The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  “Canizzaro is currently in England,” said her father.

  He was still shuffling paperwork as he spoke and avoiding eye contact, noted Maria.

  “London, to be precise,” continued her father, still not looking at her, “But we spoke briefly on the phone and he has sanctioned my request that you be given a role within his organisation.”

  Maria saw his body language signal extreme discomfort as he stopped talking, and she began rising from her seat with the thought that he might be having a heart attack. Then his body language abruptly changed again and his next words sent her back in her seat with a jolt.

  “You should understand, Maria, because he has asked me to make it clear to you, that he does so because you are your mother’s daughter and not simply because you are also mine.”

  Maria could see on her father’s face, the effort it had taken for him to relay this message. Apart from the distressed body language he had spoken calmly, but had spoken words which could be nothing other than insulting to such a proud and still powerful man. Giovanni Orsinni may now be an ex-consigliere, but he would still have the ear of Gino Buscharpa, his very own protégé and successor. She stared at her father, wondering how the message sender could have dared to command its delivery. Wondering also why he had done so.

  Her father was shuffling paperwork again, composing himself she thought, and she glanced around at her surroundings. She had spent many hours in this office throughout her life; it had been the venue for several heated confrontations with her father. She could remember coming here armed with the knowledge of what he had done to cause her mother’s illness. A debilitating knowledge which she had lived with throughout her formative years. A knowledge which had produced her growing influence over her father, a by-product which she had unashamedly learned to use whenever it had suited her.

  Maria waited patiently for her father to regain his composure, and allowed the memory tape to continue replaying in her mind. It had been here that she had argued the case for Tanaka to be allowed his freedom, and she smiled at that memory. It had also been here that her father had satisfied her voracious young appetite for knowledge and thirst for debate. He had recounted the story of his own young life following the deaths of his parents, and she had come to understand how his inescapable background had shaped him to become the man who had ultimately sacrificed the love of one family upon a quite different form of family altar. But even then, recalled Maria now, he had instinctively understood that both his son and daughter would one day reject the Bartalucci way of life which he had faithfully served to the detriment of his own wife and children. Maria looked across the desk with her next thought uppermost in her mind: She had heard many names mentioned in this office, but not once had she heard him mention the name Canizzaro. She was pondering anew now the likely nature of the relationship between her father and a man such as Claudio Canizzaro. Two men occupying such different worlds. But even as she did so, her father had raised his head and was continuing without apparent concern.

  “I have also spoken to one of his management people here in Rome. A man I did not like the sound of. A man named Ricardo Brantano. I told him of Canizzaro’s wish that you immediately be found something to do in their office.”

  Maria saw her father smile as he paused, but she was still coming to terms with the used word immediately so she waited without remark.

  “You may have to use your charms on Brantano,” he resumed, “because he didn’t sound very keen. My guess is he’s just annoyed the arrangement has been made without consulting him.”

  Maria was still taking that on board when her father briskly continued speaking, “You will be provided with accommodation and meals, and a salary which will be decided upon when you have demonstrated your abilities.”

  Maria was now experiencing an unsettling mix of emotions. A part of her felt like she was attending her first job interview, and had just been advised of her acceptance along with the terms and conditions of her employment. Another part of her felt like she was being summarily dismissed from a place where she was respected, and was being sent to another place which already sounded as if it contained someone who wasn’t going to make her feel very welcome.

  “I told Brantano you would report to him tomorrow,” announced her father, “He will be expecting you at eight in the morning.”

  Maria forced herself to put aside her feelings of strangeness, at the same time as she was deciding not to question this not quite immediate arrangement. She would have time to prepare herself. Her father’s manner of delivery could understandably, and amusedly, be put down to his presumed distaste at finding himself discussing the employment of an Orsinni by an outsider; regardless of that person’s known pedigree and prestige.

  Chapter Eleven

  A Carabiniere Conundrum

  Rome, Italy, 10th January 1985

  On the 6th of January 1985, six young children had seemingly just disappeared from Roman streets in broad daylight. That these children were not to be confused with the regular runaways who nowadays were a regrettable by-product of modern societies everywhere, had been quickly confirmed by the fury of public reaction. Newspapers had rapidly tapped into the mood, and a vociferous press campaign had soon caused widespread panic. Consequently, in addition to those families who had personally suffered on this occasion, police stations had been besieged by anxious and angry parents demanding action to make their streets safer.

  In response to the growing pressure, a carabiniere spokesman had quickly announced that Captain Sergio Sabbatini would head up a team of special investigators tasked to find the children and to bring the perpetrators to justice. Meanwhile exhaustive searches had been conducted throughout the city, and rewards had been offered for information, but four tumultuous days after the event the children had still not been found.

  Held on every 6th day of January, the annual Rome Epiphany celebrations culminated in children’s parties throughout the city and the highlight for the delighted youngsters was a visit from La Befana. Sometimes referred to as a legendary witch, La Befana was simply whichever elder family member or friend had happily volunteered to perform the traditional role of dressing up and bringing sweets to the children. For those willing to brave the cold weather their party would be held on the streets, and on this occasion it had been from a number of such gaily crowded venues that the luckless children had been snatched seemingly at random. A blonde-haired girl here, a dark-haired boy there, a five year old from one street and a seven year old from another, a shy looking one here and a bubbly looking one there. Each evidently different in appearance. But there had been nothing random about their selection, as all six had been specifically chosen by their abductors.

  Each child having been sedated within moments of being seized, the five girls and one boy had been collectively transported to the Trastevere district in the south-west part of the city. There they had been secreted inside a building which stood on the Via Del Moro, not far from the River Tiber and its 15th century Ponte Sisto crossing which two days ago had been the last bridge Francesca Scolari had used in her short life as an undercover reporter.

  The large old building on the Via Del Moro, from which Francesca Scolari had fled to her death, was manned around the clock every day of the week and anonymously housed precious works of art owned by Claudio Canizzaro. A wealthy collector of rare art, and influential financial advisor to the Vatican, Canizzaro had his own private and secluded residence on the Via Della Lungara. In addition to restoration work carried out at the Via Del Moro premises, many valuable pieces were also stored and guarded in this building prior to being leased or even sold to museums or other private collectors. Activities which naturally occasioned frequent movement of vehicles coming and going through the building’s arched double-doors. Behind those doors was an enclosed courtyard which served as a discreet loading and unloading bay.

  So the white van carrying
the children, with its side panels declaring it to be the property of a well known museum, would not have appeared unusual to those indigenous and measurably informed occupants of neighbouring buildings. Nor would a white van have remotely interested the tourists who might have been passing at the time en-route to what their guide books would have told them was the building founded in the 3rd century and reputed to be the first official place of Christian worship to have been built in Rome. Those cultural devotees would have been entirely focused on reaching the nearby predominantly 12th century church of Santa Maria, to view its famous mosaics which had been crafted by the renowned Pietro Cavallini. Or they might even have been blindly savouring the prospect of standing before what those same guide books would have urged was the ‘must-see’ mosaic depicting the prophet Isaiah. The same prophet who had said Woe unto them who call evil good.

  Four days on from the kidnappings and ensuing public furore voiced by a strident press campaign, and two days after a carabiniere spokesman had responsively announced the formation of a ‘special team of investigators’, the promised private office had not yet materialised for the two men leading the hunt for six missing children and their abductors.

  So on that cold 10th January afternoon which was to gift them their breakthrough, and frustrated by constant interruptions and distracting noise, Sergio Sabbatini and Gianfranco Zola had mutually agreed to distance themselves from the scrutiny invited by the busy open-plan surroundings of the shared desk which had been allocated to them at police headquarters. The toss of a coin had decided it would be to Zola’s apartment they would relocate. They had taken with them the case-file which had rapidly grown over preceding days, and the HQ switchboard and the duty officer named Kovac had been advised of their intended whereabouts.

  Whilst Sabbatini and Zola had together shouldered the head of the investigation, supporting them had been the determined body of carabiniere door-knockers and foot-soldiers gathering eagerly supplied statements and following up the predictably received ‘sightings’ and numerous reward-seeking ‘tip-offs’. The resultant forest of paperwork had duly found its way into the all-important case-file, which had in fact become a cluster of individual files emanating from various sources and now contained within a heavy box-file.

  Even if they’d had a private office, over the past days of frantic activity Sabbatini and Zola would have found little time to occupy it. Their presence had been required at numerous locations on too many occasions, and whenever they had touched base they had been unable to avoid politically harassed superiors asking questions which continued to evade answers. All of which had increased their desire to create space for themselves in which they could more quietly brainstorm their way through the information already gathered. Four fast-paced days of investigation had passed without a successful conclusion, and the stressed custodians of the growing case-file were understandably feeling the pressure.

  Three years older than Sabbatini, Gianfranco Zola was a 28 year old bachelor sergeant who years ago had bravely rejected the offer of a safe career within his father’s successful family construction business. Parental dismay had been coupled with admiration for a young man’s determination to follow his own path, and had not prevented the father gifting his only son an apartment which even a royal prince would have happily called his own.

  Separated by lushly landscaped greenery from the broad majestic thoroughfare that was the Via Dei Fori Imperiali, and a mere stone’s throw from the eye-catching Renaissance splendour of the Palazzo Senatorio, Zola’s large luxury apartment on the Via Salara Vecchia afforded a bird’s eye view of early 20th century restoration to the Palazzo’s 3rd century Curia building. The ancient religious edifice, still used for worship, stood over the ruins of a hall within which the ruling Roman Senate had convened in the bygone age of the Caesars.

  For three reasons, Sabbatini had not been sorry to lose the location-deciding coin-toss. His first visit to Zola’s apartment had left him looking forward to his second encounter with the sergeant’s attractive live-in housekeeper-cum-cook, and his own apartment was further away from the HQ building and even further from luxury class status. Sabbatini believed he had maturely concealed his disappointment, upon discovering on arrival that the attractive live-in housekeeper-cum-cook had been given a day off to visit her mother.

  Vocally bouncing ideas and theories between them, ranging from the eminently sensible to the soundingly far-fetched, which they had been loath to do in the hearing of other headquarters staff, Sabbatini and Zola used up the afternoon sifting through the case-file box. They were patiently, hopefully, searching for what might have been missed on the first or even second reading. They were both motivated by past experience. They knew that in the first frantic days of any investigation, human error inevitably played its part. Something was always overlooked, something which could make a difference, something which was usually found buried in the paperwork of an overloaded case-file such as the one occupying their time now. They now painstakingly soldiered on, stopping only for periodic leg-stretching and coffee breaks.

  Sabbatini and Zola also fielded incoming telephone calls from carabiniere headquarters, and some outgoing calls were occasioned by their finding things which required confirmation or following up. But they still hadn’t found the elusive something they sought as early evening was signalled by Zola switching on table lamps. Now comfortably seated opposite his sergeant in the apartment’s warm and spacious kitchen, re-reading well-thumbed witness statements for what seemed like the millionth time, Sergio Sabbatini smothered a yawn with his fist. A lover of the English language, who enjoyed his dictionary forays in search of words which might interest or amuse him, he allowed himself the tired brief smile at being able to silently use his newly-found word Misnomer.

  Sabbatini had now formed the opinion that to entitle what he and his sergeant had been reading as witness statements was indeed a misnomer, because no-one had actually witnessed the children being taken. What he and Zola had been wading through were the recorded memories of those people who had been present at the various scenes before and after the unseen abductions. Useless post-event statements in the obvious way, but useful insofar as they had helped to isolate one particular description which had repeated itself enough to arouse suspicion. But their checks on known paedophiles had not given them a match to the description, and in fact had yielded nothing. This baffling affair was now officially acknowledged to have been beyond the organizational capabilities of any paedophiles the carabiniere had on file. ‘This baffling affair’, mused Sabbatini silently, ‘constitutes a conundrum’, and he permitted a second tired smile at his use of Conundrum, another of his newly-discovered words, for he had indeed been presented with a riddle which was proving to be worthy of the name.

  Sabbatini stifled a fresh yawn, he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for almost a week. Undisturbed sleep had been denied him ever since his superiors had bestowed upon him the Captaincy. Newly anointed rank which had come with a privately presented poisoned chalice, wrapped in the publicly heralded assignment to find six missing children and their kidnappers. Wearily deciding to give his eyes a break, Sergio Sabbatini allowed the next yawn to escape as he pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

  “I just feel that I’ve already missed something significant”, said Zola, head bent over his share of reports and statements, “But if the gallant captain proposes to make more coffee, then perhaps his humble sergeant will be stimulated enough to find the elusive clue we seek.”

  Completely unfazed by being cast in the role of coffee-maker to the lower ranks, the captain smiled as he compliantly made his way to the kitchen galley. Since the man had been seconded to him one week ago, Sabbatini had discovered there was nothing humble about Gianfranco Zola. The sergeant had never once held back from speaking his mind, and had immediately revealed a quick-witted intelligence. Qualities which had been readily appreciated by his captain. Whilst the sergeant
respectfully deferred to rank in public, when it was just the two of them alone anywhere Zola behaved in a jocular and irreverent manner which Sabbatini continued to find both amusing and relaxing in equal measure. The sergeant had also apparently inherited his successful father’s legendary drive and capacity for hard work, because thus far he had proved to be cheerfully indefatigable. And last but not least, as was evidenced by where and how he lived, behind the unconventional sergeant was a wealthy and supportive family. Such a man was therefore more likely to be immune to corruption attempts by those he might find himself pursuing, Sabbatini had reasoned. He had already decided that no matter how this case ended, he would ask for Gianfranco Zola to be permanently assigned to him.

  Sabbatini set about his coffee-making task on auto-pilot, his preoccupied gaze passing over a vase of dying flowers and a wall-calendar. He looked out through a kitchen window as his thoughts quietly bubbled along with the percolator. He wondered if back in England the busy Shrivenham church people were still finding time to tend the graves of his sister and her child. Glancing again at the vase with its decaying occupants, Sabbatini conjured a mental picture of his sister’s headstone and its tiny companion-stone. In his mind now they were both adorned with fresh flowers, and he closed down the image with a sigh of regret.

  Sabbatini glanced again at the wall-calendar. Which reminded him that two weeks had now passed since he’d last spoken to David Foster, and that two years had elapsed since the man had lost his wife and child. A loss which had never been accounted for, and Sabbatini was acutely conscious of the fact that his current professional frustration contained haunting elements of the past. He was reminded now that, only days ago, in the presence of Gianfranco Zola, he had vowed that he would find and return these missing children to their parents. And two years ago he’d made a hot-blooded pact with David Foster which remained unfulfilled. So never having found and punished the Shrivenham killer-paedophile of just one child from his own blood-line, had heightened his awareness of the potential for disaster with six children out there somewhere in the hands of someone he might again fail to find.