The Bancroft Strategy

by Robert Ludlum

  “Throw the switch,” Andrea said.

  “And save five lives. Yet you have thus sent a trolley toward an individual with foresight and deliberation, knowing that it will kill him. You have, in a sense, committed homicide. Had you done nothing, you would have no direct complicity or involvement in the deaths. Your hands would be clean.” He looked up. “Nuala, once again you have outdone yourself,” he said as the red-cheeked Irishwoman brought more wild rice to the table.

  “You’re saying it’s a kind of narcissism,” Andrea said slowly. “Clean hands, four lives needlessly lost—a bad deal. I get it.”

  “How we feel must be disciplined with what we think. Passion must be within reason, so to speak. Sometimes the noblest act of all is also the one that most appalls.”

  “I feel like I’m back in a college seminar again.”

  “Do these issues strike you as academic? Merely theoretical? Then let’s make them real to you.” Paul Bancroft looked gnomic, a man with a surprise in his pocket. “What if you had twenty million dollars to spend on the uplift of your species?”

  “Another what-if?” Andrea allowed herself a small smile.

  “Not exactly. I’m not speaking hypothetically any longer. Before our next board meeting, Andrea, I’d like you to identify a particular project or cause that you’d like to spend twenty million dollars on. Work out exactly which, and exactly how, and we’ll do it. Straight from my discretionary funds. No deliberation or conferral. It will be done on your say-so.”

  “You’re joking.”

  Brandon gave her a sideways look. “Dad’s not a big prankster,” the boy told her. “He’s not Mister Leg-pull, believe me.”

  “Twenty million dollars,” Paul Bancroft repeated.

  “On my say-so?” Andrea was incredulous.

  “On your say-so.” The maven’s age-etched countenance was grave now. “Choose wisely,” he counseled. “Every hour of the day there’s a trolley car hurtling out of control. But the choice isn’t between one of two tracks. It’s between one of a thousand tracks, or ten thousand tracks, and what lies ahead on each course is far from clear. We must make our very best guesses, with all the intelligence and discernment at our disposal. And hope for the best.”

  “You’re dealing with so many unknowns.”

  “Unknowns? Or partially knowns? Incomplete knowledge is not the same as ignorance. Informed judgments can still be made. Indeed, they must be made.” His gaze did not waver. “So choose wisely. You’ll find that doing the right thing isn’t always easy.”

  Andrea Bancroft felt dizzy, intoxicated, and it was not because of the wine. How many people had a chance to make a difference like that, she wondered. She had been given the ability to snap a finger—and transform the lives of thousands. It felt…almost godlike.

  Brandon interrupted her reveries. “Yo, Andrea, you gonna be up for another quick game of hoops after dinner?”

  Rome

  Trastevere—the neighborhoods to the west of the Tiber River—was, for many residents, the real Rome, its medieval warren of streets having largely escaped the nineteenth-century rebuilding that transformed the city center. Squalor plus age equals cachet: Was that how the formula worked? Yet there remained corners that time had forgotten, or, more accurately, remembered—corners where the rising tide of new money had left only driftwood and detritus. Such was the ground-floor apartment of a dark side street where the Italian girl had lived with her parents. The Zingarettis were an old family, in that they knew the names of their forebears from hundreds of years ago. But those forebears had invariably been servitors and subalterns. It was tradition without grandeur, lineage without history.

  The Todd Belknap who arrived at via Clarice Marescotti 14 was scarcely recognizable as the person who had infiltrated Ansari’s dungeon hours before. He was immaculately attired, shaved, bathed, lightly scented: an Italian’s idea of officialdom. It would help. Even Belknap’s American accent might help rather than hinder; Italians were reflexively suspicious of their own countrymen, and usually with good reason.

  The conversation did not go smoothly.

  Ma non capisco!—But I don’t understand, the girl’s mother, a black-garbed crone, kept repeating. She looked older than most women her age, but also stronger. A vocational trait: She was, in the British idiom, “a woman who does.”

  Non c’è problema, insisted the father, a potbellied man with rough, callused hands and thickened nails. There’s no problem.

  But there was a problem, and she did understand—understand more than she pretended, anyway. They sat together in their gloomy sitting room, which smelled of burned soup and mildew. The cold floor, doubtless once tiled, was a rough, unvarying gray, as if slathered with a layer of grout in preparation for tiles that never arrived. The lamps were of low wattage, their shades frayed by heat and age. None of the chairs matched. They were a proud family, but not a house-proud one. Lucia’s parents were clearly aware of her beauty, which they seem to have regarded as a potential vulnerability—indeed, a likely source of heartbreak, to her and to them. It meant early pregnancy, the flattery and then the predations of unscrupulous men. Lucia had assured them that the Arab—they referred to her employer only as l’Arabo—was religiously devout, disciplined by zealous obedience to the Prophet’s word.

  And where was she now?

  When it came to the crucial question, the girl’s parents feigned obtuseness, incomprehension, ignorance. They were protecting her—because they knew what she had done? Or for another reason? Belknap would get through to them only if he persuaded them that the girl was in danger, and that candor, not evasion, would best protect her.

  It was hard work. To gain information, he had to pretend to have information that he lacked. Again and again, he told them: Your daughter is in danger. La vostra figlia è in pericolo. He was not believed—which meant that they were in touch with her, that she had given them reassurances. If she had truly disappeared unexpectedly, they would be unable to conceal their anxiety. Instead, they feigned confusion as to her whereabouts, retreating into vagueness: She said she had gone on a trip, she had not elaborated further, but perhaps it was for her employer. No, they did not know when she would return.

  Lies. Tales proven false by the ease with which they were related. Amateurs believed that liars gave themselves away by their anxiety, their nervousness; just as often, Belknap knew, they betrayed themselves by their lack of nervousness. That was the case with Signor and Signora Zingaretti.

  Belknap let a long moment of silence elapse before he started on them again. “She has been in touch with you,” he said. “We know this. She has assured you that everything is fine. She believes that everything is fine. But she does not know. She does not know that she is in imminent danger.” He made a quick throat-cut gesture. “Her enemies are resourceful, and they are everywhere.”

  The Zingarettis’ wary gaze told him that they regarded the American interloper as a potential enemy. He had induced a flicker of hesitation, a glimmer of concern where there had been none before; but he had not won them over. Still, a small fissure had appeared in the stone wall, their front of obliviousness.

  “She has told you not to worry,” he began again, calibrating his words to their expression, “because she does not know that she has cause to worry.”

  “And you do?” the crone in black asked, her mouth a little tent of disapproval and suspicion. Belknap’s story had not been the truth, exactly, but he hewed to the truth as closely as he could. He told them that he was from an American agency, part of a high-level international investigation. The investigation had uncovered special knowledge of l’Arabo’s activities. Members of the man’s personal staff were in jeopardy from a vendetta conducted by a Middle Eastern rival. At the word “vendetta” there was a glimmer in the elderly couple’s eyes, an echoing whisper from the old woman: This was a concept they understood and treated with proper respect.

  “Just yesterday, I saw the body of a young woman who…” Belknap brok
e off. He noticed the couple’s widening eyes, shook his head. “It’s too horrible. Very upsetting. There are certain images that stay with one forever. And when I think what they did to that young woman, a beautiful young woman just like your daughter, I can’t help but shudder.” He stood up. “But I’ve done all I could here. I have to remember that. You must remember it, too. Now I will leave you in peace. You will not see me again. Nor, I fear, your daughter.”

  Signora Zingaretti placed a clawlike hand on her husband’s. “Wait,” she said. Her husband shot her a glance, but it was clear that she was in command of this household. She stared at Belknap, making her own assessment of his character, his probity. Then she made a decision. “You are mistaken,” she said. “Lucia is safe. We speak to her regularly. We spoke to her last night.”

  “Where is she?” Belknap asked.

  “This we do not know. This she does not tell us.” The vertical lines on her upper lip were like the tick marks on a ruler.

  “Why not?”

  The potbellied man said, “She tells us it’s a very nice place. But the location is confidential. She cannot say. Because of…terms of employment.” Termini di occupazione. He gave an uncertain grin—uncertain because he could not know whether his words had refuted the worries the American had expressed or given fuel to them.

  “Lucia is a clever girl,” said her mother. Her face was drawn with fear; it was as if there were ashes in her mouth. “She knows how to look after herself.” She was trying to reassure herself.

  “You spoke to her last night,” Belknap repeated.

  “She was fine.” The old man’s beefy hands shook as he folded them in his lap.

  “She will take care of herself.” The crone’s words were a defiant pledge, or maybe just a hope.

  As soon as Belknap was back on the cobblestone street, he called an old carabiniere contact, Gianni Mattucci. In Italy—and Italian law enforcement was no exception—you got things done through friends, not formalities. He quickly conveyed his request to Mattucci. Lucia might have been just as close-mouthed as her parents had claimed, but the phone records would surely be more forthcoming.

  Mattucci’s voice was as astringent as a young Barolo, and as rich. “Più lento! Slower,” he prompted. “Give me the name and the address. I’ll run the name through the city database, get her INPS code.” That was the Italian equivalent of a Social Security number. “Then I’ll take that to the municipal phone registry.”

  “Tell me this won’t take long, Gianni.”

  “You Americans—always in such a rush. I’ll do my best, okay, my friend?”

  “Your best is usually pretty good,” Belknap allowed.

  “Go have an espresso someplace,” the Italian police inspector said coaxingly. “I call you.”

  Belknap had barely walked a couple of blocks when his cell phone buzzed: It was Mattucci again.

  “That was fast,” Belknap said.

  “We just got a report about the very address you mention,” Mattucci said. He sounded agitated. “A neighbor reports gunfire. We’ve got a couple of squad cars on their way. What’s going on?”

  Belknap was thunderstruck. “Oh, Christ,” he breathed. “Let me check it out.”

  “Don’t,” Mattucci implored, but Belknap clicked off, already racing toward the ground-floor apartment he had left only minutes before. As he rounded the corner, he heard the sounds of squealing tires—and his heart began to shudder in his chest. The entrance had been left unlocked, and he strode into a room riddled with bullets and spattered with blood. He had been followed: There was no other explanation. He had spoken to the elderly couple of protection, yet had only brought death in his train.

  More tires, skidding on cobblestone: this time the sound of arrival. It was a coupe, dark blue save for its white roof. On the roof was a stenciled number meant to be visible to helicopters, along with three lights. The world CARABINIERI was lettered on the side, in white, a red racing stripe above it. It was the real thing, and so were the two police officers who, scrambling out of the vehicle, ordered Belknap not to move.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Belknap saw another police car coming. He gestured frantically in the direction of a side street, signaling that the assailants had gone in that direction.

  Then he ran.

  One of the policemen gave chase, of course; the other had to secure the crime scene. Belknap hoped that he had sown enough confusion to discourage his pursuer from shooting at him: They had at least to consider the possibility that he, too, was in pursuit of the criminali. Belknap dashed around metal trash canisters, around Dumpsters and parked cars—anything to obscure the sightline between him and the policeman. The line of sight.

  The line of fire.

  He could feel his muscles burning, his breath coming in gulps, as he sprinted wildly, with the zigzagging movements of a fleeing hare. He was scarcely aware of the ground beneath his rubber-soled leather shoes. Within a few minutes, though, he had climbed into his vehicle, a white windowless van emblazoned with the logo of the Italian mail service: SERVIZIO POSTALE. It was one of various vehicles that Consular Operations had at its disposal, and though Belknap did not have authorization, he had little trouble gaining access to it. It was the sort of vehicle that normally attracted little notice. He hoped that would be the case now.

  As he started up the van and sped away, however, he saw, in his rearview mirror, another police vehicle—a Jeep-style carabinieri car with a boxy top, meant for holding prisoners. At the same time, his cell buzzed again.

  Mattucci’s voice, even more agitated than before. “You must tell me what is happening!” he said, almost shouting. “They say this elderly couple has been massacred, the apartment shot up. Evidently the bullets are semi-jacketed U.S. special-op hollowpoints. Do you hear me? The scalloped-copper jackets you happen to favor. Not good.”

  Belknap spun the steering wheel sharply to the right, making a last-minute turn. To his right was a green tramcar with four rubberized expansion joints, half a block in length. It would block him from the view of anyone on the opposite lane. “Gianni, you can’t possibly believe that—”

  “A fingerprint technician will be arriving shortly. If they find your prints, I won’t be able to protect you.” A pause. “I can’t protect you now.” This time it was Mattucci who clicked off first.

  Another police car was pulling up behind Belknap. He had to have been spotted getting into the van, and it was too late to change vehicles now. He steadily increased the pressure on the accelerator pedal as he veered through the traffic on the Piazza San Calisto and onto the faster-moving viale de Trastevere, speeding toward the river. Now the police car behind him had activated its own siren and flashing lights. By the time he crossed the via Indumo, he had picked up another cruiser—a Citroën sedan emblazoned with the word POLIZIA in backward-slanting capitals of blue and white. There was no room for ambiguity. He was being chased.

  Something had gone very wrong.

  He pressed the accelerator to the floor, veering around slower vehicles—taxis, ordinary motorists, a delivery truck—and, blaring his horn, shot through the light at the Piazza Porta Portese, slewing through lanes of traffic. He had lost the carabinieri Jeeps, at least. The limestone buildings to his left and right became blurred dirty-gray silhouettes; the pavement in front of him became everything—the small shifting portals between moving vehicles, gaps that appeared and disappeared in rapid flux, openings that would close if not seized at the right instant. High-speed driving was an entirely different activity than ordinary lawful motoring, and, as he crossed the Ponte Sublicio over the dark-green Tiber, toward the Piazza Emporio, Belknap had to hope that the old reflexes would kick in when they were needed. There were hundreds of ways to go wrong, a very few ways to go right. The second cruiser, the Citroën sedan, suddenly found a clear pathway and shot ahead of Belknap.

  The box was beginning to form.

  If, as seemed likely, a third cruiser were to appear, Belknap’s chances of evas
ion would drop precipitously. He had been hoping to enter the higher-speed thoroughfare that wrapped along the Tiber, along the high, tree-mounded, brick-and-concrete embankment. That was too risky now.

  Abruptly he swung the steering wheel to the right, and his vehicle swerved onto the Lungotevere Aventino, the road that ran along the Testaccio side of the river. He felt his torso hurtled toward the left, restrained only by the seat and shoulder belts.

  Now he made another sharp turn, onto the café-cluttered via Rubattino, and then took a breath and swung the van back onto the via Vespucci—this time driving the wrong way, against traffic. He only had to traverse a few hundred yards of it before he could turn onto the fast-moving Tiber-side road—assuming he could avoid collision on the Vespucci.

  The horns of a dozen cars shrilled and blared as motorists frantically tried to avoid the white postal van that was rushing toward them.

  Belknap steered with hands slick with sweat. The task of swerving this way and that to maneuver the van through a stream of motorists facing the opposite direction required him to anticipate their own evasive swerves. A single miscalculation would result in a head-on collision with the summed force of their opposing velocities.

  The world was reduced to nothing more than a ribbon of pavement and a swarming constellation of cars, every one a potential deadly weapon. The underbody of the postal van, with its low-riding chassis, bounced, scraped, and sparked as it descended too fast onto the ramp leading back to the fast-moving embankment road, but he made it over the next bridge, the Ponte Palatino, and, with another sharp, skidding turn, onto the Porta di Ripagrande.

  Now he could breathe, he told himself, as he powered the van on the straightaway past grand anonymous buildings. Yet when he looked in his rearview mirror, he saw half a dozen police cruisers. How had they materialized so quickly? Then he remembered the large police station located near the Piazzale Portuense. He steered onto the left road shoulder, gutterballing down it and peeling off onto the Clivio Portuense, one of the faster streets in the area. Once again, only the restraint belts kept him from being flung across the vehicle.