All He Saw Was the Girl

by Peter Leonard

  "I'd say you've got a serious problem," Signor Tallenger said, "I understand that much. What I don't see is what this has to do with my son."

  It had everything to do with his son, Arturo was thinking. But if the man did not want to listen there was no point in telling him again. He remembered the son sitting in this same room the night he was arrested, his arrogance, acting as if he was better than everyone, as though he deserved special treatment after stealing a man's taxi, his livelihood. Arturo had had to walk out of the room he was so angry, walk out or he might have done something he would later regret. He puffed on the cool-smoking Latakia, blowing smoke down the table away from the Americans.

  Signor Rady said, "I'd like to know what you've done to find Chip Tallenger?"

  Arturo ignored him. He took the pipe out of his mouth and held the bowl in his hand. "We send the photograph of young Signor Tallenger to departments in the regions and provinces around Rome. We have alert the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale and Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, the elite forces of the carabinieri fighting organized crime. We give the photograph to Polizia di Stato and our contacts on the street. That is what we have done."

  Signor Tallenger said, "What per cent of kidnap victims make it home alive?"

  Arturo knew the answer, less than fifty, but he said, "I do not recall." Nor did he tell the man most victims were found strangled or shot to death.

  Signor Tallenger said, "The odds aren't very good, are they?"

  Arturo took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.

  Signor Tallenger said, "What do we do now?"

  "You withdraw the money and we wait to hear from them," Arturo said. "Are you a religious man?"

  Signor Tallenger glanced at Arturo, his expression giving nothing away.

  "I suggest you pray to God," Arturo said. "It is in his hands now."

  Arturo listened to the distorted voice of the kidnapper, the voice slow and deep, the conversation recorded earlier on Signor Rady's telephone.

  "Signor Tallenger, are you there?"

  "I'm here."

  "Do you have the money?"

  "I have the money. Do you have my son?"

  He had been instructed to buy a white Adidas soccer bag and put the money in it.

  "Yes," Signor Tallenger said, "now I want to speak to Chip."

  "He is not with me," the kidnapper said, "but if you do as I say, you will speak to him tonight or sooner."

  Signor Tallenger said, "How do I get the money to you?"

  "You get on a bus, and I tell you where to go and what to do. Remember this — we are watching you, but you never know when or where. If we see police, say goodbye to your son. Do you understand?

  "The police aren't involved," Signor Tallenger said. "You won't see anyone."

  "Now you better go," the kidnapper said. "The bus is coming in ten minutes."

  Signor Tallenger told Arturo he did not want any police involvement.

  "We'll do it their way," he'd said. "I don't want to take any chances."

  This was high-profile. Arturo understood the concerns of the senator, but his duty was to protect this man, and engineer the safe return of his son. He did not tell him he had assigned two detectives, Grossi, a man, dressed as a tourist, with maps and a camera, and Pirlo, a woman, dressed as a nun, to go with him, the detectives standing near him but not too near at the bus stop on Via Trionfale.

  Arturo and Luciano, a young detective named after the great tenor, were watching them from his car parked on the street. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the 913 bus approaching. It passed them and stopped. He saw people get off. He saw Signor Tallenger with the heavy athletic bag, and the two detectives, get on.

  The bus was pulling out, picking up speed. Arturo was following, but keeping a safe distance. There was a GPS tracking chip sewn in the bottom of the soccer bag. He could see it, a red icon on his laptop, the screen displaying a map of Rome.

  The bus stopped at St Peter's Basilica. Arturo was watching Signor Tallenger emerge and walk to Piazza San Pietro. He was standing in the middle of the immense square, the white soccer bag hanging from his right shoulder, as if he was waiting for the team to arrive, the bag looking out of place on a man his age, the senator long past his playing days, glancing in different directions.

  Arturo was parked behind the taxi queue at the east end of the square on Via della Conciliazione. He watched Grossi and Pirlo walking in opposite directions, disappearing behind columns in the colonnade. He glanced at Luciano next to him in the front seat and said, "How long have you been engaged?"

  "Four years."

  "Four years? How do you do it?"

  "It's not me. It's her. I want to get married, Carmen has a career, her own apartment."

  "You don't live together?"

  "A few days a week." Luciano grinned. "It's not bad, I have to tell you. She has her space, I have mine."

  Arturo knew he was old-fashioned, but this was crazy.

  Luciano said, "It might be the new model for a modern relationship."

  Arturo was going to tell Luciano he was out of his mind. If you have a disagreement, how do you work it out if you both have your own apartment? He watched Signor Tallenger take out his mobile phone and hold it up to his ear, listening and then moving, running awkwardly with the heavy bag.

  Instead of proceeding east out of Piazza San Pietro toward the open street, he went south through the colonnade. Pirlo radioed him and said Signor Tallenger got in a taxi. He glanced at the map on his laptop: the red icon was moving south toward the river. Grossi and Pirlo were running to the car. They opened the doors and got in the rear seat.

  "Go straight and take a right on Via Pio X," Arturo told Luciano.

  They were waiting to turn when the taxi passed them, Signor Tallenger in the rear seat, clearly visible. They followed, took the bridge over the Tiber and drove along the river, giving the taxi plenty of room. Arturo was thinking he should radio backup and tell them what was happening. The taxi was going left now, slowing down and stopping at the Pantheon.

  They parked on the street across from Replay, a clothing store. It was interesting to watch Signor Tallenger step out of the Fiat with the heavy bag, the weight of it pulling him to one side. The kidnappers had this rich, powerful man running around the city and he was clearly not used to this. He was standing with his back to the Pantheon, standing out among the tourists posing in front of the famous church, or was it a temple? Signor Tallenger, the only person not staring at it, smiling, pointing, admiring it. His body language saying he was waiting for something to happen.

  A few minutes later Signor Tallenger reached into his jacket pocket and took out his cell phone and brought it to his ear. He listened for several seconds and then he was moving again, running, or trying to, the bag weighing him down. He crossed the square, Arturo picturing the maze of streets behind the Pantheon, narrow and congested, difficult to follow in an automobile. He sent Grossi and Pirlo after the senator. Then he radioed his backup units, explaining what was happening. He had two cars, four Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, GIS, in each. One car was standing by at Palazzo Ruspoli, the second on Via Nazionale east of the Forum.

  Arturo watched the red icon wind slowly around to Via del Corso and stop, not moving for several minutes and then resuming, going faster now, heading toward the Piazza Venezia. Pirlo checked in and told him Signor Tallenger had gotten on a bus.

  "What number?"

  "Twenty-three."

  Arturo said, "Where is it going?"

  "I called transit dispatch, a man named Fortuna said Via Labicana," Pirlo said. "East of the Colosseum."

  Arturo glanced at Luciano. "What is on Via Labicana?"

  "I don't know."

  They turned right on Via del Corso and they drove past Piazza Venezia and the Wedding Cake and the Forum, the red icon moving southeast. Arturo could see the green 23 bus a few car lengths ahead. The bus slowed and stopped when it got to the Colosseum. He saw Signor Tallenger get o
ff and move to a taxi and get in.

  The taxi drove around the Colosseum, turned right on Via Claudia and right again on a narrow street with a church straight ahead.

  "What is this place?" Luciano said.

  Arturo glanced at him and said, "Santi Giovanni e Paolo, a church and monastery."

  The taxi stopped in the piazza in front of the church. Signor Tallenger emerged with the soccer bag over his shoulder.

  "The second church," Luciano said.

  "The third if you count the Pantheon. It is a church or a temple? I suppose that depends on what you believe."

  "It was built as a temple and used as a Catholic church." He paused.

  "Maybe the kidnappers are priests," Luciano said, his eyes smiling again.

  "They're robbing tourists because the Vatican has run out of money," Arturo said, taking it to another level of absurdity.

  "The Vatican has more money than the Italian government," Luciano said.

  They watched Signor Tallenger enter the church and watched the taxi drive off.

  "Captain, is this going to be another false alarm?"

  "I wish I could tell you." All he knew was the ransom would eventually exchange hands and he hoped he would be there to arrest the kidnappers. But as they entered the church, it occurred to Arturo that yes, they had followed the senator to two other churches, but this was the first time he had actually entered one of them, so he believed this was where the exchange would take place.

  Chapter Nine

  They crossed the small piazza lined with palm trees in terracotta planters. Arturo glanced at the bell tower that was Romanesque, and the front of the church that was medieval. He walked between two lions guarding the entrance, dipped his fingers in the holy water font, and made the sign of the cross. The interior was narrow and not very deep from front to back, maybe fifty meters, a series of columns left and right, extending the length of the nave, forming a semi-circle where it met the altar. It was a well-preserved gem, with mustard-color walls that had a marble pattern, trimmed in dark green and brown.

  He looked down the main floor for Signor Tallenger. It was dark and difficult to see. There were a few tourists moving around, but no one carrying a white soccer bag. He was looking up at the engaged columns with jutting pilasters. Words remembered from an art history class taken at the university thirty years before. It was difficult to admit it had been that long. But, it was true. Arturo was going to be fifty-one in March. Fifty-one! Remembering his father, a laborer at that age, used up and on the decline, his life almost over.

  He moved along the transept to the right, glancing through the columns, trying to find Signor Tallenger. Luciano went to the left and they would meet near the main altar.

  Arturo had gone almost as far as the altar before he saw him, the man standing in the shadow of a column as Arturo came up behind him, the shape of the soccer bag unmistakable. Signor Tallenger seemed to be waiting for a tourist group that was huddled together, looking up at the ceiling of the nave. When they finally moved away, continuing their tour, Signor Tallenger approached the altar and placed the white bag somewhere on the floor next to it, and walked down the main aisle toward the front of the church.

  Arturo looked up over the altar at the shafts of light angling in from the clerestory windows, and he had a feeling that something was wrong. That the money had already exchanged hands. In his mind, he saw Tallenger meeting a kidnapper on the 23 bus and discreetly transferring the money into another identical bag. The notion actually seeming intelligent and likely to be true.

  Arturo stood inside the transept, using a column for cover. He saw a monk appear behind the altar, hands in prayer, genuflecting before the crucifix. He had seen monks in their simple brown tunics outside the church and knew there was a monastery next door. The monk made the sign of the cross. He lighted candles on the altar, a dozen of them, taking his time. He did not seem to notice the soccer bag that was clearly out of place in the house of God.

  The monk lighted a few more candles and came back to the altar. Now he seemed to focus on the soccer bag, bending his legs, genuflecting, and disappearing from view. Arturo hesitated for a minute, thinking the monk was still on his knees, praying, but then he saw him reappear with the bag, moving behind the altar. The monk moved to the rear wall and disappeared again. Arturo radioed Luciano, "Did you see him, the monk? Let's go."

  They were sitting outside at a cafe in Campo di Fiori, the market bustling with activity, women hassling vendors over the price of parsley and basil and tomatoes, everyone wanting a bargain.

  "You don't look like a priest," Angela said, looking at his hair pulled back in a rakish ponytail. "Priests don't have hair like that. You'll call too much attention to yourself. We should have Sisto do it. He looks desperate enough."

  Mazara said, "You think priests look desperate?" He drank espresso, thinking he needed some extra energy for what he was about to do.

  "The ones who know they do not have the calling," Angela said.

  Mazara said, "How do you know about priests?" He lighted a cigarette.

  "I have a cousin who was ordained and lives there at the monastery," Angela said. "He tells me what they talk about." She picked up her cup, sipped cappuccino.

  "I will use the hood," Mazara said. "Do you feel better now?" He brought the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled and blew out the smoke. "Did your cousin tell you how to get into the monastery?"

  "I used to visit him," Angela said. "He is a Passionist."

  "What is that?"

  "A Catholic religious order founded by St Paul of the Cross. Its real name is the Congregation of Discalced Clerks of the Most Holy Cross and Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ."

  Mazara gave her a broad smile. "Did you make this up?"

  "No," Angela said. "It happens to be true. Only they are not a full order, but a congregation. Founded to teach people how to pray. I think you could use some help in that area."

  "What is there to teach? You want to pray, you pray."

  "What do you know about it?"

  "Praying? Not very much any more," Mazara said.

  Angela lit a cigarette.

  "You said women are allowed in the monastery?"

  "If you are related," Angela said.

  "Or if you are a prostitute," Mazara said.

  "Why are you so negative about priests?" She pulled her sunglasses down and looked at him.

  "You would understand if one tried to molest you."

  Angela said, "This really happened?"

  "The priest from our village invited me to his office in the rectory," Mazara said. "It was a great honor. He told me to sit on his lap and I felt something hard poking into me. He said, 'Do you know what that is?'"

  Angela said, "How old were you?"

  "Eleven," Mazara said. "Old enough to know better."

  "What did you say?"

  He gave her a questioning look. "What do you think?"

  Angela said, "What did the priest say?"

  "It was the staff of God, and he wanted me to hold it."

  "What did you do?"

  "I ran," Mazara said.

  "I'm sure it was shocking," Angela said, "but I have to ask you — can you do this? Because if you are not sure, I will dress like a nun and pick up the money."

  He said, "I like to see that. You would be a sexy nun."

  She said, "Let's go over it again."

  "You sound like your father. You have to be in control."

  She had to be careful what she said or he felt threatened. "I'm being cautious," Angela said. "Are you sure you know what to do?"

  He gave her a hard look. "That's enough."

  She dropped him off on Clivo di Scauro, and he walked up the hill to the monastery next to the church. He felt like a fool wearing the coarse brown robe with the hood pulled over his head and a rope belt — like he was going to a costume party. The robe was made out of wool and it was hot and itched.

  They had discussed the plan a dozen times. He would en
ter the monastery and walk through to the rectory and enter the church from the altar side. Angela told him if he saw anyone to press his hands together in prayer, close his eyes and pretend he was praying. She also told him some monks took the vow of silence. At that moment he wished she had taken a vow of silence — just close her mouth, stop talking and let him do it.

  He walked through to the sacristy, entering the church behind the main altar. He turned and genuflected, making the sign of the cross the way he had been taught as a schoolboy — so long ago he barely remembered the words to the prayers and the ritual of the mass.

  He looked down the main aisle into the darkness of the church, past the chairs set up for evening service. He expected to see a brigade of carabinieri, but instead he saw tourists scattered around the front of church, staring up at the ceiling the way he once had, studying the murals depicting the lives of apostles and saints, what else? He approached the altar from behind. The soccer bag was on the tile floor where Signor Tallenger had placed it. He pretended not to notice, taking care of his pre-mass duties, lighting candles and trying to stay calm, relaxed.

  Now he pressed his hands together in prayer, picked up the bag and moved to the back wall of the nave. There was a door. He opened it and walked down a staircase leading to the passages under the church. It was cool and dark. He turned on the flashlight and saw ancient rooms of the house of worship the church was built on.

  Mazara put the bag down and pulled the robe over his head, happy to remove it, the coarse fabric itching him like crazy. Above him he heard voices and the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. He picked up the bag, fit the strap over his shoulder and started running down a narrow passageway that was cut through the soft tufa rock. He imagined the graves of martyrs filling the walls. It was cool and smelled like the woods on a wet day, like soil, the air musty and heavy, difficult to breathe. He heard voices behind him but he did not stop to look.

  Arturo and Luciano followed the monk down the stairs into the darkness under the church, Arturo using his silver Zippo for illumination. He felt foolish. What was he going to do — chase the kidnapper through the scavi with a lighter? He stepped on something and almost tripped. He held the lighter down and saw the monk's robe on the brick floor. He tried to radio his backup units, but could not make contact through the thick stone foundation of the church.