Cries of the Lost

by Chris Knopf

  I shoved my way through the tables the fleeing guests had jammed against the railing, and dropped to my stomach, reaching down to grab her hand.

  “I’m glad you can swim,” I said.

  “If you count clinging to a wall swimming,” she said, as I hauled her up and through the bottom of the railing.

  The singsong Italian sirens floated into the air, increasing in volume as they sped toward us.

  “How’s Laudomia?” she asked.

  “In shock. Elbows and knees chewed up. How’re you?”

  “Wet.”

  I grabbed a tablecloth off a wait stand and put it over her shoulders. Then, with my arm around her, moved quickly away from the scene, hugging the railing which allowed us to walk behind the café building and into a parking lot. The sound of the sirens, painfully loud, suddenly snapped off. I guided Natsumi across the street and into a narrow alley.

  “Run,” I said to her.

  We made fast time until reaching the end of the alley which opened up on a street that had been closed to car traffic and turned into a promenade. We walked briskly past a few shops and cafés until we came to another cut-through. Again we ran, this time two blocks, at the end of which we stopped so I could check the GPS.

  The Ford Galaxy was still a few blocks away, but now we were too far west. We ran back a block and turned right onto a broad street, but luckily it was residential, with little pedestrian activity. We risked a fast walk, and in minutes were at the Ford. Soon after that we were heading south toward the city of Como.

  Natsumi dug her bag out of the back of the car. I turned on the heater as she wiggled out of her wet clothes and used a T-shirt in a weak attempt to dry off. I concentrated on driving within Italian speed norms while keeping a constant eye on the rearview mirror.

  “What the fuck was that?” she asked, once reasonably clothed.

  “A gift of divine luck,” I said.

  “Not everyone would look at it that way.”

  “The first two shooters were Rodrigo’s boys. We were seconds from being killed.”

  I explained the sequence of events, including the fortuitous arrival of the Alfa.

  “They saved us,” she said.

  “They did. But probably not on purpose.”

  “So who were Rodrigo’s guys trying to shoot?” she asked.

  “All of us, I think. I guess I shook the tree a little harder than I meant to.”

  “What are we doing now?”

  “Changing cars and disappearing into a hotel in Switzerland. I want to stay in the area, but things have to cool off. Including my impatience. It’ll get us killed.”

  She didn’t argue with me, just patted my knee. Another way of saying, “you’re right, but I understand.” I felt a little nauseated and my hands had a slight tremor, as the adrenaline drained away and full awareness of what almost happened settled in.

  The severity of the reminder was equal to the importance of the lesson. Anything short of extreme, paranoid vigilance was stupid and reckless. I hoped I’d never have to be reminded again.

  CHAPTER 17

  When I was about fifteen, I was transferred to a new high school, the consequence of a consolidation in the city where I grew up. It was a new school, still filled with the smell of fresh tile and sheetrock. The preceding schools, three of them, now closed, were local institutions, reflecting the demographics of their neighborhoods. Mine was heartily white middle class. Unadorned, rough-textured, but solid and tolerant of oddballs like me, if only because I wasn’t noticed.

  One of the other high schools was in a place they liked to call, euphemistically, under-resourced. If you’ve ever lived in or near a city, big or small, you know what that meant. Fucking tough.

  I was used to benign neglect, so I’d never been a target just for existing. For a chubby kid with little sense of physicality, who never played sports—more out of indifference than lack of fitness—moving schools was an unnerving experience.

  The kid who had the locker next to me was marginally bigger, but more physically mature, in that he had a scruffy ill-shaved beard and glossy skin. He was also a low-grade sadist, who on the few occasions we stood there at the same time, would slap my locker shut, nearly slamming my fingers in the door. It was such a blatantly cruel and meaningless thing to do, I could barely comprehend it.

  When I pointed that out to him, he’d just laugh and say things like, “Fuck you, freak bag.”

  One day when I was unloading my books, he appeared from nowhere, shoved me into the edge of my locker door in a way that split my lip, then suggested sexual things regarding my mother.

  I felt my lip, looked at the blood, then knocked him to the floor with a single wild, ferocious punch.

  It cost me a week’s suspension. I spent the time deconstructing my father’s abandoned stereo components. Never was a penalty more gratefully received.

  The kid never taunted me again. Though already absorbed by more important concerns, I took note.

  WE SELECTED the hotel in Castagnola—a village in Switzerland on the Italian border—based on the availability of a balcony overlooking Lake Lugano. I set up the computer gear, but after a quick glance at my various email accounts, we dedicated the bulk of our time sitting on the balcony composing ourselves. I even napped for two hours in the middle of the day, something I hadn’t done since recovering from the bullet wounds.

  “There is such a thing as nervous exhaustion,” said Natsumi, after I woke up and expressed my surprise. “We’re not immune from excess adrenaline. It can actually deplete a person’s energy.”

  I was never big on letting down, but she was making a good point. So, for both our sakes, I practiced calm restoration, albeit fitfully, for a whole day.

  The next morning I called Laudomia.

  “Signor Fortnoy, my God, where did you go?”

  “There is no Signor Fortnoy. Or Signora Fortnoy,” I told her, though I stuck with the British accent.

  “I told the carabinieri everything I know about you.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It’s all made up.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The men who tried to kill us worked for Rodrigo Mariñelarena. You need to tell this to the police. They should investigate the villa in Cardano. It was undoubtedly being used for illegal purposes.”

  “Who are you really?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you. I was the one they wanted to kill. You and my wife would have been taken out for good measure. It’s unlikely you’ll ever hear from Rodrigo again, but I’d get out of town for a couple weeks, just to be on the safe side. Take a vacation. You’ll be glad you did.”

  “He was about to shoot me when you called attention to yourself,” she said. “You saved my life.”

  “Or almost got you killed, depending on how you want to look at it. Though I would like a favor.”

  “If I can.”

  “I want everything you have on Rodrigo. Email, phone numbers, signature. And everything on the villa—contracts, deed of sale, and everything pertaining to the corporate owner. Name, address, and whatever official ID was required at the time of sale. I feel that when a client tries to kill you, it invalidates the rules of confidentiality.”

  “You are chasing this man?” she said.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “How do I do this?”

  “Scan the documents and make PDFS. But don’t use your office scanner. I’m sure there are places where you can pay a per-scan fee. Use cash. Then email me the PDFS. Again, don’t use your own computers. Go to an Internet café or library, or whatever you have here in Italy.”

  “This is so I can claim the documents were stolen from me, if necessary, am I right?”

  “You are.”

  “You are a spy, no?”

  “I’m not sure what I am, Laudomia, quite honestly. But if you could do this for me, it would be a good thing.”

  “I will, for sure. And pray it isn’t an evil thing.”

&nbs
p; CASTAGNOLA, APPENDED to the city of Lugano, possessed all the beauty and charm of the Como region in a more compact size. So there were worst places to commit to R&R.

  The only extra effort was putting on a reasonably comfortable disguise, which we achieved before crossing the border. Natsumi assumed her Japanese boy persona. There were no carabinieri or Swiss National police at the border to greet us, which was fortunate, since there was no easy way of getting around a wanted person description such as, “Caucasian travelling with Asian.”

  We each took a separate trip into Lugano, but otherwise were content to hang around the hotel, which was only accessible by foot or motor launch. Natsumi read novels from a bookcase well-stocked with English editions, and I did desultory research on the Internet, which for me represented the most soothing form of relaxation.

  I ignored my email inboxes, relying on the alerts I’d set up to keep track of the important stuff. That’s how I knew Laudomia had come through.

  It was an email from internet.paradiso. Subject line: “Documents. A Good Thing.” Attached were a dozen separate PDFS.

  I clicked on “Atto,” Italian for deed. The owner of the vineyard in Cardano was United Aquitania, Inc., and the address was a post office box in New York City. The company was also registered in New York State. There was a U.S. Federal Employer Identification Number, but no other information was required, since the notary who signed the deed had presumably performed the appropriate due diligence on both buyer and seller.

  The information contained in the compromesso—a contract laying out the deal prior to a vetting of the counterparties and the ultimate closing—offered nothing additional. It looked like the transaction sailed through without a hitch.

  Didn’t matter. I had what I needed for the next step.

  I used one of my most secure email addresses to write the New York Department of State to request a copy of the Certificate of Incorporation registered by United Aquitania. This would give me the name or names of the people doing the incorporating, and their nationality. It would also describe stock ownership and the purpose of the company’s business, which could be bullshit, but might provide some insight.

  I sent the email and immediately received an automated reply. It said they had my request and I should expect a response in about three to six weeks.

  I went out to the balcony where Natsumi was in a lounge chair reading This Side of Paradise by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  “Seemed fitting,” she said. “Though I gotta tell you, kids in the 1920s were just as self-involved and grandiose as kids are today. They just dressed better and actually talked to each other.”

  “We need to move again,” I said. “Nothing scary. For research purposes, though it’s not a bad idea to get a little distance from recent events.”

  “Where to?”

  “Since you’ve become accustomed to the beautiful and exotic, how about Albany, New York?” I asked.

  “Do they speak English?”

  “A form of it.”

  “Great. I’m sick of all these extra vowels.”

  THE JFK airport is not a kind place, nor an easy place to navigate. In some ways, it was stranger to return there than it had been to leapfrog through foreign environments. Though I liked speaking again in our regional vernacular.

  “How ya doin’?” said the customs agent rummaging around in our bags.

  “Doin’ okay.”

  “Got stuff to declare?”

  “Nuthin’.”

  I’d sent all the electronic gear ahead via FedEx, including equipment sourced in Europe and other far reaches of the world. There was nothing suspect or explosive in our luggage, with the exception of the tie I bought in Como.

  We coasted through, and were in a rented Chevy Impala shortly thereafter. We headed into Manhattan where I’d made reservations at the Remsenberg, a tiny boutique hotel on West 45th, on the same block as the old offices of The New Yorker and near the Algonquin Hotel. They’d turned the Oak Room, where Dorothy Parker, Alexander Wolcott and the other Roundtable luminaries once set unsurpassable standards for witty repartee, into a breakfast buffet, but I still liked to be in its proximity.

  Another appeal was the availability of two rooms with a connecting door. This allowed us to separate the computer array from the sleeping quarters. Not only could Natsumi now sleep with the lights off, she didn’t have to listen to me chat with myself, mutter gentle swear words, guffaw, hum jazz riffs, and make other assorted sounds, something I hadn’t realized about myself.

  “Are you kidding?” said Natsumi. “It’s like eavesdropping on a patient with severe DID.”

  “DID?”

  “Dissociative identity disorder. Split personality.”

  That might have explained how I was able to spend the bulk of my life alone in a home office glued to a computer screen. I kept myself company.

  AS SOON as we were thoroughly settled in, I called Evelyn.

  “So, tell me you’re in Kazakhstan,” she said.

  “West 45th Street.”

  “As in New York City?”

  “Yup.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “I’ve been working on getting you protection, so you might be able to come home fairly soon.”

  “Take your time. I spent the whole day at the Twelve Apostles yesterday. Gigantic stone pillars off the Southern Coast. Been dodging kangaroos and emu. Everything’s backwards and upside down. I feel like I’m marooned on another planet.”

  “Have you heard from Bruce?” I asked.

  “He sent me the agreement with the broker, and a valuation. How should I get it to you?”

  I gave her a secure route.

  “What’s the bottom line?” I asked.

  “Eight million. After taxes, fees and commissions.”

  “How long?”

  “A month, max,” she said. “Unless due diligence turns up another nasty surprise.”

  “Excellent. How’s Bruce holding up?”

  “Better now that he’s back on St. John’s with a security team hanging around with him and his wife. Everyone else is working from home and things are running fine. Maybe better.”

  “Give me a computer and a broadband ISP and I will move the world.”

  AFTER SLEEPING off the jet lag and getting fully organized in our new rooms, we took a field trip to the upper West Side. Far to the west, on 72nd Street, where Joselito Gorrotxategi lived out his dazzling lifestyle.

  It was mostly a wasted effort. The block was lined with apartment buildings and the street with cars lucky enough to snag a spot. No different from hundreds of other city blocks. We looked at the door buzzers, as if that would reveal some grave secret, but learned nothing we didn’t already know.

  We walked the rest of the way to the park and sat on a bench for a while, looking at the Hudson River. Joggers and dog walkers passed by.

  “So what’re you going to do next?” Natsumi asked.

  “We need to shake the tree again, but frankly, I’ve lost the stomach for playing bait.”

  We walked all the way back, from 72nd to 45th, my hands stuck in my pockets, her arm through mine. We talked about everything but recent events, instead pointing out city sights and reminiscing over trips to New York in our pasts and the adventures we had there.

  “We came on a field trip in high school,” she said. “A rare boyfriend and I peeled off from the group and spent the day drinking beer in delis and kissing between the stacks at the New York Public Library. Since both of us were little, ignored nerds, nobody noticed we’d been gone when the group got back on the bus. A good day.”

  I had a few tales myself, none so romantic and brash. More involving long gawking moments in museums and art galleries.

  “And tourist traps, though I was more concerned about the load-bearing physics of the Empire State Building than the gift shop.”

  When we got back to the Remsenberg, I made a cup of coffee and went into the computer room to check on things. None of my key mailbox
es had seen any recent activity, which is all I normally cared about. But occasionally, I’d check dormant addresses still live since they posed little security risk. One of these had belonged to Kirk Tazman, the mythical executive from Deer Park Underwriters that supposedly managed Florencia’s secret account.

  There was one email, about three weeks old, from Dominic Etherton, the stern safe-deposit manager from First Australia Bank, Grand Cayman.

  Mister Tazman:

  It is with a heavy heart I write you, despite great jeopardy to my life, that the confidential information on your account with us has been breached in several egregious ways. I take this as a personal shame, though I was in no way able to prevent it.

  On the day you came to withdraw the contents of your safe-deposit box, I was alerted individuals were in the bank asking to engage with an account under the highest level of legal surveillance. At that time, I was instructed by my superior manager, Mr. Sato, to inform both the Royal Cayman Islands Police Service and the American consulate office in George Town.

  I did so, though I refused Mr. Sato’s demand we confine you and your assistant until the authorities arrived. I believed, and still believe, this would have been an unforgivable betrayal of our bank’s and nation’s commitment to our valued customers.

  I was censured for this by my bank’s management, but that was the end of it, until two weeks ago when a Latino man came to my office and told me he had guns pointed at my children and wife and would shoot them if I did not turn over every record relating to your account.

  I did as he asked, of course, in full. My bank does not know this happened. Neither do the police. I am telling you because I feel a powerful moral obligation. I am also trusting you not to reveal my transgression, understanding that my family’s lives were at stake, and still are, I believe, if this event comes to light.

  With the humblest and sincerest apologies,

  Dominic Etherton

  CHAPTER 18