by Bill Cariad
Despite these incongruities on the upper level, and even with the parked examples of modern automotive technology jarring the ocular senses at ground level, any God-fearing visitor might correctly surmise that in its past life the Via Del Moro building had been occupied by some ancient form of religious order. Today however, whilst provably stemming from ancient eastern and western organizations, the current principal occupants could hardly have been described as religious people. One of those current occupants had evidently been careless, as the small door inset into the arched double-doors accessing the street had not been fully closed.
The ground level around two sides of the enclosed courtyard gave on to variably sized and more obviously modern doors. To the right of the street entrance, stood what was clearly a large room which appeared to have been set aside as a restoration studio. Generously windowed to provide maximum light, and with one of its venetian blinds opened, confirmation of this room’s function was provided by a partial view of the restorers props and an easel supporting a work which was evidently in progress.
Directly ahead of the courtyard’s arched double-doors, spaced along the facing wall beyond the parked cars, other doors and curtained windows identified what were clearly additional quarters of one kind or another. One of the windows was open, spilling light on to the courtyard, and from this portal the peaceful setting was suddenly being disturbed by the sound of male voices raised in anger.
Inside this now noisy room, which was in fact the building’s administration office, was a Corsican woman, a Rome-born Italian man, a London-born Englishman, three Italian-American men from New York, and two Chinese men from Hong Kong. The raised voices emanated from one of the Italian-Americans and one of the Chinese. Nervously observing the heated exchange from the sidelines was the indigenous Italian, Ricardo Brantano, and the injured Englishman named Robert Woodham. The sidelined duo were each silently wrestling with their individual and currently turbulent thoughts.
For Ricardo Brantano, soon-to-be Claudio Canizzaro’s ex-office manager, bad news and bad habits had recently combined to irrevocably alter his status. Brantano’s privileged world had commenced shifting on its axis from the time he had received the phone call telling him he was being replaced by the Englishman now standing beside him.
“What’s going to happen to us?” whispered the injured Englishman.
“I don’t know,” replied Brantano, quietly, disturbed by the man’s use of the word us.
No reason had been given for the pending dismissal, but then Brantano had known that Canizzaro was a man who didn’t need to explain himself. Strangling protestation at birth, had been his knowledge of the fact that he had self-induced the probable causes of his downfall. Somehow, and the how was worrying enough, his indiscretions had been discovered. Lamented now was the occasional theft and discreet sale of one of the art treasures in his care; larceny which had provided the means to feed his expensive sexual taste for young boys. His current misery was compounded by his not knowing which fault had brought about the seismic shift in his universe.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” whispered the Englishman.
Brantano’s gaunt looking face sported gold-rimmed spectacles. He didn’t need them to see, his eyesight was perfect and the frames held plain glass, but they were helpful towards creating the urbane professorial image he usually presented as his public face. Right now, concealing the murky soul behind them, the normally clear blue eyes were tired looking as a consequence of his permanent quarters here having been commandeered. Thus depriving him of his usual comforts.
“Keep your voice down,” said the Italian, irritated by the man’s need to speak.
This morning there was no visible evidence of a fastidious man, Brantano was just a tall dishevelled looking individual who now appeared shrunken in a badly creased suit. In a corner of the admin office from which he would normally have held centre-stage, the deposed office manager stood where he had been told to stand and sweated with his thoughts. He was wondering how it could all have gone so wrong so quickly. These people didn’t seem to understand that his position had been weakened enough to allow the woman calling herself Gina Scacchi to be foisted upon him as a temporary admin assistant. Of course he hadn’t mentioned the fact that with the bad news still dominating his thoughts at the time, the idea of having someone to deal with the administrative mundane had appealed.
That she had been found to be an undercover reporter had shocked him, but not as much as the aftershock he had felt upon being told of her fate. And of being told what could happen to him, should he be considered to be responsible for any further setbacks. Which they were considering, right now!
“We must do something,” whispered the irritating Englishman.
“You must be crazy,” whispered Brantano, fiercely, afraid of what the man might do.
The Italian watched the scene being played out before him as his tongue licked lips which needed moisture. He had been called upon to repeat himself for the benefit of the newly-arrived Chinese, and his throat was now dry. But he knew that now was not the time to move in search of water. Now was not the time to physically move at all. He knew that only his thoughts could move without restraint, and they were frantically doing so now.
The Chinese had listened without comment, and had simply looked at one another in silence as he had explained to them why the telephoned Orsinni request had been granted. ‘And surely at the time’, reasoned the frightened man silently, desperately, ‘the others must have registered my own surprised reaction to the appearance of the Englishman and his daughter? But how might these two unpredictable men now rule?’ was the question in his mind begging for a reprieve. Ricardo Brantano remained rooted where he had been planted, mentally shivering without the cloak of self-delusion which these people had stripped from him. He had believed himself to be in control of a plan. A plan he had shared. A plan which had been radically altered, and had certainly not included his own humiliation at the hands of those he was being forced to stand here watching and listening to now.
“These people are the crazy ones,” whispered the Englishman.
“Keep that to yourself,” said the Italian, realizing he had failed to control volume and shaking with relief when he saw that they still hadn’t heard him above their own shouting match.
In the immediate aftermath of his employer’s telephoned body-blow, he had believed he was still successfully exercising the cunning which had served him well in the past. He had told himself that Canizzaro would never go public with whatever he had learned about him, reasoning that the man would choose silence over any form of scandal which could attach itself to the Vatican. He had therefore comforted himself with the thought that other doors of opportunity would open for a man of his obviously unquestionable character and calibre.
But he was now regretting his initial anger at the thought of losing such a prestigious position, and its impeccable cover for his other activities. Anger which had prompted the hasty telephone call to New York, thus propelling him deeper into the orbit of Luigi Rinaldi. Watching the reason for his regret argue with its Chinese counterpart, a now disillusioned Brantano was trying to hold himself together whilst his thoughts continued to melt.
“Oh dear God,” breathed the Englishman, “please don’t let her be harmed.”
“Keep quiet,” hissed the Italian. He wasn’t interested in the fate of the man’s daughter. He was only interested in his own fate at the hands of the screaming midget behind the desk. He was looking at Luigi Rinaldi, the understanding man who shared his sexual tastes, the generous man who had bought the previously stolen art treasures. The man to whom he had naturally gone with the Brantano final pension plan. But the simple idea of substituting an original masterpiece with a copy had revealed the suddenly different man. The one who had turned a modest idea into what might just turn out to be the art-world’s crime of the century.
/> Luigi Rinaldi, the Mafioso man now standing behind what had been his desk and arguing with a Chinese Triad man. Bastardo Luigi Rinaldi. The crazy man who, as a part of his own dangerous deal with the Chinese, had organised the abduction of six children from Roman streets.
A mentally reeling Italian listened to the angry words relating to the Englishman’s presence, the looming Orsinni complication, Chinese shipment problems, the readiness of the five remaining children, the disposal of the dead child, the just reported news from the London contact that Canizzaro was arriving in Rome this morning, and wondered fearfully if genuine Brantano surprise at some of these latest developments had been believed.
Brantano felt the chill of foreboding reaching his bones and shrinking him where he stood, acutely aware of the fact that the unscripted appearance of the Englishman meant that he had been stripped of originally planned protective covering. So much was happening now in ways never imagined, or prepared for. The Englishman’s surprise courtesy visit had never been envisaged, and the fact that he had seen Rinaldi and the others had now scrambled the original plan to leave a gagged and bound Brantano in place for Canizzaro’s originally scheduled return.
Brantano could taste the manifestation of fear threatening to erupt from his mouth, and could feel the tears of frustration on his face, knowing he lacked the courage or the power to influence the minds of these people who obviously lived by their own rules. Two weeks of organisation had now been jeopardised by a call from the former Bartalucci consigliere, the unwelcome appearance of the Englishman and his daughter, and the unexplained reason for Canizzaro’s early return. Brantano’s thoughts on what would become of the Englishman and his daughter, were now quickly engulfed by the dread of anticipation concerning his own fate.
Chapter Fifteen
Love, Sex, and Nerves
The Orsinni Gymnasium, early morning, 11th January 1985
Maria Orsinni stood beside the dojo mat thinking about Tanaka, and the mother she had said goodbye to nine days ago, and the brother she had dined with last night, and the father who had wept as she had hugged him minutes ago, and the journey she was about to make into the unknown.
‘I loved your mother, never forget that, Maria,’ her father had said.
Maria stood now thinking about love. Pondering its many forms. Thinking about its power to create and build lives, and also destroy them. Thinking about Tanaka’s broken family, and her own. Wondering about that form of love her fellow Italians had likened to being hit by the thunderbolt! She wondered if it would ever strike her, and, if it did, what it would feel like. She felt the heat on her face, and knew her hormones were reacting to her thoughts. She was thinking about sex now, but, in the absence of any useful practical experience, she had trained her mind to approach this subject dispassionately. She smiled now, who was she kidding?
She had experienced the thrill of that first physical desire towards the male of her species, and its subsequently disappointing sexual fumbling with a like-minded but immature boy. When she had told her mother, the woman had sighed with relief before delivering a lecture on ‘precautions.’ A thankfully enlightened mother had then explained the biological changes which had brought her daughter to boiling point, before going on to qualify the differing pace of physical and mental development between males and females. Maria smiled again at the memory, but frowned with the afterthought. She had been unwilling to experiment again with anyone who might have considered her a trophy to be discussed around Bartalucci campfires, and opportunities outside the Bartalucci world had simply not presented themselves.
‘You will know when you have found the right man’, Tanaka had told her.
‘Remember, little sister, men will say anything to get into your pants,’ Paolo had warned.
Maria closed down her thoughts on love and its related pitfalls, sternly reminding herself that she had other things to think about. She moved to the section of gymnasium wall supporting the floor-to-ceiling practice mirror. Reflected there was a tall and healthy looking young woman with sparkling blue eyes and long dark hair falling to her shoulders. The high-cheek-boned face wore little make-up. She needed more practice in the make-up department, was her fleeting thought. She was reasonably pleased with the rest of the picture. The evidently lithe figure was clothed in a black tunic-length jacket, and black tailored slacks which fell to gold-coloured and flat-soled shoes. Twinkling at the open neck of her zippered tunic-top, and falling between the cleavage of her breasts, was the gold crucifix given to her by her mother. ‘An entirely presentable image,’ she told herself, ‘for my journey into the unknown.’
She stood immobile for a moment, gazing at her reflected image whilst examining her feelings. Which were mixed, she silently confessed. On the one hand, she had decided to consider this forthcoming Canizzaro period of her life as a straightforward contract. A means to an end. She would ultimately be free from Bartalucci constraints upon her future. But on the other hand, she was about to enter a world outside the cloistered protection of the one she had inhabited throughout her formative years, and her mirror image seemed to be reflecting her conflicting emotions of excitement and trepidation.
She suddenly wondered if she was really ready for such a radical lifestyle change, and just as quickly dismissed that negativity. She switched her mind on to the positive channel and told herself that these feelings were perfectly normal; to be entirely expected. She conjured up a smile with the thought that she had waited a long time in the wings for this debut performance; this was just the Orsinni version of first night nerves.
She took a deep breath, slowly exhaling with the silent admission that she was eager to discover what the outside world had to offer, and what she would make of it, yet was nervous about the possibility of being found to be in some way inadequate. She poked her tongue out at her reflection, telling it that if her brother Paolo could make the transition, then so too could she. Closing down the introspective thoughts, Maria stretched her torso to ease some stiffness. She glanced at her watch, which told her it was 5-30am. The hour itself didn’t bother her; she was an habitual early riser and normally worked out in the gymnasium at this time. But on this occasion she suddenly felt foolish; she had over two hours to kill before her appointment with Brantano and here she was all dressed up and anxious to go. She could just imagine Paolo telling her she was acting like a teenager going on her first date.
Tanaka’s voice sounded in her head, select your mindset, and she turned away from the mirror to smile towards the dojo mat. She would leave now and arrive early. It would give her some time to look around the area where the Canizzaro offices were located. She would present herself to Brantano dead on time. She would, she told herself now, look upon this Canizzaro arrangement as a contract she was obligated to fulfil. She would not disgrace the Orsinni name. She would, as her father had known she could, demonstrate her administrative abilities to the satisfaction of Claudio Canizzaro.
Maria looked around the gymnasium, instinctively knowing she would never come here again. She had confronted many personal demons here, and had learned how to overcome them. She had successfully risen to many kinds of challenges set by Tanaka, and had grown physically and mentally strong in the process. She was smiling as she left the gymnasium for the last time, and her earlier feelings of uncertainty had vanished. ‘After all I’ve been through right here,‘ she thought, ‘how difficult could the job of office assistant be?’
Chapter Sixteen
Evil Personified
Via Del Moro, Early morning, 11th January 1985
Standing beside Ricardo Brantano, the slender-framed Englishman, now known within this room to be Robert Woodham, swayed on his feet. An earlier futile attempt to prevent these people manhandling his daughter, had been rewarded with the blow to the head which had left him still feeling dizzy. Woodham was once more bitterly regretting the snap decision to leave the hotel last night without inf
orming them where he was going. His living nightmare had begun upon arrival here, becoming more horrifying with each passing hour, and had already largely consumed his courage and exhausted his mind.
Woodham knew that trying to establish some kind of rapport with Brantano was a waste of effort, but he’d needed the release of tension which communication had given him. The thought that he was now reduced to seeking some form of reassurance from Brantano, was sickening. What he really wanted to do was strangle the man with his bare hands. That the Italian appeared to be in trouble himself, mattered little to him. Not since he had seen what the man was capable of. He tried now, and failed, not to think of his daughter. He forced himself to focus on the scene being played out before him.
Initially, he had heard these people say that the insurance company would ultimately pay for the safe return of everything, and that he and his daughter would live if they did as they were told. But terrible things had happened since then, and he was now silently praying that the outcome of the argument he was witnessing would not include the order to have himself and his daughter put to death. Suddenly, shatteringly, now aware of what these people were capable of doing, he found himself trying not to think of what they might still do to his teenage daughter while she was alive. He was concealing his fear as best he could, trying to make himself invisible as he listened to the reasons which seemingly threatened to destroy a plan to steal two hundred million dollars of art treasures from Claudio Canizzaro.
“I don’t fucking know why he’s coming back today.”
Standing behind Brantano’s office desk, Luigi Rinaldi’s face was contorted with rage as he responded to the question about Canizzaro. He would have enjoyed watching Carmine break this Chink’s neck, but New York wanted the bastard kept sweet so that was a non-starter. Spittle flew from his lips as he continued his confrontation with the older of the two Chinese men facing him across the desk, “And your fucking goods transport was supposed to be long gone by now, so where the fuck is it?”