her was how tough he was, fighting four of them. It was lucky Mazara hit him when he did or Chip Tallenger would have gotten away for sure.
She wondered what might have happened if they had met under different circumstances. There was something about him.
McCabe unlocked the handcuffs and placed them on the floor, trying not to make any noise. The big man was asleep, snoring. He went up the stairs, stopped and listened. He turned the handle, opened the door a crack and looked down a hall into the house. He smelled onions cooking. Went through the door, moving to his left and looked into the kitchen. There was a skillet on the stovetop, the smell of pancetta and onions filling the room. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray.
A voice said, "What are you doing in there? You are worse than a woman."
He came in the kitchen now, the stocky guy with red hair from the holding cell, picked up his cigarette, took a drag and put it down. He wore a shoulder holster over a white tank top. He moved toward the doorway and yelled, "No to…" And to himself he said, "Where is he?"
McCabe crept down the hall and went out the front door and took off, running.
Angela had an odd feeling as they got in the car and called Sisto at the house. She listened and said, "Where is he?" She listened. "What do you mean you don't know? Find him." She flipped the phone closed and said, "The American has disappeared."
Mazara floored the Lancia. She watched the speedometer climbing — 80, 100, 120, 140, 160 — flying now on the two- lane country road, heading south out of Orvieto, six kilometers to the farm.
Mazara said, "He is chained to a post. How can he disappear?"
"Why are you asking me? They are your friends," Angela said.
They were a street gang when she met Mazara at the Scene, a disco in Rome, a year earlier. After she got to know him he told her he was an 'ndrina.
Angela said, "What is that?"
Mazara said, "'Ndrangheta."
She had heard of them, the Calabrian Mafia. "What are you doing in Rome?"
Mazara said, "I was born in Calabria, but my family moved here when I was a boy."
She said, "What do you do?"
He said, "A little of everything: kidnapping, extortion, guns, drugs."
He was good-looking and fun to be with. Mazara had dropped out of the Lyceum school and formed a gang with some friends. But they were no more 'Ndrangheta than she was. All of them except for Mazara were born in villages outside Rome.
Angela dated him, but quietly. If her father found out she was seeing a Calabrian he would have disowned her or worse. She joined the gang and took a twenty per cent cut of everything she was involved in. Mazara had suggested they kidnap the American after reading the article in II Messaggero, Mazara telling her he knew him. He had played basketball against him in Rebibbia. It looked like easy money.
Up ahead she could see something blocking the road. "What is that?"
"Sheep," Mazara said.
He hit the brakes hard, tires squealing, the back end of the Lancia fishtailing, coming to a stop. Sheep were crossing the road, twenty-five, thirty, at least. Mazara honked the horn, leaned on it, but the sheep just stared at them, not moving.
Angela said, "We better try something else and do it fast."
She reached down under the seat and brought out her Beretta. She raised her arm out the window, aimed at the sky and pulled the trigger. The sheep took off, scattering in all directions, clearing the road enough so they could get by. Mazara put the car in gear and floored it. They passed a truck going the other way and then a car, lettuce fields on both sides of the road. She could see the farmhouse now, and coming toward them, the figure of a man running, it looked like the American, going full speed, the blue van coming fast behind him.
McCabe could hear a truck coming behind him. Turned and saw a big diesel semi, waved his arms and it blew by him. He glanced back at the farmhouse, saw the big man and the two others come out of the house, scanning the flat fields. One of them spotted him and pointed. They ran and got in the van. A car was approaching from the opposite direction. He waved his arms and it started to slow down, a red Lancia pulling up next to him, Angela pointing a gun at him from the front passenger seat.
"Where you going?" she said.
"Back to Rome."
"What's the matter? You don't like it here?"
"Not so much."
"I think you better stay where you are, don't move."
Mazara got out from behind the wheel and came around the car toward him. The girl got out too, holding the gun on him, standing a few feet away. The blue van pulled up behind the Lancia. The big man and the two others got out and came toward him. He could see all the faces of the kidnappers now. "How much you asking for me?'
The girl said, "What difference does it make?"
"Believe me, it does," McCabe said. "I think we have a misunderstanding. You think I'm someone I'm not."
Mazara said, "We will go back and talk about it."
McCabe said, "What's wrong with right here? This is a good place to talk."
"We can make it difficult," Mazara said. "Or we can make it easy. How do you want it, uh?"
"First, I've got to ask you something," McCabe said. "Who you think is going to pay to get me back?"
The girl said, "Your rich father."
McCabe said, "I don't have a rich father."
"Then you have a problem," the girl said.
"No," McCabe said. "I think you do."
Chapter Eight
"Signor Tallenger, we do not know who kidnap your son," Captain Arturo Ferarra said. "Most of the kidnaps, eighty per cent, are from gangs hired by the Mafia. The other twenty per cent are political, which clearly this is not. You have heard of the Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian Mafia? The Sicilians are in Rome for many years. They can be responsible. But more likely, I believe, is another organization. Do you know of the Camorra?"
"No, I don't think so," Tallenger said.
He was wearing a blue sport jacket, and a white shirt but no tie. They were in a conference room at police headquarters. The man from the university, Signor Rady, was sitting across the long table next to Signor Tallenger, perspiring as if it were his profession. The armpits of his yellow golf shirt were dark with sweat, and his face was slick with it, Signor Rady blotting his forehead with a handkerchief.
"Camorra is the Neapolitan Mafia, the Mafia of Nap
oli, and the surrounding area, Campania." He took his pipe and tobacco out of his shirt pocket. The pipe was a full bent Brebbia. He filled the bowl with Cyprian Latakia and lit it, blowing incense-like smoke into the air.
"That's 150 miles south of here on the Mediterranean," Signor Rady said.
Signor Tallenger ignored him.
Arturo took the pipe out of his mouth and said, "The
Camorra began after the Second World War. They smuggle weapons and cigarettes. Over the years they expand into other type of crime: drug trafficking, prostitution, kidnapping. The suburbs of Naples are ruled by the Camorra. Children sell heroin and cocaine in the streets."
Signor Rady said, "So you're saying they've moved to Rome?"
"Let him tell us," Signor Tallenger said, an angry tone in his voice.
"They have been in Rome for many years," Arturo said. "They are all over Italy and Europe. The Camorra is a possibility, but more likely, I believe, is a faction of' Ndrangheta."
"What's that?" Signor Rady said, as if Arturo was speaking only to him.
"An-Dran-Ged-Ah," Arturo said it slowly, accentuating each part of the word.
"Never heard of it," Signor Rady said, interrupting again.
Arturo could see Signor Tallenger give him a serious look. This man Rady was very annoying. "'Ndrangheta is a criminal organization from Calabria, located in the t- of the Italian boot. More powerful even than the Sicilian Mafia, generating thirty billion euro every year. And until 1980 their principal business was kidnapping."
Signor Tallenger said, "You're telling us there are three major criminal organizations in southern Italy?"
"Four, if you include Sacra Corona Unita in Apulia."
"You say it as if you're proud," Signor Rady said.
Pride had nothing to do with it. They misunderstood him. It was complicated. Arturo was trying to give them perspective. "I tell you so you will understand the situation, what we are dealing with."
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