The Orsinni Contracts

by Bill Cariad

  “What is happening here? This is the article I myself wrote only recently, and clearly you have been examining it. Have you found out something about Francesca? When your carabiniere headquarters said I would be talking to Capitano Sabbatini, I couldn’t think what to say. I knew the name of course, you are the Sabbatini who has been in charge of the hunt for six abducted children, and I recognize you now from your newspaper picture. You are very young looking to hold the rank of captain,” he ended, making it sound like an admonishment.

  The ensuing silence was brief, and charged with a tension which required defusing.

  “I’ve just been promoted,” responded Sergio, using a deliberately casual tone, “but if that was a compliment, I thank you.”

  The newspaper editor looked perplexed, but wasn’t given time to say anything.

  “But I’m just a captain,” continued Sergio, “Alexander the Great had conquered half the world when he was even younger than me, and you yourself, Signore Marchette, were editing your first newspaper when you were my age.”

  “It’s amazing what these youngsters know, isn’t it?” added a straight-faced Zola.

  The Il Tempo editor looked at them in turn, obviously thrown by their quick repartee. His earlier belligerence was noticeably beginning to fade, replaced by something indefinable as he began speaking again. “But I cannot help you with the children, I am afraid, which surely you must know. So please tell me, Capitano Sabbatini, is this something to do with Francesca?”

  “Are you on first name terms with all your reporters, Signore Marchette?” responded Sergio.

  It was as if the question had sucked all the air from the man’s body. He visibly sagged, before slowly lowering himself into a chair and shaking his head as he replied.

  “Francesca was my sister’s child, and my foolishness killed her.”

  Sabbatini and Zola exchanged quick surprised glances before both seating themselves beside the editor at the table.

  “Why do you say such a thing?” queried Zola.

  Marchette sighed heavily before replying, “My sister asked me to give Francesca a job on the paper. Which I was happy to do, Francesca had a lively mind and she got on well with everyone. Research was her forte, but she begged me to let her work as a reporter. She thought a reporter’s life was all excitement, and she pestered me endlessly to let her be one.”

  Sergio saw Marchette’s face colour, and registered the expression of embarrassment as the man continued speaking.

  “So before he left for England, I spoke with my old friend, Claudio Canizzaro. We arranged for Francesca to be taken on by his organization as a short-term office assistant.”

  Sergio’s new thoughts raced as he faced the troubled looking editor, instinctively knowing the Claudio Canizzaro being referred to was the Canizzaro. Whilst inwardly wrestling with the potential ramifications of such a connection, his question was pre-empted.

  “Where is this office situated?” asked Zola quietly.

  “The Via Del Moro,” replied Marchette. “Claudio has a building there which he uses to store his art treasures. There is an office, managed by Ricardo Brantano, and that’s where Francesca was assigned to be.”

  “But what was she supposed to be doing there?” asked Sergio.

  Once again the man’s face reddened with his response. “With Canizzaro’s agreement, Francesca was told by me that we had received an anonymous tip that some kind of art fraud was going on. I told her she was being sent undercover to discover whether or not it was true. She understood of course that given Claudio Canizzaro’s prominence in the art world, not to mention his ties to the Vatican, that Il Tempo had to have absolute proof of such a crime. Proof which of course we knew could not possibly exist. It was all supposed to be a harmless way of giving her a taste of the excitement she craved, whilst at the same time providing Ricardo Brantano’s office with extra help for a limited period.”

  Sergio’s thoughts were immediately split between what he had been hearing, and memories of the crazy things he himself had done in the past to humour his own beloved sister. He was about to voice his next question, but his sergeant was there first.

  “So what went wrong?” asked Zola, bluntly.

  The newspaper man stared at Zola, obviously unused to being addressed in such a peremptory manner, and, for a second, Sergio thought his sergeant was about to be verbally abused. But then the editor leant forward on the table and covered his face with both hands before finally lifting his head to respond.

  “She telephoned me,” replied Marchette, “on the evening of the 8th. She sounded very dramatic, which was her usual style. She said she had something I would find difficult to believe, even after I had heard the dynamite proof she was bringing to me. She said she had to get out from undercover right away, and that she would meet me at the Campo De’Fiori hotel. I was there of course, at the stipulated time, and she of course was not. I waited for a while, and I had already decided to bring the whole charade to a discreet close, but as you know I waited in vain. So now you know what I know. Are you going to tell me what I don’t know, but should?”

  Sergio’s eyes met those of his sergeant. Listening to Marchette relaying his version of events from that 8th evening of January, they had both picked up the word ‘heard’ in relation to the proof which his young niece had seemingly been in possession of. Both policemen nodded to one another in unspoken accord; the woman had been carrying a tape. The unspoken question, the one which each of them knew neither would put to the distressed relative and editor, was what kind of ‘dynamite proof ’ had Francesca Scolari recorded on tape before leaving the office on the Via Del Moro?

  “Signore Marchette, would you please,” began Zola as he now handed the editor his own newspaper clipping and one of its related witness statements, “read this statement and tell us if you can put a name to the description which you will see there.”

  The newspaper man read quickly, and his answer was conveyed by body language even before he spoke. “No, I cannot. It means nothing to me.” He hesitated, then voiced what was clearly his fear, “But it obviously means something to you. Whoever he is, did he have anything to do with Francesca’s death?”

  “We don’t know,” lied Sergio, “But I imagine you would like to find out if he did.”

  “Of course I would,” replied Marchette, “So you suspect him then?” he added, darting his questioning glance between Sabbatini and Zola.

  Refusing the bait, Sergio’s response was delivered in a glacially official tone.

  “Thank you for speaking to us here tonight. We realize it wasn’t easy for you to do so, and we appreciate your frankness. We will finish for now, but will no doubt be talking to you again. The matter of timing is relevant here, and I must speak to you now with the full authority of the carabiniere behind my words. I must have your assurance that you will not speak to anyone, and that includes your sister, about the subject matter of our meeting here this evening until we so sanction. I must also insist that you do not in any way contact Claudio Canizzaro until we advise you it is safe to do so. Do I make myself absolutely clear, Signore Marchette?”

  “Yes, Capitano Sabbatini,” responded Marchette firmly, “you do, and you have my assurance.” He hesitated briefly, then voiced a fear, “Please tell me that my friend Canizzaro is not involved in anything illegal. The thought has troubled me since....”

  “That would be unlikely,” interjected Sergio.

  “But somebody is involved in something,” contributed Zola, frowning as he spoke.

  “So Francesca,” whispered Marchette, “was being dramatic with good reason.”

  Sergio heard the plea in the editor’s words, and thought of his own sister’s dramatic exit from a situation which she had not created, but had still felt responsible for. He chose his words carefully. “You have nothing with which to reproach yourself.
And it is possible that the action of your brave niece could end up saving lives. In time, Signore Marchette, what may comfort your sister is the fact that her daughter could not have played a part in the saving of lives, but for your own harshly self-labelled foolishness. But I can say no more for now.”

  The editor and uncle of the late Francesca Scolari straightened in his chair, nodded respectfully to Zola, and reached across the table to grip Sergio’s wrist as he spoke.

  “You have said enough, Capitano.”

  Darkness had descended over the Via Salara Vecchia when Enzio Marchette finally left the apartment of Gianfranco Zola. Seconds after the editor’s departure, Sergio Sabbatini was on the phone to his headquarters. The new information, coupled with the captain’s own conjecture, was relayed to duty officer Kovac who said he would call back once he himself had liaised with other senior officers. Unable then to sit still, needing movement to accompany his restless thoughts, Sergio paced up and down while Zola made fresh coffee. They were drinking Zola’s coffee whilst impatiently speculating as to what might now happen, when the telephone shrilled to signal the return call from headquarters.

  Without any preamble, duty officer Kovac immediately took Sabbatini by surprise.

  “Sergio, listen carefully. Canizzaro is currently in England but we’ve spoken over the phone to him at his London hotel. He confirms what Marchette has told you. And when we advised him of our suspicions, he responded with his own suspicions which led him to recently put his office manager, Ricardo Brantano, on a month’s notice.”

  “His own suspicions?”

  “He thinks Brantano has been defrauding him,” qualified Kovac. “He thinks the man has been doctoring paperwork to cover up the theft and sale of art treasures. But Canizzaro mentioned something else which caused alarm bells to ring here. He said he also feared that Brantano’s original employment references may have been falsified, and that Brantano isn’t his real name. Cannizaro says one of his other staff recently showed him an old newspaper clipping which had a photograph of a younger man who resembled his office manager. The photograph was displayed under the name Branta.”

  “Easily changed to Brantano,” voiced Sabbatini softly.

  “We checked our files,” resumed Kovac. “Ten years ago, in Nice, a Neapolitan called Branta was questioned in connection with a child molestation incident. No charges were made, and he walked free. Our colleagues in Nice say that a witness was threatened off, but they couldn’t prove it at the time.”

  “Do we move now?” queried Sergio.

  “No, not now,” replied Kovac. “Canizzaro has insisted he be there when we do, and that has been agreed to by my superiors.”

  Sergio had heard in the voice, Kovac’s unspoken disapproval of this arrangement. Taking a deep breath, he refrained from making his own objection.

  “His flight from London,” resumed Kovac, “gets him here tomorrow morning. Priority clearance has been arranged for him when he disembarks, and he will be driven to the Via Del Moro. He should arrive around eight, and will escort you and Zola inside the building.”

  The duty officer then began briefing Sabbatini on the action which had been decided upon at the highest level. A covert cordon of plain-clothed carabiniere policemen would immediately be despatched to surround the Canizzaro building on the Via Del Moro. From the time they were in place, no one would enter or leave that building without being seen and photographed by the hidden men using specialist equipment. If any vehicle leaving the building was judged to be concealing children, it would be stopped out of sight of the building and searched. Even if not carrying children, the suspect vehicle’s driver, and any passengers, would be detained and sacrifice their right to communicate with the outside world until Kovac decreed otherwise.

  The captain was ordered to remain where he was with his sergeant, and told he would be telephoned if there was anything to report during the night. Sergio actually heard Kovac’s indrawn breath sounding in his ear as the duty officer concluded his briefing.

  “When accompanied access to the Via Del Moro building has been gained, Sergio, and if at first sight our suspicions appear in any way justified, upon hearing your signal an elite squad of carabiniere soldiers will storm the place.”

  “What kind of signal should I make?” queried Sergio.

  “Why not just fire your gun in the air, Sergio,” replied Kovac, sounding tired. “We’re putting so many rockets up on the strength of supposition, we’ll probably see the bullet.”

  Sergio decided not to remind Kovac that supposition was the bedrock from which all cases were built. He realized Kovac was having a rough night.

  “I think this it, Colonel,” said Sergio firmly into the phone, receiving an affirmative nod of support from Gianfranco Zola on the other side of the table, “ I think we’re going to find the children at the Via Del Moro.”

  “What you will certainly find there,” began Kovac, “is the reason why Canizzaro insists upon being present when you go in.” The duty officer’s heavy sigh travelled down the line into Sergio’s ear as he continued, “He has arranged for a young lady to report to Brantano’s office tomorrow morning at 8am. She’s apparently someone he considers to be very special. You will need to watch for her, and stop her going inside before Canizzaro gets there.”

  “Do we have a name for this girl?”

  This time Sergio interpreted the strange sound coming down the line and into his ear, as a smothered cough.

  “Oh yes, we do have a name, Sergio. The girl will answer to the name Maria, and she is the daughter of Giovanni Orsinni.”

  “You can’t mean ...” began Sergio.

  “I’m afraid I do, Sergio,” anticipated Kovac. “Maria Orsinni is the daughter of the man who up until recently was the Bartalucci family’s consigliere.”

  Sergio’s thoughts were all over the place now, and questions screamed inside his head.

  “Do we know what makes her special to Canizzaro?”

  “No, we do not. Perhaps you could ask him,” replied Kovac, sounding impatient now.

  “She won’t get in my way,” stated Sergio, “and I still think we will find the children.”

  “I think you had better be right on both counts, captain,” replied Kovac before disconnecting.

  “Results at a price” was Sabbatini’s reprised and troubled thought as he re-cradled the phone.

  At the same time as carabiniere HQ duty officer Kovac was briefing Sergio Sabbatini over the telephone, a taxi driver dropped off his two passengers outside the arched double doors of a building on the Via Del Moro. The driver had enjoyed his conversation with the friendly Englishman who spoke Italian like a native, and had reduced to a minimum his ogling of the man’s pretty daughter. Pleased with his gratuity from the generous Englishman, the driver offered to wait and return them to their hotel when they were ready. But the Englishman said he didn’t know how long they would be, and that he would telephone for a taxi when the time came for them to leave. Having overheard the pretty daughter saying that a surprise courtesy visit to a man being replaced in his job by her father was an iffy idea, the driver diplomatically refrained from expressing the opinion that the Englishman’s visit could be a short one.

  Ten minutes after the Englishman and his daughter passed through the small door inset into the arched double doors, the carabiniere surveillance team arrived on the scene and quietly took up their selected positions.

  Chapter Fourteen

  East and West of Evil

  Rome’s Trastevere district, early hours of 11th January, 1985

  So on that sixth 1985 day of Epiphany, in Italy’s capital city, when the arched double-doors of a building on the Via Del Moro had closed behind just another white van, no outsider would have witnessed the unloading of its drugged human cargo. Today however, five days after completing its task, the white van had been r
eplaced by three expensive looking private cars. It was 6am, and birdsong could be heard in the early morning air which was crisply cold. From nearby streets, traffic sounds were muted and nothing appeared to be moving in or around the immediate vicinity of the Via Del Moro building.

  Despite the clashing presence of 20th century vehicles inside the ancient building’s enclosed and time-worn courtyard, the immediate impression likely to be conveyed to a first-time visitor taking in the surroundings would be one of spiritual tranquillity. A creative soul observing the scene might have imagined robed Monks chanting their way to prayers, perhaps, within a building that seemed to radiate its own quietly welcoming warmth. A troubled soul might simply have stood here to feel at peace with the world.

  Off to one side of the stone-clad courtyard, a speckled-marble staircase led upwards to a similarly floored gallery supported by a time-weathered stone colonnade. Surrounding and separating the building’s two levels on three sides, the gallery’s floor offered up another row of stone columns which rose to meet the underside of the building’s overhanging roof.

  Spaced around the gallery were several evidently aged and darkly wooded doors, which that first-time visitor would reasonably presume accessed rooms containing something which required protection. A presumption which would be understandably based on the fact that whilst there were no windows to be seen anywhere on this floor level, each of the closed and solid looking doors boasted temperature control panels and sophisticated looking air-vents. And finally clinching it for the presumptive first-time visitor, the doors also displayed gleaming man-made evidence of having been fitted with modern locks and sturdy looking hinges.