Sign of the Cross

by Glenn Cooper

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because I’d kill you. Then I’d be killed. Now close the window and screw them shut. Now.’

  To Giovanni’s despair, Martin closed the windows and went looking for tools.

  ‘Did you find it?’ Giovanni asked in English.

  ‘The statue wasn’t at your mother’s flat,’ Gerhardt said. ‘Your sister had it.’

  ‘Where was she?’

  ‘In Munich. With the American professor.’

  ‘Donovan?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The priest shook off his confusion. ‘Why were they in Munich?’

  ‘Nice place to visit.’

  He had so many questions but he asked the most important one first. ‘So you’ve got it?’

  ‘We do.’

  ‘You didn’t hurt Irene.’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘And you didn’t hurt my mother.’

  ‘She’s fine too.’

  ‘You’ll release me now?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need you to speak to someone.’

  Gerhardt took out his mobile and made a call.

  ‘It’s me. Can you talk to him now?’

  He handed the phone to Giovanni who said a tentative hello.

  ‘Greetings, father,’ Schneider said. He was talking from a hall near a dining room. Giovanni could hear the clatter and chatter of men eating. ‘I must apologize for all the trouble we’ve put you through. I assure you it was necessary.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Someone who desperately wanted your Holy Nail.’

  ‘How did you know I had it?’

  ‘By following a very long, very incomplete trail of breadcrumbs.’

  ‘You’ve got the nail but this man told me he won’t release me.’

  ‘I need you to do one small additional task for us. Then you will go free.’

  ‘What task?’

  ‘You’ll need to take a journey to a destination that we shall reveal in due time. Once there you’ll need to do something quite mundane, trivial really.’

  ‘I don’t wish to cooperate with you in any way,’ Giovanni moaned. ‘I’ve been subjected to torture. You’ve surely frightened my family. Release me or kill me. At this point I don’t care which.’

  ‘Such nonsense from a priest, a rational man of God. What we ask of you is completely benign. You might even enjoy it.’

  ‘No! I won’t help you.’

  ‘I see. Could you please give the phone back to my colleague?’

  Gerhardt listened to Schneider for a few moments and told him he’d ring him back. Then he opened the photo app on his phone, called Giovanni over with a crooked finger and played a file.

  It was a video recorded in a furnished room Giovanni didn’t recognize. The camera panned to the right and what he saw made him sag to the floor in despair.

  His mother, aunt and nephew – all terrified – were standing against a lime-green wall next to a smugly smiling Gerhardt.

  Gerhardt asked, ‘What do you say I call my boss back?’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Colonel Juan Garrido of the Spanish Civil Guard took his videoconference speaker off its mute setting to speak again to Lieutenant Colonel Cecchi, who was conferenced in from Rome. Garrido had been offline conferring with aides at the Guard’s command center in Madrid and with additional personnel in Barcelona. While they talked, Cecchi had been watching the muted split-screen view of both Spanish sites.

  They had settled on English as a common language for the call and Garrido now said, ‘In the interest of cooperation, my men and I would really appreciate more transparency on how you obtained this drawing.’

  ‘As I told you,’ Cecchi said, ‘that is an operational detail involving the abduction of the priest, Giovanni Berardino, which I am not at liberty to divulge.’ He delivered the lie he had settled upon, ‘It involves a confidential informant who is in an extremely delicate situation.’ He couldn’t very well have said, trust me, it involves something I don’t understand or even believe in, something called quantum entanglement.

  Clearly exasperated, Garrido said, ‘So why don’t you ask your confidential informant where he or she was when they made the picture?’

  ‘I wish it were that easy, Colonel. One day perhaps I will be able to share my dilemma with you but unfortunately, not today. So, all I can do is ask for your trust and understanding. I need an answer to our question of whether it was possible to match the drawing with a known location on the Spanish coast.’

  ‘A coastline that is five thousand kilometers in length,’ Garrido said.

  Cecchi sighed. ‘I won’t be terribly surprised if your answer is, ‘we cannot help the Carabinieri.’’

  ‘We do strive to cooperate with our fellow carabiniers,’ Garrido said, ‘which is why I passed your drawing to my command staffs in all our coastal regions. As it happens, our Catalan colleagues in Girona were able to provide some insights. That is why I have included Comandante Tomau Caral from Barcelona in the telecon. Comandante, please …’

  Caral held up his copy of Irene’s drawing in one hand and said, ‘Actually, this is quite a classic view from our coastal region of Costa Brava. There’s really no doubt. I am certain the window depicted is overlooking the town of Begur.’

  Cecchi leaned forward in surprise. ‘I see. And this Font Vella water, is it a common brand?’

  ‘It is sold everywhere,’ Caral said.

  ‘If I were to send you a Red Notice via Interpol, could you narrow the possible properties for which you might obtain a search warrant to a practical number?’

  ‘If your confidential informant is a good artist, that shouldn’t be a problem,’ Caral said. ‘I’ve already made a check on satellite imagery. There are really only a handful of houses with enough elevation to give this viewing angle of the town and the bay.’

  A squadron of Civil Patrol vehicles climbed the steep road up the foothills of the Pyrenees and pulled into the gravel drive of a canary-yellow cottage. A woman was tending a vegetable garden and she leaned on her hoe when Comandante Caral emerged from a Santana light utility military vehicle.

  ‘What do you want?’ the woman asked suspiciously.

  ‘We wish to search your house.’

  ‘What for?’

  He brushed off the question and said, ‘We have a warrant. It will take only a few minutes and we’ll be off. Is anyone inside?’

  ‘Just my husband. Go ahead and make a lot of noise. He needs to get off his ass and help me out here.’

  When they were done, Caral said to his first sergeant, ‘The view from the kitchen was close but we need a taller house or one higher up the mountain.’

  Before leaving he asked the owner about the other dwellings on the road.

  ‘Holiday rentals,’ she said contemptuously. ‘Foreigners. Our kind are getting priced out of living in our own province.’

  The next house was almost two hundred meters to the northeast at a higher elevation. It was plastered a brilliant white and was more substantial than the previous one, with a full first and a small second story. There were no cars outside. Caral knocked on the door. After hearing nothing he sent two men to the rear and ordered that an entry-level window be forced. Soon an officer was wiggling through into the kitchen. He went around and opened the front door for the comandante.

  ‘Hello?’ Caral called out from the front hallway. ‘Police on a warrant.’

  The lounge was a mess of pizza boxes, dirty plates and crushed cans. Cigarette butts filled ashtrays and water-filled plastic cups. The room smelled of stale tobacco and beer.

  ‘Search everywhere but don’t touch anything,’ Caral said, sending men up the stairs.

  Before long he was summoned to the first floor where one of his men was already snapping pictures with his phone.

  Caral’s nose twitched from the smell of urine filling a paint bucket. The room was quite dark. A single floor lamp had a low-wattage b
ulb and the window shutters were closed. The bed was unmade and caked with dried blood.

  He went to the window, withdrew a handkerchief and pressed his cloth-wrapped hand against the shutters. They didn’t budge and he saw why; they were crudely screwed to the sills and window frames.

  There were another two bedrooms and two bathrooms on the level. In the communal bathroom the vanity top and sink were smeared with blood.

  From the hall came, ‘Comandante!’

  There was a single room at the top of the stairs, a small, light-filled en suite bedroom. Caral was immediately drawn to the window that overlooked the rear of the house with a sweeping view of the town of Begur and the bay. He took his copy of Irene’s drawing and calmly held it up, comparing the perspective and the details. Then he looked down at the floor. There were empty plastic bottles of Font Vella water at his feet.

  He pocketed the drawing, took a photo from the window and sent it via a text.

  His phone rang almost immediately.

  ‘Cecchi’s confidential informant had it right, Colonel Garrido,’ Caral said. ‘Giovanni Berardino was held here, in a rental, there’s little doubt. But it looks like he’s long gone.’

  Cecchi got the call from Garrido. He listened, thanked the colonel for his cooperation and immediately rang Irene.

  ‘You and Professor Donovan were absolutely right,’ he said. ‘Your brother was in Spain, one hundred kilometers north of Barcelona. The Spanish police found the house where he was held. Unfortunately, he was no longer there but there are many new leads for us to pursue. I don’t pretend to understand how you and your brother are communicating but I cannot deny that it’s happening.’

  ‘What about my mother?’

  ‘Patience, please. I’ll call again soon.’

  Cecchi slid his mobile into his jacket. He was in the gritty Testaccio neighborhood of Rome, where he and a squad of Carabinieri had rolled up in their Land Rovers and parked outside a pharmacy, blocking all but motorcycle traffic along the narrow street. As car horns began to blare and drivers argued with the officers who stayed with the vehicles, Cecchi and several men rushed up the stairs to one of the flats above the pharmacy.

  A man in a wife-beater T-shirt was looking out the window of the second-floor flat to see what was causing the commotion when he heard a banging.

  ‘Police. Open the door!’

  ‘What do you want?’ he called out and, when the demand was repeated, he unlocked it to find a short-barreled assault rifle aimed at his chest.

  ‘What the hell?’

  ‘Hands on top of your head,’ an officer ordered. ‘Now.’

  Cecchi followed the armed men inside. The man backed into his sitting room with his arms up. Over the clattering of an off-kilter table fan, he demanded to know what was going on.

  ‘Gianni Crestani?’ Cecchi asked.

  ‘That’s my brother. I’m Mario.’

  ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’

  Cecchi took the cigarette dangling from the guy’s lips and stubbed it out on the rug.

  The flat was tiny and it took no time to search it. An officer came from the bedroom with a small bag of marijuana buds.

  ‘That’s not mine,’ the man shouted. ‘You planted it.’

  Cecchi rolled his eyes. ‘A lieutenant colonel of the ROS raids a flea trap to plant a twenty-euro bag of weed on an insignificant thug. Tell me another one.’

  Another officer came from the kitchenette with a small stack of mail.

  Mario Crestani was patted down for weapons. The identity card in his wallet confirmed his name. Cecchi told him to sit down and sorted through the letters. One was from a bank. Cecchi opened it, had a quick look and put it in his jacket pocket.

  ‘Isn’t it illegal to open a guy’s mail?’ the man asked.

  Cecchi ignored him. ‘I’ll ask you again, where’s your brother?’

  ‘And I’ll tell you again. I don’t have a clue.’

  ‘This is his flat.’

  ‘Yeah, so what? I’m staying here.’

  ‘When did you see him last?’

  ‘A week ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Where was he going?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘You got a record, smart guy?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Been to jail?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You’re an idiot, you know that?’ Cecchi said. ‘It won’t take me five minutes to know more about you than your whore of a mother. I looked up Gianni already. Know what I found? He’s done time. Four stretches. Know what I know? He’s looking at least twenty years for his latest adventure.’

  ‘Yeah? What do you think he’s done?’

  ‘He’ll be lucky if it only goes as far as kidnapping.’

  Cecchi had become Cal and Irene’s personal protector in Rome. He refused to let them check into a hotel where they’d have to present their identification to a front desk. He didn’t know how they’d been found in Munich, but he refused to take any chances. He offered them the keys to a private flat on the Via Veneto the Carabinieri used for visiting VIPs from foreign law enforcement agencies.

  The smoke from the hotel fire had destroyed Irene’s clothes so their first order of business was shopping. Her frugality made her balk at using the boutiques along the Via Veneto but Cal whipped out his American Express card and insisted, arguing that they were too tired to go tramping around for bargains.

  The saleswoman must have thought her customers odd or at least dysfunctional. Cal, the putative husband or boyfriend with a bandaged hand, slumped on a banquette in a semi-stupor, who paid little attention to the items Irene was trying on, and Irene, who monosyllabically accepted anything that fit without regard to the saleswoman’s input.

  Arriving back to the flat they found a note from Cecchi’s secretary with two bags of groceries. Cal put on some coffee but fell asleep on the sofa before it brewed. When he briefly awoke an hour later, he found a comforter over him and heard Irene softly breathing from the darkened bedroom.

  When Cal properly woke up; it was to the smell of simmering sauce. A glance at his watch confused him at first. It was almost midnight; he’d slept for hours. Irene was in the kitchen wearing her new jeans and top, turning their provisions into a meal.

  ‘Smells good,’ he said, startling her.

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you.’

  ‘It’s a lot of food for one person.’

  She tried to smile. ‘I’m quite a big eater.’

  There was some red wine in a kitchen rack. He pulled out a bottle and searched the drawers for a corkscrew.

  ‘Want some?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll never drink again,’ she said. ‘How can you?’

  He tried the pinot noir. ‘I might have to go easy on vodka for a few days.’

  He watched her sorrowful eyes as she performed the small task of draining the pasta.

  ‘I wish there was something I could do,’ he said.

  He knew she understood he was talking about her wretchedness, not dinner.

  ‘I didn’t think it could become more awful,’ she finally said.

  He didn’t say anything; he wanted to let her talk.

  She steadied herself against the counter. ‘I mean, Jesus, Cal, here I am, wracked with worry about Giovanni, then crushed with anxiety about mama and auntie and Federico, and then Munich happens.’

  He mumbled, ‘I know …’

  Her lip trembled. ‘This horrible humiliation, being stripped naked by a monster, a man who was probably responsible for our family tragedy, and then …’

  He knew what she was thinking.

  ‘Look, just so you know, I had a woman bring me the sheets from her room before I carried you downstairs.’

  ‘Cal,’ she said, exasperated, ‘I’m talking about you. You saw me. You’re probably used to a different kind of woman, m
ore modern, but for me, it’s a mortification, an indignity.’

  ‘Look, I know it was a horrible experience. I’m so very sorry it happened to you. You’re the last person in the world who deserved it. But please believe me it’s not something that’s a big deal for me. It doesn’t change the way I feel about you and besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  He looked away for fear of embarrassing her more. ‘You’re a very beautiful woman.’

  Her face melted into a puddle of tears.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Maybe this wasn’t the right time to say something like that.’

  ‘Damn it, Cal, don’t you see?’ she cried.

  He didn’t see. He felt helpless and useless.

  ‘I’m attracted to you. I’ve never met a man like you before and I don’t know what to do.’

  He smiled weakly. ‘I’m attracted to you too. Next steps aren’t all that complicated for a couple of unattached people.’

  ‘But I am attached, don’t you see?’ she said. ‘With my family who are in so much danger – maybe they’re hurt, maybe they’re – I can’t even say the word … I can’t even think about romance. And if these thoughts even creep into my head, they need to be flushed away. Do you understand?’

  He did. He understood completely.

  Did he want her right now? Yes.

  Was he going to do anything about it? Not a chance.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  He was dressed in new, typical-tourist clothes: khaki slacks, trainers and a ball cap. Given the scorching heat of the midsummer day, the only garment that didn’t quite fit the look was the long-sleeved shirt that still bore the sharp creases from its plastic packaging. His small carry-on case, also purchased earlier in the day, had new pairs of socks and underwear, a couple of shirts and some travel-size Spanish toiletries. He exited the car without exchanging words with the two men who had driven him to the Barcelona-El Prat Airport and made his way to the Iberia ticket counter.

  ‘I have a reservation,’ he said.

  ‘Your name, sir?’

  He hesitated long enough for the agent to look up from her terminal and peer at him over her spectacles.

  ‘Hugo Egger,’ he said.

  ‘Passport, please.’

  He slid the Swiss passport over the counter.