Cries of the Lost

by Chris Knopf

  Comfortable until we entered the little village of Menaggio, when the danger of losing the Fiat or being noticed increased considerably. I reminded myself this was likely not my only opportunity, to breathe evenly and keep my foot lightly to the gas pedal.

  As we were moving down the corso, the village’s main street, a van wedged in between me and the Fiat. It was large enough to obscure the other car completely from sight. We stopped at a red light, and I guessed the Fiat was still there, but didn’t know for sure until it suddenly made a right-hand turn. I followed, now feeling utterly exposed.

  Then the Fiat stopped and I saw its backup lights flash on. It was backing into a parking spot along the street. I was able to get fairly close, waiting as any courteous driver would for the Fiat to nudge its way into the tight spot. When I continued on, I risked a look at the driver, a woman with long dark hair partially contained by a full silk scarf, wearing sunglasses and deep red lipstick.

  I took another risk at the stop sign several yards down the street, stopping longer than normal to watch her step out of the vehicle, holding a purse in one hand and smoothing down her skirt with the other. A skirt showing lots of long leg, made even more fetching by a pair of black high-heel shoes.

  She walked around the front of the Fiat and onto the sidewalk, moving away from me. I turned the corner and squeezed into a parking spot. I snatched a stack of papers and magazines up off the rear seat, then walked as quickly as I dared back toward the woman’s car.

  She was nowhere in sight, but neither were other pedestrians, which suited my purposes. When I was alongside the Fiat, I let the stacks of paper slip out of my grasp, and then with a fumbling motion scattered them all over the sidewalk, off the curb and under the car. With no one nearby offering to help, I squatted alone and started gathering up the papers, which involved at one point reaching under the Fiat’s chassis, to which I slapped a magnetic tracking device.

  With the papers collected under my arm, I moved down the sidewalk, casually glancing at the storefronts, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young woman, though without success.

  I went back to my car and pulled up the tracking app on my phone, confirming it was up and running properly. I put the phone back in my pocket and drove away, spending the rest of the afternoon circling around, staying within a few miles of the Fiat’s location. It wasn’t until a little after 4:00 that the phone chirped at me, and I saw the green dot moving north away from Menaggio.

  I intercepted her soon after as she drove back up into the hills, moving at an angle away from the target house. This time I was able to stay well out of sight while I was in pursuit.

  The green dot finally came to a permanent halt just within the boundaries of Intignano, another little village.

  I took up the rest of the distance and drove by a small villa not unlike our rental, in front of which was parked the Fiat mini-SUV. I noted it was the only vehicle in the parking area.

  Then I went home to another email from Eloise Harmon.

  Dear Mr. Reinhart:

  It is regrettable we have yet to hear from you. Over the intervening days we have acquired security-camera footage that clearly shows your features and your companion’s, known to be Natsumi Fitzgerald. We also note you have attempted to erase records attached to your name and Social Security number, which was stolen from the actual David Reinhart, who died several years ago. The banks in Chile that received the disbursements from Grand Cayman are cooperating.

  It is only a matter of time before you are located. Our sincere recommendation is for you to immediately contact one of our embassies’ legal attachés.

  Eloise Harmon

  “I guess I’m famous,” said Natsumi, reading over my shoulder.

  “At least among a few people at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

  “They’re seriously after us.”

  “They are. But still light on leads. Tracing David Reinhart is easy. The connection with Chile is easy—they’d get that from the First Australia Bank. If they had more, they’d share it. The idea is to panic us into making contact.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Also interesting, they want us to contact the legal attachés—basically the FBI’s overseas representatives stationed in our embassies—without specifying the country. Shows they believe we’re offshore, they just don’t know where.”

  “They can connect me to you if they ask the right people the right questions,” she said.

  “They can only connect you to a few of my false identities.”

  “That’s a slippery slope. I can sum up your biggest liability: ‘Seen with Asian woman.’ ”

  Changing the subject, I told her I’d recruited Little Boy to gather intelligence on the Basque security expert in New York City who’d sent the terse letter to Colonel Angel. That seemed to please her greatly.

  “We need a murderous sociopath on the team,” she said. “One with a sense of humor.”

  “The only kind for me.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The next day, the green dot returned to its spot on the corso. I left Natsumi at the villa and drove back into the village, parking in a different spot, and moving down the sidewalk on foot. The shops were the usual trattorias, pasticcerie, gelaterie, café bars, grocers, shoe repair, and tourist traps with racks of postcards dragged out onto the sidewalk.

  I did the usual haphazard tourist meander, wandering in and out of the shops, saying buon giorno a few dozen times, stopping for coffee and gelato. Out on the street, I took a few photographs with the big Nikon hanging conspicuously from my neck. One gentleman offered in sign language to take my picture, which I gratefully agreed to. I wished I had the Italian chops to say, “Know the leggy brunette who drives that Fiat?” But I didn’t.

  It was getting close to lunchtime, which in Italy is after one o’clock. I picked a trattoria with a good view of the Fiat and ordered. “Solamente un primo, per favore. Con vino rosso, locale. Grazie.” I ended up with a dish of risotto mantecato and an icy Lambrusco.

  Soon after, I was rewarded by the sight of the tall woman, as well turned out as the day before, emerging from a door sandwiched between two shops. I looked up and saw the sign, Laudomia Zambelli, Avvocato.

  She was a lawyer. Or worked for one.

  She took off in the Fiat, and I followed her on my smartphone. The green dot barely cleared the village when it came to a stop. I watched to see if it would stick, giving me time to finish my meal and down a double espresso. Then I followed by car, passing the Fiat where it was parked in front of a big ristorante with tables pouring out from wide openings onto a canopy-covered patio.

  Laudomia, if that was her name, was sitting at one of the outdoor tables with a man about her age, just as finely dressed and attractive, terms I was beginning to think were a given when describing almost any Italian.

  I sat where I had a good view of her, setting my camera on the table with the lens pointing in her direction. Once I had her in the viewfinder, I pressed a wireless shutter release that I had in my pocket, firing off a series of photos while looking around at everything but Attorney Zambelli.

  I ordered the primo, passing on the secondo. The dignified server was slightly offended by this, allayed I hoped when I said, in English, that I was on a diet.

  It didn’t appear the woman and her companion had any such inhibitions, as the courses seemed to come in a continuous flow. I nursed my meal as long as I thought seemly. This also involved drinking a beer, which combined with the wine, surpassed my alcohol tolerance. I left the restaurant and carefully drove to a spot where I could monitor the tracking device.

  A good hour later, Laudomia drove back to her office and I had some decisions to make. Since nothing ideal presented itself, I decided to go back home and talk it over with Natsumi.

  And regain full sobriety.

  “MY MATA Hari routine probably won’t work on this one,” said Natsumi, as we sat on the balcony watching dusk fall.

  “Probably not. Nor woul
d the male equivalent. Though it’s likely she speaks English, being a lawyer.”

  “What kind of legal trouble could you get into without actually getting into trouble?” she asked.

  “None that I can think of.”

  “Lawyers are also born wary and skeptical.”

  “And thus familiar with background checks. I’d have to use one of the comprehensive identities,” I said. “And now with the FBI involved, I can’t be sure if they aren’t compromised.”

  “Remember the last person we encountered connected to a safe house promised to send you to hell.”

  “Noted.”

  I went back online and found a website for Laudomia Zambelli, Avvocato. I determined, after many trips to the Italian/English dictionary, that she was eager to be your advocate for a very wide range of legal circumstances, though her specialty was real-estate disputes. In fact, whether you were interested in acquiring, selling or managing a property, you could find no more capable or diligent counsel than Avvocato Zambelli. As a closer, she also claimed a good command of English, testifying to the large numbers of people from the U.S. and UK who’d been buying up homes in the region.

  I secured her email address and had Jonathan Fortnoy, who used an IP address in London, send her an email:

  Signorina Zambelli:

  My wife and I would like to purchase a villa on Lake Como and fear being taken advantage of, or causing offense, due to our rather poor Italian and cultural naïveté. While no doubt your real-estate professionals are beyond ethical reproach, we would feel much better having a member of the legal community representing us.

  Your website indicates you are fluent in English. If so, may we arrange for an appointment? I would prefer to meet in your offices. I will be in Italy starting tomorrow.

  Sincerely,

  Jonathan Fortnoy

  Things must have been pretty slow around the Zambelli practice, because the reply came very soon after.

  Mr. Fortnoy:

  Buon giorno.

  I would be pleased to meet with you at your convenience. My English, I can assure you, would not be approved by Cambridge or Oxford, but I have never heard complaints from my British clients.

  My offices are located at the address at the bottom of this email. Please provide desired times and I am sure one will suit my schedule.

  Grazie,

  Laudomia Zambelli

  I sent her a few dates and times, and she quickly picked one—two days away, four o’clock in the afternoon.

  I used the intervening time studying the property at the coordinates in Cardano. Google maps showed it to be a two-story villa with several large outbuildings, surrounded by rolling fields covered with grapevines, so it was likely the main house of a vineyard, though not yet possible to verify. Real-estate comparables put the value at around €3.5 million, assuming I’d guessed the right acreage.

  I also pondered the situation with Eloise. The fact was I desperately wanted to know whatever they knew, not just for gauging our immediate danger, but to help clear up all the questions I had about Florencia’s gambits, the safe houses, the VG, this guy Rodrigo. I was tired of feeling so resentful of people who could know things simply by walking down the hall and asking, things it could take me months to find out.

  But eventually I shook it off and forced myself to wait patiently for the meeting with Laudomia, which came sooner than all that frustration warranted.

  ONE OF the ways I burned up the time was to drive with Natsumi down to the city of Como to buy some clothes. It was evident the culture in this part of the world put a very high premium on style and good grooming. Two things I knew less about than I did professional ice hockey, though I had once pretended to be a wealthy American businessman with some success. My strategy then was to throw myself on the mercy of a knowledgeable haberdasher, and I could see no reason to change that approach now.

  Natsumi picked the place, even though her knowledge of men’s fashion was even less than mine. But I trusted her instincts. We stuck with the decision when the principal outfitter showed his facility with the English language, which he used to succinctly sum up the situation.

  “You have important meeting with beautiful Lombardian woman. You need to earn respect. I understand. She think you’re English, no difficulty there. I know what to do.”

  I walked out of there with a dark blue pin-striped suit, with the pinstripes about a quarter inch apart, a white pima cotton shirt with French cuffs and a collar that caressed a yellow tie. Add the contrasting handkerchief stuffed in the jacket pocket and kid glove-soft black boots, and for all my theatrical deceptions, I’d never felt more in disguise.

  “You actually looked sort of handsome,” said Natsumi. “In a crude, haunted and emaciated sort of way. Very sexy, though.”

  “I’ll need to know which part of that was a compliment.”

  “The sexy part.”

  “Do you think I can pass as a citizen of the UK?” I said, in what I hoped was a decent imitation of an Oxbridge accent. “It’s been a while since I’ve lived in England.”

  “You sound fine to me, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Quite.”

  “She won’t know any better than I do. You’ll be fine.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “Just don’t overdo it.”

  “Right, then.”

  As A mild precaution, I parked a few blocks away from Laudomia’s office near the promenade that paralleled the lake, which would later be filled with lovers, friends and families joining in the passeggiata, Italy’s beloved pre-dinner stroll.

  Laudomia buzzed me in the main door and I walked up the stairs to the top, where she waited for me.

  “Mr. Fortnoy,” she said, offering her hand, a significant gesture in proper Italy where handshakes between men and women are at the woman’s discretion. Her grip was firm, but her palm very soft. An inside girl with housekeepers and gardeners, was my immediate thought. Big expense.

  In her high heels she was nearly my height. She wore a white silk blouse with fewer buttons than professionally required, somewhat compensated for by the big, chunky stones of her necklace. Her grey skirt was a bit more modest than what I’d seen her wear before. It was made of a material that could have been the lightest possible wool, though only divined through touch.

  “Avvocato Zambelli, it is my pleasure to meet you,” I said in Italian.

  “Si parla Italiano?”

  I smiled. “Very poorly, I’m sorry to say. I can ask what something costs, inquire about the check and ask for the WC, but that’s about it.”

  “Well, that’s better than many. Please come into my office.”

  It wasn’t a big office, but it felt like I was stepping into an interior decorator’s photo shoot. The walls were roughed up and painted the color of dried blood. The desk was ancient, finished in clear high-gloss varnish. On top was a leather desk pad and fountain pen holder. Not a piece of paper in sight. A giant, blue vase sprouted long, green fronds. Fragrant, fresh cut flowers sprang from smaller vessels and competed agreeably with Laudomia’s perfume. Original paintings and lithographs covered nearly every square inch of wall space.

  At her invitation, I sank into one of the two upholstered chairs, she sank into the other, challenging the marginal modesty of her grey skirt. She raked back some errant brown hair with the tips of her long polished nails and shook her head, herding her coiffure back into loose order.

  “So, you have some nervousness about Lake Como real estate,” she said.

  “Frankly, we’re a bit at sea.”

  She seemed to like this idea. “Of course. You can easily put into the wrong port. Why not hold a steady bearing for the whole journey?”

  “Very nautical,” I said.

  “Every summer my family toured the Adriatic. Even during the wars. My father was a crazy romantic. Do you sail?”

  “The British Virgins,” I said, grabbing the memory of a brochure at the airport on Tortola that proclaimed the islan
ds the “charter sailing capital of the world.”

  “Ah.”

  “We’re thinking of a country place, but with a view of the lake,” I said. I went on to describe the coordinates of the safe-house villa as closely as I could.

  “These are available, though a price range would help me advise you.”

  “I suppose that matters,” I said, as if weary of the subject. “Two to three million euros?”

  Her measured response contrasted with the bright spark that suddenly lit in her eyes.

  “We might be able to manage a few options,” she said, “realizing the market is very competitive.”

  Yeah, I thought, lots of people like you competing over a shrinking number of people like me.

  “We have another place in Southampton, New York, not to mention the London flat, so we’ll need a caretaker. I’m sure you have sources along those lines.”

  She looked ever so pleased to assure me she did. “Mr. Fortnoy, property management is very much a part of our services here. If you wish other referrals, that too can be arranged. Entirely your decision.”

  “Perhaps you could show me villas under your management similar to what we’re looking for. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

  She wasn’t fazed by the idea. Actually seemed to like it. “That is most possible, Mr. Fortnoy. I simply need to examine the options.”

  “Please call me Jonathan. I detest formality.”

  This was a bit risky, since all the Italians I knew revered formality. Though for some reason, she softened around the edges.

  “Certainly. You may call me Laudomia, though it’s good my parents aren’t alive to hear such informality. ‘You are such a revolutionary,’ they would say. First university educated person in the family and all I heard were lectures on proper behavior,” she said, though with a gentle smile and not a trace of rancor.

  I almost told her my parents turned my upbringing over to a nanny, but it caught in my throat, as associations with my real parents flooded my brain. So instead, I reached over and gave her hand a little squeeze, then sat back again in my chair.