by Gian Bordin
When Long sees Fausto appear and follow me in, he protests: "Who’s this? Your driver? Tell him to wait downstairs."
"No, Eddie, he is my enforcer. Move," I order, grabbing his right arm firmly and twisting it up his back, while pushing him into the spacious living room. By then Fausto has closed the door.
"What’s this? Let go! You’re hurting me," Long complains loudly, trying to break free. I only tightened my grip, and then force him to sit in one of the two chairs that complement his leather lounge suite. He struggles to get up again.
"Stay where you are if you don’t want to get really hurt."
His eyes dart from me to Fausto and back. "What do you want?"
"I want to question you about the Sanvino affair. If you answer truthfully, no harm will come to you. You lie, and my colleague here will break your fingers, one at a time, starting with the small one. Got that?"
"I don’t know anything about the Sanvino affair. Sheila, you got the wrong person."
"First, my name isn’t Sheila, second, I don’t believe you." Turning to Fausto I continue in English: "Start with his right hand." I shake my head slightly, murmuring in Italian: "Pretend, but don’t break anything."
Long quickly withdraws both hands from the armrests and hides them behind his back. Stark fear is screaming from his face, as his eyes dart from Fausto to me and back. "No, please, don’t. It wasn’t me. I know nothing."
Fausto reaches for his right wrist and forcefully pulls his hand out from behind his back against a struggling Long.
"Please, don’t," Long whimpers. Suddenly the front of his pants turn dark, as wetness spreads from his groin and down the pant legs. He looks helplessly at the growing patch.
Fausto lets go of his wrist, his face mirroring disgust, and mutters in Italian: "Madonna! The guy is pissing himself."
"Yes, it’s all show and a foul mouth." Turning back to Long, I say: "Eddie, I ask you again. Who did that scam on me? Was it you?"
"No, I’ve done nothing, honestly. It wasn’t me. Somebody else must have done it. All I did is give you the bum rumor, but I didn’t know that it was wrong. Please, believe me," he pours out.
I hardly recognize his voice. It is only a whimper. I can see that he is scared like I’ve never seen anybody being scared before. If in this condition he continues to stick to his story, it is hard for me not to believe him. I try once more: "Is this your last word? Do I have to tell my colleague to get on with his job?"
"Please, Miss Walker, I’ve done nothing." He starts to sob.
How can I not believe him? When Fausto moves to grab his hand again, I shake my head, and he lets go.
"Who told you the rumor about Sanvino?"
"The boss mentioned it during our morning tea."
"And you believed him?"
"Yes."
That ‘yes’ came out a bit too quickly. I also remember his boast in that e-mail about having fed me that false rumor. I nod to Fausto, saying in English: "Roberto, do the small finger," while at the same time shaking my head slightly.
For a fraction of a second, Fausto looks puzzled, then he catches on that I don’t want to use his real name, and again grabs Long’s right hand.
"No, please," he whimpers again and then gushes: "I didn’t believe him. I had already heard about the Singapore deal. I …’
"You passed it on to me to trip me, didn’t you."
He only nods, refusing to meet my eyes.
"Let go," I say to Fausto in Italian and then turn back to Long: "Eddie, I will now search your apartment for any evidence, and woe to you if you lied."
"I told the truth. I did nothing."
"Open your safe."
He looks fearfully at Fausto and then gets up. The seat of his pants has a brown patch and a smell of shit wafts up. What a pathetic figure crosses my mind. Fausto points at his pants, grinning.
The safe is inside a cupboard of the bedroom. It is one of those small fire protection safes, rather than a proper anti-theft safe. For several seconds Long hesitates in front of it.
"Go on, open it."
He starts turning the wheels back and forth and then lowers the lever.
"Stand back."
I quickly check its content, looking for any statements of a Liechtenstein-based bank or a debit card for I-Consolidated, the purchaser of the Sanvino shares. There are two DVD disks, marked ‘backup’, dated June and January of this year, hardly of any relevance. I remove two folders and spread their contents on the bed. Insurance papers, ownership documents for the car and the penthouse, birth certificates and other official documents.
"Where is your computer?"
"In the office," he answered without avoiding my gaze.
"And where do you keep your correspondence?"
"In the desk drawer."
I remember seeing it in a corner of the living room when we entered and I go to it, Long trailing behind, followed by Fausto.
I rifle through all the drawers. Again the search proves fruitless. He really told the truth. Our expedition has been a failure.
I turn back to Long. "All right, Eddie. I believe you. Now, let’s talk about tonight’s little encounter of ours. You might be tempted to claim that I invaded your privacy, but remember that when you recognized me, you actually invited me into your apartment. Roberto heard you. So it was no forced entry. We inflicted only embarrassment on you, not an indictable offence. I also have discovered a little secret, namely that early last August you did an illegal insider trading deal that netted you over twenty thousand pounds. Therefore, you will not say a word to anybody about this meeting of ours, not to your colleagues, not to the police, not even a hint or a whisper, unless you want the FSA to investigate you, and you know what the consequences of that are. You will lose your job, be barred from trading, and either get a hefty fine or a stay in jail; probably both. You won’t be able to make your high mortgage payments any longer either. You understand that fully?"
"Yes."
"And think what your colleagues will say when they hear that you hire an escort three times a week." I let that sink in. "Don’t think I wouldn’t denounce you. And now, get cleaned up. You look disgusting."
In the lift down Fausto comments: "How can a hulk like him be such a wimp, pissing and shitting himself. Here, look at it." He slips my camera from a pocket and shows me a picture of Long from behind. "I took it in the bedroom," he says, grinning.
In the car, he asks: "Do you really believe him?"
"Yes, the guy was too scared to lie. We can eliminate him. That leaves Fred Garland, possibly Gary Buxton, and this guy Gough. It seems that we have no choice but to break into Garland’s mansion."
"Yes, let’s do it tomorrow night. Il capo is getting impatient."
"Did you call him again?"
"No, he called me. He wanted a detailed report on what we have done so far. I told him that you had things in hand, but I guess he isn’t used to assign an operation to a female."
"Fausto, let’s understand each other. Carvaggio didn’t assign this operation to me. I work for myself and not for him and I call the shots. I’m grateful that you are willing to support me with your skills. As I told your boss, only careful planning and stealth will get us there."
"A little bit of threat, though, gave us Long."
"Yes, agreed. In fact, I think we worked well together. You were quick to understand that, once he recognized me, we had to change tactics."
"You know, it’s exciting to work with you. You are so fast and subtle how you adapt to the circumstances."
"As to Garland, I’m impatient too to get that over with. So let’s be out there tomorrow night around nine at night —"
"Why so early?"
"We have to make sure they are at home, otherwise all internal alarms with be active."
"So if the lights are on, that means they are home."
"Not necessarily. They might just leave the lights on as a safety measure against burglars. They might even have a device programmed to
turn lights off and on randomly."
He briefly takes his eyes off the road and meets mine, respect in his. "You’re right. I didn’t think of that. So one of us will have to go over the fence and check through the windows if they are home."
"Yes, that’s the reason for going there early. There’s another thing I should have mentioned before. The evidence I’m looking for may be in a safe. Do you know how to crack a safe without blowing open the door?"
"Not, if it’s one of the sophisticated, electronic ones, or the type banks use. If it’s one of the cheap ones used by most private people, I can get the equipment to open it."
"It’s a good guess that’s the type Garland has at home, since he has access to a highly secure one at the office. His wife thinks that it has no sensor against unauthorized opening that connects it directly to the ADTSecurity monitoring center. Can you still get the equipment for tomorrow evening?"
He nods.
"And if the wife is wrong about the safe protection, then we’ll be in trouble unless Garland turns off his cellphone at night. So once the safe is open, we may have only a few seconds to complete our search and clear out fast."
"Right, signorina. You have it all planned out. I’ll try to get the tools needed, but I’m fairly certain that one of my local contacts is willing to help out."
Is there any place on the globe that the Mafia has not yet infiltrated?
"And now, let’s go step by step over the whole operation, so that we know exactly what to do."
I let Fausto take the lead. He has the experience. My role is to question, spot possible flaws or holes in his plan and point out where we might need to make provisions for contingencies. I intend to go over it once more tomorrow night, after we have established that the Garlands are at home and while we wait for the hour when their sleep is likely to be deepest.
Friday, 7th November, 2:20 p.m.
Silvio calls, complaining that another emergency will keep him busy until evening. He wants to know about last night’s action.
"But are you sure Long won’t go to the police?" he asks, sounding alarmed.
"If he would do it, he would have done it last night or this morning. He’s not done it so far. In spite of looking like an overweight boxer, he is a total coward. He shat himself yesterday. I called the office this morning. He reported in sick. But even if I didn’t have the lever about his illegal dealing, the threat of Fausto will keep him quiet."
"Oh, I wish you wouldn’t associate with this mafioso. I fear for you."
"Silvio, I wish nothing more than staying well clear of the Mafia, but I have no choice if I want to clear my name. And besides, I do this for myself, not for them. But as far as this particular mafioso is concerned, there is no need to worry. He has this strange sense of honor. He sees me as a highly respectable woman and knows that I have a fidanzato. I made this quite clear to him, before I agreed to go for dinner with him."
"Still, he is a mafioso. It’s dangerous just to know them."
"It may sound strange, but I trust him. When will I see you? I have crucial action planned for much of this night —"
"— again with this mafioso? Ceci, don’t."
"Are you jealous?"
"Yes, I’m jealous that you spend so much time with him … whole nights."
"But there is nothing going on between us. It’s purely professional, I told you. And you are right, for this operation I don’t know when we will be through. It could be early morning. No use planning for a night together. So when will I see you? It has to be before seven."
He takes several seconds before responding. "Come to the bar at six and we can share a drink."
Friday, 6:05 p.m.
Shortly after six, I park the van at the back of the restaurant and go to the bar. I can’t see Silvio. A lone woman in her late twenties is sitting at the bar, talking in Italian to the barista, olive-skinned, long black hair falling over her shoulders, wearing a skimpy red dress that shows off her voluptuous curves. I’ve never seen here before.
When the barista sees me, he excuses himself, fills a glass with Barbaresco and brings it to me with a smile, saying: "Salute."
"Thanks, Ettore. Is Silvio around?" I ask in a low voice.
"He’s in the back. Should be here in a minute," he answers.
The woman watched that short interchange keenly and now shifts to the high stool next to me. "Sei Italiana?" she asks, using the familiar ‘tu’, somewhat unexpected from a complete stranger.
"No," I reply in the same language, "but I speak Italian." Somehow, I don’t feel like chatting with her. I came to see Silvio and I’m not interested in small talk with a stranger.
"A regular?"
"Yes, you might call me that. This place has the best cucina italiana in London."
"Yes, Silvio has always been the best."
For a moment, I’m thrown by her response. It makes it clear that she knows Silvio quite well, may even have a long association with him. And then it strikes me. She resembles Silvio’s daughter. She must be his ex-wife. Then I correct myself, his current wife. Why is she here? Why didn’t he tell me? What is going on? Is this the emergency he alluded to?
"You’re Silvio’s wife, aren’t you?"
My consternation must have reached my face. She smiles knowingly. "Yes, I am."
"Visiting?"
"Maybe … Maybe staying for good. He has a nice setup here."
Her words, underscored by her triumphant smile, sweep away my foothold. To regain my composure, I take a sip of the wine. It doesn’t taste good anymore. I’ve the urge to rush away and would have, had not Silvio suddenly materialized at my side. We exchange greeting kisses, both of us rather restrained, I feel. Silvio’s wife watches us, slightly closing her eyes, her mouth turned up spiteful.
"Won’t you introduce me to your friend?" she challenges Silvio.
He obliges, seemingly reluctant. "Emilia; Cecilia Walker," he says pointing at each of us in turn.
"You might tell her that I am your lawfully wedded wife," she interjects with a slight sneer. "Is she your latest fuck?"
As is always the case, belligerence does not cow me. It has the opposite effect. I gain back my composure. "I don’t fuck, Emilia, I make love."
"Same thing."
"Maybe for you. Definitely not for me, but then that’s none of your business."
"Quite a sharp tongue, she has, your mistress," she sneers.
"Don’t talk about me in the third person when I’m right in front of you." I now turn to Silvio, who has watched our interchange, seemingly embarrassed. "Come, we need to talk in privacy."
"Oh, there’s no need for privacy. Silvio and I have no secrets between us. Isn’t that so, carino?"
"Behave yourself just for once," he snarls and leads me away to my usual table. We remain standing.
"Ceci, I’m sorry. She suddenly appeared out of the blue. I didn’t know."
"I’m sorry too, Silvio. Why didn’t you tell me this afternoon that she is here?"
"I wanted to tell you in person, not over the phone. I was afraid you might take it the wrong way over the phone. Please, believe me. It’s finished between her and me. I love you."
"Silvio, I don’t know what to say. All I know is that we should be completely open with each other, not hold back things." He takes my hands.
"What is going to happen now," I ask.
"I’ll make it clear that I will now file divorce papers, and tell her to leave."
"Where is she staying?"
"At my place. I’m sorry. As usual, she has no money. But I’ll sleep on the sofa."
"I’m not worried about that. I’m worried that it may not be as simple as you think. What if she refuses a divorce? And what if she refuses to leave? You can’t just kick her out."
"I’ll put her on a plane back to Milan, even if I have to force her. And all her refusal to grant me a divorce means is that it will take a bit longer to go through. Please, Ceci, stick with me now."
Emilia i
s slowly ambling toward us, swinging her hips provocatively. I have to admit, she is a gorgeous woman. I notice that Silvio eyes followed my gaze and rest on her until she is only two steps away from us.
"So, are you two finished with each other? Can I have my husband back now?"
I’m sure, the double meaning of her first question is intentional. I don’t want another confrontation. Silvio needs to settle with her first before we can be fully back together as before. "Silvio, I’m sorry, but right now, you need to sort things out with Emilia, and I would simply be in the way. Ciao. Call me tomorrow, please." I turn to leave.
"She’s very sensible, your mistress, or is it ex-mistress?" I hear her saying.
"Shut up. Go to my office," he growls and talking somewhat louder, he says: "Ettore, no more drinks for her."
"Sure, boss."
The door closes behind me. I can’t make out Emilia’s jeering retort. As I drive home, I’m once more in turmoil. Have I assessed Silvio correctly? How strong a character is he? I believe that he loves me and only me, but is that enough to cut the ties with his wife. Will he find the resolve to push the divorce through, to suffer all the aggravation she will dish out, or will he give in to her if she refuses? She may be a bitch, but she is a gorgeous bitch. And then there is the question of the child. If she threatens to file for sole custody, how will he react? She doesn’t have a strong case, having deserted the family for four years, but then neither does Silvio, having left the child in the care of his parents. So it is by no means certain he will get custody if she contests it. I see my dreams of becoming Silvio’s partner, of being that little girl’s surrogate mother, of having another one or two children with him, I see them fade into the dusk settling in around me.
Maybe I should fight for Silvio. But that goes against my grain, against my vow never to step between a married couple. He has to sort things out with her first. The resolve is back. But I won’t cut my ties with him. I will support him if I see that he is certain to want a divorce and fight for Teresa’s custody.