by Jay Deb
He pressed the button to call the elevator. After a few seconds, the elevator’s door opened with a ring sound. Janco stepped inside and studied all the buttons.
Janco remembered that he was being watched via some sort of video recording device in that clock and wondered if Gibbs was looking at the video feed now. Janco dithered about going downstairs, and, in the end, decided to quit. He walked out of the elevator and headed back to his room.
Chapter 10 Turin
Gibbs picked up his cell phone and dialed a number.
“How is the man?” the voice at the other end asked.
Janco was the man. “He wants to go out. Wants to talk to someone. I gave him some money and told him I won’t see him for a few days.”
“Why did you do that?”
“I’m sick of him,” Gibbs said. “He has so many questions and I don’t know what to tell him anymore.”
“Tell him the Iranians will come to him. And soon he’ll have company.”
“I already told him that. But I don’t think he believes me anymore. He’s in his room twenty-four seven. Can’t speak to anyone. Doesn’t see the daylight.”
“Maybe we should get a travel guide to take him around. But we need someone really dependable.”
“Do you know someone?”
“I don’t. But I can try to find out. Meanwhile, give him some books on Italian language. Perhaps that will keep him busy till this whole thing is all over.”
“I already did.”
“That’s good.”
“I’ll be away for three, four days to meet my family.”
“I agree you need some time off. You’ve been working twenty-four seven. But it has to wait. You didn’t give any notice.”
“My son’s school sent him to Rome and my wife accompanied him. It kind of happened suddenly. I have to go, boss.”
“You know how important this Janco business is. I can’t let you go. I have no one who can replace you there.”
“Please, I think my wife will divorce me if I don’t go.”
“How come your wife knows you’re in Italy?”
“Come on,” Gibbs pleaded. “Everyone says everything to their wives.”
The man at the other end of the line said nothing for a few seconds and then he said, “Let me tell you this. I’m starting to get pissed off at you and you killed that guard in the jail. That’s leading us into some trouble.”
“That was an accident.” Gibbs waited for his boss to speak.
“One day,” the boss said finally.
“Excuse me.”
“You can go for one day to see your family. You go today. Be back tomorrow.”
“Just one more day, boss. I assure you everything is going to be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes. He looks scared all the time. And I placed a camera in his room, and I’ve been watching him from my room. He never ventures out of his room. He has no passport, not much money. And he’s scared that the FBI will pick him up if he sets his foot outside his room.” Gibbs laughed.
“Sounds good. But I suggest you come back as soon as possible and check him out. Okay? Make sure everything is fine.”
“Got it. Will do as you said.”
“Good. Bye now.”
GIBBS WALKED OUT of the hotel and got into a waiting car and said hello to the driver, who was about to take Gibbs to his family in Rome. As the car started moving, Gibbs pulled out his smartphone and checked the video feed from Janco’s hotel room. Janco was lying on the bed like a dead cow, and Gibbs smiled.
Twenty minutes later, as the car moved out of Turin, Gibbs pulled out his smartphone again. This time, the images were blurry at times. But he could still see a man lying on the bed, and he could tell it was Janco.
Gibbs felt tense and cursed himself for not distance testing the video system beforehand, but in his line of work this kind of failure wasn’t uncommon. He put the phone back in his pocket, hoping sometime later the picture would get better.
An hour passed by, and Gibbs tried to watch the video again, but this time all he could see was a black screen. Gibbs panicked, but calling his boss was out of the question. He’d ask Gibbs to go back to Turin, which he couldn’t do. His wife had been threatening him with divorce due to the long absences and his failure to disclose what exactly he did for a living. He had to go to Rome and spend time with his wife and son. The video would probably come back, and even if it didn’t, Janco the cuss wasn’t going anywhere.
Hours later, when they were halfway to Rome, the video still wasn’t working and Gibbs simply gave up. He decided to deal with it once he went back to Turin.
JANCO WALKED BACK to his room, sat on his bed, and let out a sigh. He stood like a statue in front of his TV like he’d done so many times before. He picked up the tour guide and called the number of a tour company.
Using broken Italian and English, he asked if they knew someone who could get him a passport. “Mine was stolen by a street thief,” he lied. He knew, just like in the US, a passport was available – for a price.
“You will have to contact your country’s embassy,” the man at the other end of the line said.
“I already contacted them,” Janco lied again. “They will take one week, but I’ve got to leave the country immediately.”
“Only your country can issue a passport to you. Now if you want a city tour, we don’t need to see your passport. We have whole day and half-day tours.”
Janco knew getting a fake passport in Italy was easy, even easier than in the United States, and he wasn’t interested in a city tour. “I was wondering if you knew someone who could make one passport for me.”
“What is your name?” the man at the other end of the line asked. “Where’re you right now?”
Janco hung up, fearing the man might call the cops on him. Janco also worried if the recording device in the clock also transmitted voice and if Gibbs or someone else were listening to his calls. But he decided he’d just have to take the risk. He feared that the Iranians didn’t need him anymore, and sooner or later, Gibbs would just kill him to eliminate the witness to the jailbreaking.
Janco called two more tour companies, but the result was the same, and then he called the fourth number, perhaps the last try.
The man at the other end of the line was friendly, and to Janco’s delight, the man gave him an address, which he wrote down on a piece of paper.
“Go there,” the man said. “I think they can get you a passport.”
“Do you have their number?” Janco asked.
“No. You go there. Talk to them. These things cannot be discussed on phone. Good luck.” The man hung up.
Exultant, Janco took all the cash he had, picked up a few of his stuff, and put them in the plastic grocery bag. He put on the black pants and the white shirt he’d worn while traveling from the US to Italy. He put his pajama pants and the shirt in the same plastic bag. He ate a couple of cookies and put a few in the bag.
He took a look around, making sure he wasn’t leaving something important. Hoping he’d never have to return to this room, he closed the door with quivering hands and walked through the hallway on steady legs but with an unsteady mind, unsure of what lay ahead, whether he could get the passport and travel to Zurich, where he had a load of cash in a Swiss bank waiting for him. It was the loot he’d received in exchange for passing the nuclear secrets.
He was wearing a pair of slippers, the only footwear he had. His shoes had been taken by Gibbs on some excuse, and Gibbs never returned them. The slippers were weird, but he accepted their appearance, just like he’d accepted so many modifications in his life in the last few years.
He stepped into the elevator, pressed the button for the lobby, and using the steel wall as a mirror, he checked himself out and combed his hair with his fingers.
He walked out of the elevator and entered the lobby for the first time. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, the walls painted light yellow. The wooden cou
nter was about five feet long, behind which a young lady stood. She was wearing a purple coat and a pair of large earrings with white stones on them.
Janco showed the address he’d written down minutes before to the lady at the check-in counter. “How do I get there?”
“I can call a cab for you, sir,” she replied with a big smile.
“Isn’t there a bus that goes?” Janco didn’t possess enough money for a cab, so he made up a fake excuse. “I’m afraid that a cabbie might rob me or do something even worse.”
“This is the bus schedule.” The lady handed him a flyer. “I think the next bus is at twelve thirty and you may have to change buses. Check this out. It has a map too.”
“Where is the bus stop?”
“It’s right outside. Opposite that road.” She pointed outside. “See it?”
Janco saw the bus stop with a tiny shade and an advertisement board displaying a young woman holding a Nokia cell phone to her ear. He glanced at his watch – 12:10 p.m. He’d have to wait for some time. He sat down on a red sofa in the lobby and started studying the bus schedule.
TWO HOURS LATER, Janco was standing in a tiny office, conversing with a rough-looking man about thirty-five years old. The office had two wooden chairs and an unpolished, cheap table and a cracked floor.
Once the price was negotiated, the man agreed to get an Italian passport for Janco. “After I take your photo, it will take an hour to put it into the passport.” The man’s English wasn’t bad. Elated, Janco knew he could reach Zurich tonight if he got the passport right now. He’d almost memorized the train schedule from that tour guide book. “When do I get the passport? Half hour? An hour?” Janco asked the man.
“Two days,” the man said insolently.
“Why?” Janco’s hope of reaching Zurich tonight was scuttled.
“The passport has to come from Sicily. It’ll take two days.”
“Two days? Don’t you guys have express mail service? FedEx?”
The man rolled his eyes. “That will be a quick way to go to jail.”
Janco understood the issue. If the police knew what was in the envelope, they would simply come to this address and arrest the addressee. “How is the passport going to arrive here?”
“Why? Are you a cop?”
“No, I just wanted to know how this business works.”
“Do you really need a passport?” The man became suspicious, and then he threatened, “If you give us trouble, we’ll find you and–”
“Yes, yes. I must have a passport,” Janco said desperately. Suddenly he was afraid his getaway from Gibbs and Italy would be ruined by his silly question. “I must. Please. Please.”
“Okay.” The man’s face muscles relaxed. “You got cash?”
“Yes.” Janco took the euro bills out of his pocket and handed ten twenty-euro bills to the man.
The man counted the money. “Come back day after, around three. You’ll get what you need.”
“Thanks.” Janco exited the office and headed for the bus stop.
SITTING IN THE bus, occasionally looking outside, Janco wondered if it was wise to go back to the hotel. If Gibbs found out what he’d been up to, he would surely cause trouble for Janco, maybe even kill him.
If he didn’t go back to the hotel, then Janco would have to spend two days somewhere. When he’d stepped out of the hotel earlier, he’d thought he would never have to see that hotel room again. But now there was no choice but to head back there. He didn’t have enough money to get his own motel room, and he didn’t dare roam around in the city for the fear of being mugged and losing the little bit of money he had.
He thought about going back to the passport man and offering to do any work, mop floors, clean plates, pretty much anything. But Janco knew the man wasn’t in a good mood. Asking him for a favor would be like suicide – the man might scuttle the passport deal. No place to sleep and also no passport – he couldn’t afford that. He knew he’d have to go back to the hotel. Gibbs had said he’d be gone, but that might have been a test, just like Gibbs had done two weeks back when he’d said he would be gone for two days but showed up the same night.
He’d have to take a chance on being discovered. If Gibbs found out, then Janco would have to make up a story and ask for his forgiveness.
Later, the bus carrying Janco stopped outside the hotel, and he walked toward the hotel, afraid that he might be confronted by Gibbs at the hotel’s entrance. But Gibbs wasn’t there. It was almost six p.m., and there were only two men and a woman in the lobby. He slipped down the hallway, unlocked his door, stepped inside and hit the bed.
THE NEXT DAY, Janco woke up at five a.m., early, must be out of tension. The entire day he switched between lying on the bed and watching from the window, which gave a view of what was behind the hotel. Unlike regular days, he didn’t do any exercise, hardly watched the TV, and didn’t touch the newspaper.
The following day, he woke up early as well, did some exercises, made coffee and read the newspaper for thirty minutes. He checked out the train schedule in the tour book. Ten minutes before noon, Janco stepped out of the hotel and headed for the bus stop. Other than the cash, he took nothing with him, all the clothes, books, and food, everything left behind. When Gibbs came back, he would see everything still there and hopefully he’d wait for Janco to return, giving Janco some getaway time.
He boarded a bus from the bus stop located opposite the hotel where he’d stayed for more than a month, rather held as a hostage for a month. The bus rolled on, and he hoped this time he’d find true freedom. Janco changed buses, and an hour later, he was at the dingy office, ready to collect his passport.
Today a different man was taking care of the business. The man was older than the man who had been managing the place two days earlier. This man was about forty, Janco guessed.
“What you need?” the man said in Italian.
“I’m here for my passport,” Janco said in English.
The man turned – apparently he’d been expecting Janco and understood what Janco just said – walked into the inside room and came back with what looked like a passport. The man opened it and glanced at Janco and then glanced at the passport again, checking the picture much like the way an immigration official did.
Looking satisfied, the man handed Janco his passport. “Check it.”
The passport had a burgundy cover. The emblem of Italy was emblazoned on the center of the cover, ‘UNIONE EUROPEA REPUBLICA ITALIANA’ written on top, ‘PASSPORTO’ written at the bottom.
Janco flipped to the first page. The date of birth made him two years younger. According to the passport, his new name was Gustavo Ajello.
Janco closed the passport and faced the man standing in front of him. “It will go through immigration fine, correct?” Janco asked.
“Like a champ. You’ll have no problem,” the man said in Italian.
Janco put the passport in his shirt pocket, and he knew it was time to leave.
“Thanks,” Janco said and exited the place.
A few bus trips later, Janco was at Torino Porta Nuova Railway Station, the busiest train station in Turin; its exterior had an ancient historic look, conceivably preserved on purpose to remind visitors of the long history of the station and hence the city. Janco paid thirteen euros at the ticket counter and purchased a ticket to Milan.
He checked the schedule posted on the wall. There was a four p.m. train to Milan. He checked his watch – three p.m., one hour to kill. He watched the two public phones, handsets dangling from the cradles like lollipops. He’d wanted to call his son Mark from the Los Angeles airport and the Milan airport. But Gibbs had prevented that. Now that the evil man was no longer around, Janco’s heart ached to call Mark. He knew there were risks in making the call. The NSA was surely listening on Mark’s lines. He was having hard time deciding whether to pick up the phone.
Maybe he’d have a short conversation or maybe he’d just hear his son’s voice; maybe Mark wouldn’t even pick up the phone
, the most likely scenario, as it was morning in the US. Being unsure of his future, Janco finally decided to make that call.
He picked up the handset, dropped in a few coins, and started dialing Mark’s cell phone number. His fingers shook and heart fluttered, but he continued, almost hoping no one would answer his call. His dialing was complete, and he could hear rings; on the third ring, someone picked up the phone at the other end of the line.
“Hello.” It was his son’s voice. Janco said nothing; the hello sounded like a song. He remembered the day when Mark had started to walk on his wobbly legs.
“Hello? Hello?” Mark said again.
For a second, he thought of putting the phone down.
“Hello, son,” Janco said in the end, turning toward the white concrete wall.
“Dad?”
“Yes, son. How are you?”
“Where you calling from?” Mark asked, ignoring Janco’s question, his voice manifesting tension and fear.
“I’m outside America.”
“I know that. Outside where?”
“I can’t tell. Not right now.”
“Your name has been printed in newspapers and shown on TV a few times.”
“What are they saying about me?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes,” said Janco.
“Looks like a freelance journalist spotted you in Milan, and then he came back to the States and tried to locate you in the Nevada jail. He didn’t find you there. So he came up with a conspiracy theory that the government released you for some reason, and they were trying to cover it up. He said he had the proof needed to prove his point.”
“Then?”
“Then the government told us that you were kidnaped by some outside agents. And they were trying to locate you. And they couldn’t give us all the details because of the ongoing investigation. Is that true, Dad? Some guys kidnaped you?”