by Chris Knopf
“People who want to kill us? Who already tried to kill me? The ones in the house might be our best friends.”
I sat back down at the computer and stared at the real-time view of the front door. No one came in or went out.
“Warn them. The ones in the house,” she said.
“They might want to kill us, too.”
“Who doesn’t want to kill us?”
“The astronomer, Mirabella McPherson. She had contrary designs.”
That caused her to run a hand down my back and give me a thumbs-up.
“We’ll always have Spottsworthy.”
I had an idea. Urgency prevented me from sharing it with Natsumi. I just held up a finger while I dialed Laudomia, and she nodded with understanding.
“Buon giorno,” I said, when she answered. “We’re having strange thoughts.”
“Strange thoughts are far more interesting than everyday thoughts.”
“We like the Spaniards’ vineyard. The other villas are all so beautifully decorated and cultivated. The vineyard is unadorned. A blank canvas upon which we can paint our own unique vision. In keeping with Lombardian aesthetics, of course. For that, we would seek your counsel.”
“You know it’s not for sale.”
“Yes, but things can suddenly be for sale if the right price is suggested,” I said.
“Interesting.”
“Do you know when they’ll be back in Como?” I asked. “I’d love a chance to speak with them directly.”
“No idea. But they were only just here a few weeks ago, so it will be a while.”
“Of course. But it’s so disappointing. Is there a phone number or email address?”
“There are, Signore, but giving them out would violate confidentiality.”
“Okay—then would you mind contacting the gentleman and giving him my number? Then it’s up to him.”
“That I can do,” she said, taking down the number.
I thanked her, hung up and filled in Natsumi.
“So the boys in the villa didn’t contact her,” she said. “Do we know what that means?”
“They’re counting on surprise. Or they don’t know she exists. Or something else.”
“Maybe we should listen to the recordings again. Might learn more.”
“That’s it,” I said, jumping out of my seat again. “Of course.”
“What’s it?”
I retrieved a fresh CD off a stack and stuck it in the computer. Then I opened the audio files from the hidden mics and downloaded the men’s conversations.
“Ah,” said Natsumi, as she watched me work, “if they find out the villa’s bugged, they’ll assume the ambush is blown.”
“And not knowing anything else, they’ll most likely get out of there in a hurry.”
“Great idea, only how do we deliver the CD?”
“Very carefully.”
It was about an hour away from nightfall. I used that time studying the villa with Google Earth and aligning the satellite images with the GPS on my smartphone. Natsumi was off on a separate mission, which she completed more quickly than I thought she would.
“It’s a pretty boomy boom box,” she said, setting it down on a table. “The guy at the store was mortified when I tried it out. Lady Gaga at full volume.”
I had about an hour’s worth of recordings, which I looped to fill the CD to capacity. I took the player outside and had Natsumi tell me via cell phone how far I could get from the house before the voices became inaudible. I counted the number of paces on the way back.
I put on my all-black outfit, and rigged up a connection from the audio feeds in the villa to my smartphone so I could listen on earphones. There was very little of substance being spoken, but at least I’d know the mood inside the house.
Natsumi drove me to Cardano. I knew she was nervous about the plan, but it was the best I could come up with on short notice. On the way, we decided on codes from the phone, either voice or text, that would give her my status, and a short list of if/ then scenarios.
“If you’re dead, I might do a little improvising,” she said.
“That’s why we push decision-making down to the field.”
She took me to a point on the map about a hundred yards from the villa entrance. From there, it was relatively easy to follow the GPS on the smartphone through the grapevines. It was a nearly moonless night, and I couldn’t risk a flashlight, so the greatest danger was running into something or falling in a hole. That and the armed-to-the-teeth paramilitary in the villa over the hill.
I slowed my movement to a near crawl and made irregular footfalls, vaguely remembering that was a good idea in this situation. I made a mental note to study Native American tracking skills.
I was still out of range, based on our volume test, when I ran out of grapevines. The villa was dark and the chatter picked up by the mics was restrained and banal. I had no way of knowing if they’d posted a watch, but I had to assume so. I stared into the darkness and willed my pupils to let in maximum light. Which must be possible, because I saw the shape of an outbuilding emerge from the gloom. It was about twenty yards from where I stood and well within the volume range. I walked back into the grapevines, texted Natsumi an “okay so far” code, and moved to where the little building was between me and the villa.
Judging as well as I could in the dark, it seemed as if I’d have about thirty seconds of full exposure if I just ran for it, factoring in my run, which was more like an awkward lope.
I thought about it for about that long, then loped.
The ground was covered in something resembling grass, close-cropped, so the sound was minimal. I knelt in front of the outbuilding, turned on the boom box, pushed the play button and loped back into the grapevines.
Seconds later the voice of one of the Spaniards opened up into the night. I realized some of my precautions were way over-engineered. The voices seemed thunderously loud, and I had the worthless thought that I should have built in some delay. I was nearly at the grapevines when the world around me lit up, a brilliant beam coming from a forty-five degree angle.
“Fermati o sparo! ” a man yelled. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
I ran faster and he shot.
The rounds chewed up the ground all around me, but hit nothing but soil. Once I crossed into the vineyard, I put every bit of energy I had into getting as deep into those rows of grapevines as I could. I heard more yelling, but the shooting stopped.
Through my headphones, I could hear the other men in the villa scramble, the leader yelling out orders and the others acknowledging them and muttering barely audible curses.
Seconds that felt like minutes later, all I could hear was the recording of their conversations echoing through the darkness. I pictured them standing over the boom box trying to process what they were listening to. Then suddenly all sound ceased.
I called Natsumi and gave her a one word code in a loud whisper. She yelled back the appropriate response and I clicked off the phone.
The next sound was something like the spatter of raindrops, followed a millisecond later by the roar of gunfire. I dove to the ground as hundreds of rounds from automatic rifles mowed down the grape trellises. Dirt, wood chips and grapevine debris sprayed across my back. Voices in Italian and Spanish rose between the gun bursts.
Then it stopped again. I waited, listening intently. When it seemed quiet for a reasonable amount of time, I stood up and continued running. I stopped every few minutes and listened, but heard nothing. In my mind, I saw the leader commanding the team to pack up everything, destroy all evidence of their presence, and load the van. I wondered if they’d search for the mics, or go with expedience and just get the hell out of there.
I made it to the road, and right on cue, Natsumi drove up and I dove into the Ford. Before I had the door closed she was hurtling down the winding road.
“I heard guns,” she said, a trifle louder than necessary.
“I’m okay. Just a little close for comfort.”
“Will they chase us?”
“They only have one vehicle. Need to get it loaded. I’m actually surprised they fired their weapons. Not very professional.”
“Spooked by the CD?” she asked.
“I think so. Who wouldn’t be?”
“Better professionals.”
She slowed down to the standard Italian suicide speed, though it wasn’t long before we were back at our own villa on the lake. We went immediately to the computer to view the footage from the nanny cam, which had a poor, but adequate audio function.
I went to real time. Predictably, there was a lot of yelling and hustling in and out the door. We could see one of the men with his rifle at the ready; the others had theirs slung over the shoulder. There was little talk about the hows and whys of the boom box, conjecture presumably overwhelmed by the urgency of the moment.
It took about a half hour and they were gone. That was less time needed to properly scrub the place, but they likely didn’t care at this point.
When the clamor subsided, Natsumi and I re-engaged with each other.
“That was really brilliant and really scary,” said Natsumi.
“I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.
“My bum leg is killing me. I really can’t run.”
“I should have done it. I’m a smaller target and I run like a deer.”
“You’re probably right. It’s just hard for me to put you in danger.”
“Too late for that. Next time we discuss it.”
“Okay. Meanwhile,” I said, eager to change the subject, “we got those guys out of there and still have the mics and cameras in place.”
“So we stick here for now.”
“Of course. We have a dinner party to go to.”
CHAPTER 15
I felt a strange sense of exhilaration the night of Laudomia’s party. I knew from a study I once did of a drug designed to dampen the effects of adrenaline overload that a near-death experience, or equally triumphant moment, can have lingering, often euphoric effects. This can translate into grandiose, potentially self-destructive behavior by the victims of this syndrome. In my case, it presented as a particularly loud tie.
“You’re going to wear that?” Natsumi asked.
These were the only words ever spoken by Natsumi that I’d also heard from Florencia. Leading me to think it was gender-based.
“I shouldn’t?”
“Well, not necessarily.”
“It’s pure silk,” I said. “Famously woven right here in Como.”
“Was I there when you bought it?”
“Not exactly.”
“It’s very bold and lovely,” she said, straightening the knot. “I’m sorry if I sounded less than entranced.”
I had nothing to criticize about Natsumi’s wardrobe—a tightly fitted black thing and toeless high heels. Not that I ever would anyway. She looked like a million bucks and I told her so.
“Thank you. And no worries about the tie, black goes with everything,” she said.
WHAT HAD seemed an attractive, yet relatively common dwelling in the stark daylight, Laudomia’s home had become a romantic fantasy at night. Giant candles lined the driveway and the stone walk up to the door. A classical concerto seeped out in low volume from speakers hidden in the darkness. Aromas—mostly from flowers, furniture oil and cooking smells—clung heavily to the soft evening air. Laudomia strutted like a runway model out the front door, long lush hair flowing over her shoulders, and breasts swinging freely under a floral silk blouse. She greeted us, kissing both cheeks and enveloping our senses in clouds of perfume.
“It is so lovely to have you here,” she said, holding and swinging our right hands. “Come, come and meet my friends.”
They were primarily Italians, most of whom had a ready command of English, a Frenchman who didn’t, an American couple from Rhode Island, a pair of gay German men, and miraculously, no Brits.
Relief filled my heart. Natsumi must have had a similar reaction, because she lit up the rooms with effervescent conversation and feminine charm.
I wondered what was going on inside my mind. This was an ongoing preoccupation, understandably, given that a bullet had gone through it. The brain is the only object in the universe capable of examining itself. In my case, a researcher’s brain, one that could experience the world while simultaneously recording the experience.
I concluded that as I healed, I also evolved. Not necessarily yielding an improved version, though interesting new sensations were emerging, mostly emotional. The original me was a very steady lad. Essentially cheerful, but reserved, contained in easy contentment. I’d heard of mood swings, but never experienced them myself. Now, it seemed as if a protean emotional palette was growing in me, aspects of which would spring up with little notice or warning.
I watched Natsumi navigate Laudomia’s plush home, wineglass in hand, her back straight and her face lit with calm amusement. I was on the verge of approaching her to say something sentimental, when Laudomia took me by the arm.
“I have emailed the Señor, Jonathan,” she said, “and copied you, asking him to contact you directly if he wants to have a conversation.”
“Very good of you. Thank you.”
“In the meantime, Roger and Dottie Hardgill, the Newport people, would love to speak with you about their place, the one with the big pergola.”
Roger was a tidy little guy of about seventy, with dyed-black hair and a squint. Dottie’s plastic surgeon had managed to give her face a permanent cast of startled alarm. It occurred to me that nothing is more damaging to your appearance than excess money in the absence of good sense.
It only took a few minutes to learn that selling the place was Roger’s idea, leaving Dottie either bewildered or bereft, it was hard to tell by looking. For Roger, it was simply a smart financial bet, sell high in Italy, buy low in Cape Coral, Florida.
“A house is a house,” he said. “You know what I’m saying?”
“Como is drenched in thousands of years of culture and history,” said Dottie. “Cape Coral was a swamp until the 1960s.”
“Dottie’s got a degree in anthropology from the University of Michigan,” said Roger, with some pride. “I got to drop out of high school to keep my family full of losers from starving to death.”
“More the victims of structural, societal disadvantage,” said Dottie, “anthropologically speaking.”
“See what I mean?” said Roger.
Natsumi demonstrated more of her social skills by extracting us from the conversation with no loss of good will on the part of the Hardgills. I promised to keep their property in mind, and he slapped my shoulder as we deftly slipped away.
“A face is a face,” Natsumi whispered. “You know what I’m saying?”
The rest of the evening coasted effortlessly through a few rounds of limoncello, from which we both demurred, a spontaneous late-night passeggiata around the neighborhood, and lots of abbracci e baci before we all embarked for home.
“Do you think I’m behaving normally?” I asked Natsumi, as we drove over the curvy, up-and-down Lombardy roads.
“I don’t know what normal is anymore,” she said.
“You’ll tell me if you observe anything odd. I mean, odder than the standard odd.”
“Yes.”
“I did suffer a traumatic brain injury. We don’t know what that could ultimately mean.”
“Laudomia’s given up on stealing you away,” she said.
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re probably too odd.”
I CHECKED all my email addresses when we got back to the villa and found a lot of interesting stuff. Including a message from Shelly Gross, which had come in only minutes before.
Mr. Rimes:
I have no reason to trust anything you say, since you have proven, beyond a reasonable doubt, to be a dishonest person. Consequently, no information offered by you could possibly b
e of any use to me or my former organization.
I do not wish you the best. Quite the contrary.
S. Gross
I wrote him back.
Shelly:
You’re up early. I think all that rancor is giving you insomnia. Let it go. Not worth it. Email this woman and tell her you have a line into David Reinhart:
[email protected],
The other interesting message wasn’t interesting in what was written, rather in who wrote it.
Mr. Fortnoy:
The villa is not for sale.
Rodrigo Mariñelarena
I called to Natsumi and she read over my shoulder.
“You think?” she asked.
“As Nicho Santillian said, they got a lot of Rodrigos.”
“Still.”
“Still, it’s intriguing. And I’ve got his email address.”
I wrote back:
Rodrigo:
The villa is compromised. Selling it makes more sense than blowing it up.
Felingham
I’d signed it with the name I’d given Nicho Santillian in Madrid, presumably one he’d passed along to Rodrigo.
“Wow,” said Natsumi, before I pushed the send button. “A little risky?”
I turned around and looked at her. “We have to shake the tree. It means some exposure, but we may not get a better chance to crack this thing.”
“We know something he doesn’t,” she said.
“Correct. But I won’t send it if you think it’s too dangerous.”
She looked at me sympathetically. “You’re right. Nothing else we’ve done is terribly dangerous.”
“So I’m sending?”
“You’re sending.”
I hit the button.
THE NEXT day I called Little Boy, the Bosniak criminal boss in South Hartford.
“Mr. G, I was getting ready to call you. We learn a bit about Joselito Gorrotxategi. First thing, very hard to spell his name.”
“He’s Basque. A lot of them have names like that.”
“Slick dude. Got a nice place in the City, drive 7 Series Beemer, likes the ladies. At least we know he like the lady we sic on him. Mirsada is getting snuggly, but not yet put in the hook. She say he’s big deal forensic accountant, according to him, which could be crap. Tells corporations how to protect assets jumping from country to country. Growth industry for sure. And you’re right about the Basque thing. He tell her, don’t you call me Spanish, we all descended from Atlantis, or some such bullshit.”