When she heard Henry Durning’s personal secretary say that the attorney general was out of the office at this time, Peggy asked the operator to pass on the message that Irene Hopper would call again at exactly 1:30 P.M. Washington time, and that it was absolutely vital for the attorney general to be there to speak with her.
To ensure against possible mistakes, Peggy insisted that the secretary repeat the entire message.
She hung up and walked back to her car. Then she sat watching the people strolling along the streets, going into and out of shops, and driving by in their automobiles.
I used to do all these things.
Henry Durning returned to his office from a White House meeting half an hour later and received Peggy’s message along with a bunch of others. It had been clocked in as an overseas call at exactly 11:32 A.M. Durning told his secretary to hold all calls until further notice and got the head of the Justice Department’s Communications Section on the line.
“A person-to-person call came into my office from Italy at 11:32 A.M.,” he said. “I want to know precisely where it originated. City, town, switching station, phone number, location. Everything. And fast.”
The attorney general had it all seven minutes later. Not only that the call had come from Ravello, but that it had been made from a pay phone, in an Esso service station, on the Via Contari where it crossed the Via Teno.
He walked out to where his secretary was sitting and put the memorandum on her desk.
“Did you take this call yourself?”
She glanced at the flimsy. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear the woman speaking at the other end?”
“Yes.”
“Was she speaking English or Italian?”
“English.”
“With or without an accent?”
“Without. As a matter of fact, she sounded like an American.”
Durning returned to his office and closed the door. Using his secure phone, he called Carlo Donatti’s personal number in his New York office tower.
The don answered on the third ring.
“It’s me,” said Durning. “Are you alone?”
“No. Hold just a moment, please.”
The line was silent. Durning’s mouth felt like sand when he swallowed. He drank some water and turned it to mud.
“All right,” said Donatti. “What’s happening?”
“I’ve been out of my office all morning. When I returned a few minutes ago, there was a message that the woman we’re looking for had called me person-to-person at 11:32 and would call back at exactly 1:30 P.M.”
“You’re sure it was her?”
“Who else could it be? A woman calling person-to-person from Italy and, according to my secretary, speaking English like an American. Anyway, I had the call checked by Communications. It came from a pay phone at an Esso station in Ravello. Can you get word to some of your people in the area?”
“Of course,” said Donatti. “If they can’t get there themselves, they’ll reach others who can. How do you want it handled?”
“The way it should have been handled ten years ago.”
Donatti was silent.
“You have only about an hour and twenty minutes to set it up,” said Durning. “And the chances are she’s not going to be calling back from the same telephone or even from the same town. But I’ll try to hold her on long enough to let your people get a trace going.”
“What do you suppose she wants?”
“Her son. What else? She wants to make some sort of deal for him.”
“Would you be interested?”
“Why not? At least on the phone. I’ll agree to anything to keep her talking long enough for your people to reach her. After that, there’s only one kind of deal that can give me some peace. And you know what that is.”
“I’ll call when I have something,” said Donatti.
“If you have something, I’ll probably know before you do. Remember. I’ll be on the phone with her when it happens.”
The don accepted his unexpected good fortune with the same quiet equanimity with which he had learned to accept the bad. Had he planned this latest twist of fate himself, he could not have arranged things any better for his own needs. He felt the warmth of it pulse through him in the same way he had once felt the warmth of an especially desired woman. Except that if this went right, its results would be more sig nificant and longer lasting than anything ever offered to him sexually.
With no time to spare, he quickly made a call to Don Pietro Ravenelli’s private number at his villa outside of Palermo.
The man he heard answer was definitely not the Sicilian capo. And as far as Donatti knew, no one else had the authority to unlock and pick up Ravenelli’s secure phone.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“Michael Sorbino, counselor to Don Ravenelli.” Sorbino sounded tentative, quietly deferential. “With much respect, Don Donatti, I’m at your service.”
“You know my voice?”
“We’ve met several times, Godfather. But of course you wouldn’t remember.”
“What are you doing on this phone? Where is Don Pietro?”
Sorbino allowed himself a long moment before he answered. “He’s dead, Don Donatti. In the middle of the night. A terrible tragedy. Along with five of our family. It was that crazy man and his friend. The two you’ve been after. First, they hit two guards here at the villa. Then they took out three more after we thought we had them trapped. You wouldn’t believe such a disaster. And all because of the boy.”
Carlo Donatti let it filter through him. They had planted a wisp of a breeze and reaped a whirlwind.
“And they got away?”
“Yes. But we believe the boy’s father took at least a couple of hits. All doctors and hospitals are being checked.”
“And the boy himself?”
“The boy is gone, Don Donatti. Disappeared during the night like a ghost. And the two men guarding him were found shot in their bedroom.”
Donatti worked to control himself. “The men are dead?”
“Yes. Two of our best.”
“You think it was the boy’s father and Garetsky?”
“I can’t think who else. They had Don Ravenelli’s woman with them. She could have known where the boy was being held and taken them there.”
Donatti didn’t agree. If Vittorio had his son back, why would his wife be calling Durning? Unless they had not been in touch since last night, and she didn’t know the boy was with his father. But Carlo Donatti had something more important on his mind right now and time was getting tight.
“I take it you’re in charge there now, Michael?”
“I’m trying my best, Don Donatti. As you can understand, it’s a sad time for us all. But if I can be of service, you have only to ask.”
“As a matter of fact you can be of service. And it’s vital. If you can help me in this, I’ll be most grateful.”
“Please. Just tell me what you need.”
“Good. Then listen carefully because there’s a clock ticking. At 7:30 this evening, your time, a woman calling herself Irene Hopper will be making a person-to-person call to United States Attorney General Henry Durning in Washington, D.C. She’ll be calling from a pay phone either in Rav-ello or someplace not too far away. And you’re going to have to get a trace going on this call from the moment it’s put through. Are you with me so far?”
“Yes, Don Donatti.”
“So the overseas operators in that area will have to be alerted in advance. Which means you’ll need plenty of police cooperation. Can you get that?”
“No problem.”
“The attorney general will be doing all he can to stretch the conversation and hold the woman on the line as long as possible. But everyone will still have to move fast to pick her up. I don’t care who gets to her first, your people or the police. As long as she’s not hurt. That’s important. You understand that, Michael?”
“Yes.”
“If the pol
ice get her, you can pick her up from them and take her to that small white villa near the Palermo airport where I once had a meeting with Don Ravenelli. You know the place?”
“I know it, Don Donatti.”
“If your own people get to her first, the police don’t even have to be involved. Just take her directly to the villa, call me at my private number, and I’ll give you further instructions.”
“I don’t have your private number.”
Carlo Donatti gave it to him.
“You’re the only one who’s to know the number. Memorize it, then put it to a match. Do you have any questions?”
“Am I to know who this woman is?”
“She’s the missing boy’s mother.”
The line was silent for several beats.
“She doesn’t know her husband and his friend took the boy?” asked Sorbino.
“Evidently not. We don’t know that for sure, either.”
High in his New York office, Carlo Donatti glanced at his watch. “You have only about fifty minutes to make your calls and set things in motion. I would suggest you arrange for as many cars as possible… police and your own… to be spaced every few kilometers within a thirty-kilometer radius of Ravello. Then when the trace picks up the phone’s location, at least one of the cars should be no more than a few minutes’ drive away.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Thank you, Don Sorbino.”
Forty-five hundred miles away, Michael Sorbino swelled with pride and pleasure at the first official recognition of his new status as a boss. And from no less a personage than the all-powerful American capo di tutti capi himself, Don Carlo Donatti.
In New York, Donatti put down the phone and carefully went over the call in his mind. If all went well and his luck held, it might well turn out to be one of the more significant conversations of his life. But his major wild card was still the boy.
Where was he?
Was he even alive?
55
PEGGY DROVE INTO Amalfi at a bit after 7:00 P.M. Italian time. She made two slow turns around Flavio Gioia Square and parked with a long line of tourist shops on one side of her car, and the open sea on the other.
She had earlier chosen the phone she would use. It was in a glass booth at the far end of the square that would allow her a clear view of the area and anyone approaching. Once she was talking, she wanted no surprises.
Peggy sat stiffly in the car and watched people walking by. The sun was low and turning orange, with everyone’s skin going to copper. They looked like Indians, and Peggy suddenly wished she were an Indian. She wished she were just about anything but what she was. Then not liking the way her mind was working, she stopped thinking entirely.
It had showered earlier, and puddles had collected in some of the low places in the pavement. They reflected the sky and the buildings facing the square and sometimes people walking by. They were as smooth and perfect as mirrors until someone passed through them and shattered both image and glass.
At 7:25 Peggy left her car and went into the phone booth to set herself up. It was an old-fashioned booth with a seat and a small shelf, and she sat down and tried to make herself as comfortable and well organized as possible. She took a bunch of coins from her bag and arranged them in neat piles. She prepared a pad and pencil for any notes she might have to take relating to future calls or plans. She tried to breathe slowly and deeply to calm a growing sense of panic.
Then she lifted the receiver and once more began the process of putting through a long-distance, person-to-person call to Attorney General Durning in Washington.
This time Durning’s secretary passed the call right through to him, but then the line was quiet.
“Henry?” she said.
“Hello, Irene.”
Nine years flew away. His voice was the same.
“Will anyone be listening in?” she asked.
“No. The moment I got on, the line became secure at this end. You can speak freely.”
“I don’t know how good I’m going to be at this,” she said. “So I’m getting right to it. Is my son alive or dead?”
Durning didn’t answer for so long that Peggy felt her son’s death enter the silence. Then he said, “He’s alive.”
“And well?”
“Yes. He’s well, too.”
“All right. Then set him loose and you can have me. I’ll go wherever you say. I’ll do whatever you ask me to do.”
Once more, Durning let the silence stretch. “Just like that?” he said softly.
“Just like that.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”
“Why not? It’s me you want. Not Paulie. So I’m giving you me and you’re releasing Paulie. What makes that so complicated?”
“We do,” said Henry Durning. “You and I. Who and what we are. The fact that lives are at stake. The kind of guarantees that would be needed to deal with our all-too-understandable mutual distrust. All these things that would have to be worked out.”
What he did not tell her was that he was simply stalling for time to get a trace going.
“Then for God’s sake, let’s work them out. I just want Paulie safe in the hands of the International Red Cross in Naples. When that’s been confirmed, I’ll fulfill my end of the deal.”
Durning’s sigh drifted from Washington to Amalfi. “You used to be a damn good lawyer, but you’re certainly not talking like one now. Once your son is safely with the Red Cross, what guarantees would I have that you wouldn’t just disappear again?”
The operator broke in at this point to ask for additional money, and Peggy spent the next several moments clanging more of her coins into the box. By then, something from a long way back had entered her like a private, all-but-forgot ten woe, and it was enough to set her off into another time and direction.
“How could you have done it, Henry?” Even her voice had changed, had gone soft with a ten-year-old hurt.
Her sudden transformation had lost him. “How could I have done what?”
“Sent someone out to kill me. I mean originally. Ten years ago.”
No longer lost, he still had no answer for her.
“Didn’t you know me at all?” Peggy said. “I adored you. I’d have died sooner than betray you. I’d have done anything for you. I did anything for you.”
It took Henry Durning a long time to answer. When he did, his voice seemed as much changed as Peggy’s.
“It was my own craziness that betrayed me, not you. What can I tell you, Irene? That if I had it all to do over I wouldn’t have done it? All right. I wouldn’t have done it. Do you think I’m proud of what I’ve become? I’ve done the worst. But taking your boy was never my idea. I hope you believe that.”
“Why should it matter what I believe?”
“Because you loved me once. And as insane as it now sounds, I loved you.”
Peggy sat staring with blind eyes. The lying bastard could get his mouth to say just about anything. Yet with it all she was almost ready to believe it. “That’s just history,” she said tiredly. “The only thing I care about now is getting my son freed. You mentioned guarantees before. You said you didn’t want me disappearing once Paulie was safely with the Red Cross. All right. Tell me what kind of guarantees you want.”
“I’m afraid it’s more than just that.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a question of belief,” Durning said. “I guess I can’t really get myself to accept the idea of your being willing to—”
Peggy heard no more.
A man she had not even seen approaching had opened the booth, pulled the telephone receiver from her hand, and hung it up.
“Police,” he said, and showed her a badge and ID.
She stared dumbly at them. Then she saw that there were two other men with him. All three wore plainclothes, not uniforms, and their car was parked no more than ten feet away. The car carried official plates, but was otherwise unmarked.
Were they
really police?
Not that it mattered much in this country. The long arm of the mob reached into just about everything. And in this particular case, Henry Durning was clearly at the far end of the arm.
God, have I messed things up.
Then Peggy entered a small circle of calm and let it close around her. She knew that once she left it, there would be nothing.
“Would you please come with us?” said the detective who had showed her his badge and police identification.
“I don’t know what this is all about, Officer,” said Peggy, “but there’s obviously some mistake.”
“No, signora. There’s no mistake.”
“Who do you think I am?”
The detective just stared at her. As did the two men with him. They evidently had no identification for her other than the fact that she was talking on this particular phone at this particular time.
“I’m not a criminal,” Peggy said softly, out of her new calm. “I’m Mrs. Peter Walters, I’m an American citizen. I live with my husband and son in our own home in Positano, and I’m the owner of the Leonardo da Vinci Gallery of Art in Sorrento.”
She handed the alleged detective her purse. “If you’ll look in my bag, you’ll find my driver’s license, credit cards, and any other identification you might want.”
He gave her back the purse without opening it.
“I don’t doubt you, Mrs. Walters. But I’m afraid you’ll still have to come with us.”
“Come with you where?”
“To the Amalfi police station.”
“On what charges? Talking on a public pay telephone in Flavio Gioia Square?”
Then apparently out of patience, the officer in charge took her arm and started trying to pull her out of the booth.
Peggy grabbed the anchored telephone, braced herself, and held back.
“If you don’t let go of me, I’m going to scream, and kick, and yell, and make enough of a scene to bring two hundred angry, frightened people running to find out who’s being raped. Now is that what you’d really like to see happening here?”
The detective let go of her arm.
“Be reasonable, Mrs. Walters. We don’t know any more about this than you. We’re just trying to follow orders and do our job.”
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