Fault Lines

by Thomas Locke

  “You. Pay attention.” Edoardo required no additional volume to inject a note of menace. “We need a room for an hour.”

  “Less,” Alessandro said.

  “We’ll have our meeting and we’ll leave. That’s all you need to know.”

  Alessandro sighed. “I apologize for my colleague. But we are dealing with a most critical matter. You are aware, of course, of the recent incident at the Bar Azzurra.”

  “None of those people were our clients.”

  “Naturally not. But one of their colleagues will shortly be arriving in your bank. We require a room. For a brief conference. To ensure that no illegality occurs here in the future.”

  The bank director clearly did not like it. But one glance in Edoardo’s direction was enough for him to say, “I’ll see to it.”

  “We are in your establishment’s debt.”

  When the director scurried away, Edoardo demanded, “Our target is tied to the Azzurra mess?”

  “Charlie thinks so. From what he told me this morning, I agree.”

  “So why don’t we have this conversation back at headquarters?”

  “Because it is possible that this gentleman is being used. Not that I am suggesting he is entirely innocent. He was definitely walking the wrong side of the street. He hid quite a large sum from the tax authorities by using numbered Swiss accounts. This has come to light. I am thinking perhaps some of our old foes may have forced him into aiding their plan to take out the scientists.”

  “I hate him already.”

  “It may help us if he happens to know that.”

  Edoardo hesitated, then asked, “Forgive me, old friend. But are you certain you can trust these scientists and their guards?”

  Alessandro’s mind flashed back to an image of earlier that morning, as his wife emerged from the Church of San Fedele. She had slipped the mantilla lace from her head and stowed it in her purse. Dipped her fingers in the holy water and crossed herself. Then paused at the doorway and turned back for one final moment of silence. Alessandro had stood and watched her in utter amazement. It was the first time Carla had accompanied him to weekday mass in nine and a half years.

  He realized Edoardo was still waiting for a reply. Alessandro said simply, “With my life.”

  “Byron McLaren?”

  “What—uh, yes?”

  “How do you do? My name is Alessandro Gavi. Will you come with me, please?”

  “I’m, uh, waiting for someone . . .”

  “We are aware of all that, sir. Please, this way.”

  “But it’s very important—”

  “Dr. Gabriella Speciale has been unavoidably delayed. If you will just—”

  “Now look here. Your bank stands to gain a great deal from my being here.”

  “Actually, Mr. McLaren, I am with the police.”

  His professional tan went waxy, like coloring applied to a corpse. “What?”

  “We have a few questions.” Alessandro did not need to turn around to know Edoardo was presenting the American with his most menacing glare. “Either we can cover them here, or we can place you under arrest, cuff you, and take you to police headquarters. The choice, Mr. McLaren, is yours.”

  When they entered the conference room, Alessandro shooed away the bank executive, shut the door, and made a process of settling Byron McLaren into a chair and then seating himself across the table. Edoardo took a leather case the size of his wallet from his pocket. He turned the miniature gadget on and swept the room. “This thing is often wrong.”

  “It is probably not necessary. I doubt very much the bank would wish to have any record of our even being here.”

  McLaren watched Edoardo slowly move about the room, waving his arm at the walls and the lights and the phone and the table. “What is he doing?”

  “This is for your own safety, Mr. McLaren. We need to be certain that the bank is not monitoring our conversation.”

  Alessandro’s calm tone did nothing to assuage the American’s tension. “I want my lawyer.”

  “We would be most happy to accommodate you, Mr. McLaren. Although I must tell you, there is actually no requirement for us to grant you legal representation at this point.”

  “But I’m an American.”

  “And what a very fortunate man you are. But I regret to inform you that this is Italy, and your nationality changes nothing. If you wish to have your attorney present, we will need to take you to headquarters and arrange for a hearing before a magistrate, which will necessitate formally charging you with a criminal offense. We would then be required to fingerprint you and have you wait in custody until your representative can be contacted. Which we would happily do, if you insist. But the process could take days. Even weeks in some cases.”

  “No, no, this is insane. All I want—”

  “Is to see your ex-wife. Yes, we know all about that, sir. Now then, if you will just be so kind as to answer a few questions, hopefully—”

  “Did Gabriella set this up?” He managed a bit of futile rage. “Oh, cute. I suppose this is her idea of revenge.”

  Edoardo’s English was brutally awful, his grammar almost as bad as his accent. He shut off his monitor, flipped open his jacket far enough to reveal his weapon, pulled out his badge, and slammed it down so hard McLaren blanched. “You. Signor American. Read what says.”

  “I-I don’t speak—”

  “Read!”

  The American squinted over the badge. “Guardia di Finanza.”

  “Edoardo, please.” Alessandro pushed the badge away. “My associate is a detective with the national anti-Mafia police force. And I am the senior bailiff of Como. What my colleague is trying to tell you, Mr. McLaren, is that senior officials of Italy’s judiciary are not in the habit of playing roles for women, no matter how beautiful they might be.”

  Edoardo slipped the badge back in his pocket. He growled in Italian, “She’s pretty, his ex?”

  “Utterly stunning. According to Charlie, she filed for divorce after catching him with other women. Many times.”

  Edoardo slapped his cuffs on the table. “Then the man should be locked up for stupidity.”

  McLaren jerked away from the glinting metal braces. “No, wait. That’s not . . .”

  “I completely agree.” Alessandro slid the cuffs farther away. “Perhaps you could tell us, Mr. McLaren, who is aware of your visit to Italy.”

  “What? I’m here—”

  “Because the terms of your prenup require a rather substantial payment. Did I say that correctly, ‘prenup’? We have already spoken with your ex-wife and are aware of these matters. But the timing, Mr. McLaren. This is what we find of such interest.”

  Edoardo said, “Ask him about the plane.”

  “My colleague is most interested in a flight that landed before dawn today at Malpensa Airport.”

  “I-I flew into Lugano.”

  “How nice for you. But you see, the plane that landed at Malpensa is what we call a ghost flight. It off-loaded ten people and a number of large crates and then departed. Yet no official record of this flight exists.”

  “I-I don’t . . .”

  “The airport’s log claims that no plane arrived, no people disembarked, no cargo was unloaded. But my associate has the airport under secret surveillance. We have photographs of all those who arrived. And they were met by a most unpleasant individual. A Ukrainian gentleman who handles much of this region’s illegal trade in prostitutes. This contact suggests a very high level of corruption. Not to mention what those crates might have contained.”

  “Drugs,” Edoardo growled. “Guns.”

  McLaren looked within nodding distance of a heart attack. “I just came to see my wife.”

  “Your ex-wife,” Alessandro corrected. “As I said, sir, the timing of your visit is quite remarkable. You see, we know all about the attack on Dr. Speciale’s villa.”

  “That has nothing to do with me!”

  “He’s lying,” Edoardo said. “Arrest him. Now.”
>
  “Let me be perfectly frank, Mr. McLaren. We could release you but keep your passport and issue strict instructions for you not to leave Como. Then let us say that in the next day or so your ex-wife is attacked a second time. The people who perpetuated the first assault were thugs associated with the gentleman who met the plane this morning.”

  “Killers,” Edoardo said. “Assassins.”

  “Indeed. Now let us say that this second attack results in the death or disappearance of your lovely ex-wife or her associates. Who, as far as we can tell, are doing nothing wrong.” Alessandro spread his hands. “You can see the situation we would be placed in. A woman who recently forced her husband through a humiliating divorce, being assaulted while you are in the area and on the loose.”

  McLaren flushed. “This is insane.”

  “Of course, sir. I quite agree. But you must see how this would look to us. A wealthy American makes contact with Italy’s underworld, which acts on his orders—”

  “That is not what is happening here!”

  Edoardo did a vulture’s loom over the poor man’s chair. “You know of these people! You are . . .” He snarled to Alessandro in Italian, “Give me the word.”

  “My colleague is convinced you are colluding with organized crime in a distinctly illegal activity,” Alessandro said. “Which is a felony under Italian law.”

  McLaren swiped at his face with both hands. And moaned.

  “It would only be to your advantage, sir, to tell us everything you know.”

  The words emerged from behind his hands. “I’m being framed.”

  “If that proves to be the case, we will erase your name from our files. This meeting never happened. You can now understand why we wanted this conversation to take place outside of police headquarters.” Alessandro pulled the mini recorder from his pocket. “Which is where, I regret to tell you, we must now move this conversation. Unless, that is, you tell us everything.”

  The telling took quite some time. When it was done, Edoardo spread out his photographs on the table. McLaren gave them a swift glance. “I only know one of them.”

  “Look longer,” Edoardo demanded.

  But not even the detective’s growl could raise the man from his gloom. “I’m telling you, the only person I’ve seen is this woman here.”

  Alessandro asked, “Her name?”

  “Reese Clawson.”

  “And you are claiming that she somehow managed to make a withdrawal from your Swiss accounts.”

  “She didn’t withdraw. She cleaned me out.”

  “And the sum was?”

  “We’ve been over and over this.”

  “Only because it is so vital.”

  “Eighty-seven million.”

  “Francs.”

  “Dollars.” The man looked like a wax doll held too close to the flame of avarice. “It’s gone. All of it.”

  “You will please excuse me, Mr. McLaren. But for someone to access a private Swiss account suggests a level of power that is, well, rather hard to believe.”

  “I checked. Believe me. I’ve checked and I’ve called and I’ve gotten nowhere. It’s just . . .”

  “Yes? Please do tell us.”

  “I’ve heard rumors for years about this group. They call themselves the Combine. They’re supposed to be the top guns from different industries. People who hire and fire presidents of countries. After this happened, I started asking around. And I got a call.”

  “Who from?”

  “A guy so far up the power ladder he breathes a different air. He told me to stop asking. He said if I didn’t, I’d be gone faster than my money.”

  Alessandro leaned back in his chair and asked in Italian over McLaren’s bowed head, “What do you think?”

  “You’ve wrung him dry.” Edoardo gave a grudging nod. “You have missed your calling. We could use you in the Guardia.”

  “That is high praise, coming from you. Have you ever heard of this group?”

  “I’ll check. But nothing comes to mind.”

  “It couldn’t hurt to spread this around a little.” Alessandro switched back to English. “Very well, Mr. McLaren. There is just one small matter left to handle.”

  “I’ve told you everything.”

  “And we are indeed grateful for your cooperation. So now if you will just make the transfer, you are free to go.”

  The American jerked upright. “What transfer?”

  “Why, is that not clear? The one you came to Italy to make. The two million dollars you owe your wife. Please excuse me. Ex-wife.” Alessandro held out his hand. “If you will please be so kind as to give me your passport, this will be returned to you once she acknowledges the funds have been received.”

  45

  Como’s clothing stores smelled of crushed flowers and oiled wood panels and money. Julio thought the prices were gun-to-the-head high. As in, three hundred dollars for a shirt.

  Elizabeth might have been semi-poor, but she was the right lady for the day. He knew this because, when she pulled out a pair of pants by Ungaro and he caught sight of the price, then converted it from Euros into dollars and got ready to holler, Elizabeth gave him a tiny slit of the icy gaze. Julio caught the message in a flash. Suck it up, big boy. You’re playing with the major leaguers now.

  Elizabeth guided him through the purchase of two complete outfits—one in grey and the other in midnight blue—from shoes to cashmere sweaters, then made him wear the greys out of the store. Truth be told, he would have gone for a little more color and a lot less severe. But then she hiked up his shirt collar enough to hide all but the top line of his neck tattoo, smiled for real, and said, “You clean up good, ese.”

  There were worse ways to spend a rainy day.

  They stopped for a stand-up meal of toasted sandwiches and fresh-squeezed orange juice and the finest cup of coffee Julio had ever tasted. As they were finishing, he said, “Can I ask a favor?”

  Elizabeth instantly got that locked-and-loaded set to her features. Ready to shoot him with those ice bullets of hers, straight to the heart. But all she said was, “Sure, Julio. Ask away.”

  “It sounds like anybody who wants to do this thing, they work as a team. Am I right?”

  “You’re talking about ascending?”

  “That’s the deal. Will you do it with me?”

  She hesitated. “Not everybody can handle it.”

  “Hey, I’ve taken off on a twenty-foot Puerto Rican rocket. I can handle anything.”

  “Everybody knows you’ve got the goods. There are other ways to help out than doing a kamikaze dive off the deep end of reality.”

  “No, I mean it. I want to get out there, shoot myself out of their cannon. I can’t tell you why. But it calls to me.” The words came faster now in the face of possible denial. “I used to feel that way about the waves. Wake up before dawn, lie there, knowing the sound I hear isn’t thunder. Monster waves, just waiting to chew my bones. Waves big enough to kill. But I go out there anyway, because I feel the hunger and the power and the thrill, and I know I can handle this thing. I lost that hunger somewhere. Don’t ask me how. But it’s gone. Now it’s back. I hear this thing calling to me. This ascent. I want to do it.”

  Elizabeth gave him a long look, then said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  Which just about did it for their one moment of intimacy. “Sure thing.”

  Julio paid and they left the café and he opened the umbrella, half expecting her to draw away. But she fell into step beside him, their shoulders touching. When they reached the lakefront, she said, “I can’t ascend. I tried and I failed. It felt like I was trapped inside a straitjacket.”

  “Man, that is tough.”

  She stayed silent on the road that wound around the lake. Julio figured it was her way of saying he needed to go ask somebody else. And there was no reason for him to feel as disappointed as he did.

  But when they settled into the funicular for the ride back up to Brunate, she said so softly he almost misse
d the words, “I could feel something clenched all around me.”

  “What?”

  “My anger. It felt like I was wrapped in red-hot barbed wire.”

  “Whoa.”

  “It was worse than awful, Julio.” She looked at him, revealing the horror behind the ice. “I still have nightmares.”

  He read the warning written in her gaze. “That could be me.”

  She did not nod so much as rock. Forward and back. Once.

  They stayed like that for a while. Caught in the realization that they shared a lot more than either had expected.

  Finally Julio said, “I need to at least try to do this thing.”

  “I understand.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Yes. On one condition.” It seemed more than the altitude made breathing hard for her. “I want to try it again. I’ve wanted it ever since that day.”

  “So let’s do it, girl. Together. First me and then you.”

  Another slow rocking forward. “Okay.”

  Julio leaned back in his seat. “You know what this reminds me of? My first tow-in. The larger the wave, the more water rushes up the face. It gets to a certain size, you can’t paddle over the lip. You’ve got to be towed in behind Jet Skis. I was surfing a coral ridge off Tres Palmas in Puerto Rico. We’re talking maybe twenty-five, thirty feet. Strong offshores. Barrels so big you could park a train inside. The sound of those waves breaking was this constant rip, like they tore holes in the world. I could feel the sound in my chest.”

  Elizabeth had that look in her eyes again, letting him see down below the iced surface, down deep to where the real woman lived. “But you did it, right? You went.”

  “That’s the rule of the jungle, baby. Go for it.”

  She linked up with him as they left the funicular and started toward the villa. The air was a lot colder up top, and the wind was strong enough to blow the rain under his umbrella. But Elizabeth did not seem to mind. Instead, as they made the final turn to the road leading to the villa, she said, “I’m glad we could do this today, Julio. Really, really glad.”

  He was still working on a halfway decent response to that little gift when he caught sight of the cars. And the men seated inside.