He was wearing a blue sport jacket, and a white shirt but no tie. They were in a conference room at police headquarters. The man from the university, Signor Rady, was sitting across the long table next to Signor Tallenger, perspiring as if it were his profession. The armpits of his yellow golf shirt were dark with sweat, and his face was slick with it, Signor Rady blotting his forehead with a handkerchief.
'Camorra is the Neapolitan Mafia, the Mafia of Napoli, and the surrounding area, Campania.' He took his pipe and tobacco out of his shirt pocket. The pipe was a full bent Brebbia. He filled the bowl with Cyprian Latakia and lit it, blowing incense-like smoke into the air.
'That's 150 miles south of here on the Mediterranean,' Signor Rady said.
Signor Tallenger ignored him.
Arturo took the pipe out of his mouth and said, 'The
Camorra began after the Second World War. They smuggle weapons and cigarettes. Over the years they expand into other type of crime: drug trafficking, prostitution, kidnapping. The suburbs of Naples are ruled by the Camorra. Children sell heroin and cocaine in the streets.'
Signor Rady said, 'So you're saying they've moved to Rome?'
'Let him tell us,' Signor Tallenger said, an angry tone in his voice.
'They have been in Rome for many years,' Arturo said. 'They are all over Italy and Europe. The Camorra is a possibility, but more likely, I believe, is a faction of' Ndrangheta.'
'What's that?' Signor Rady said, as if Arturo was speaking only to him.
'An-Dran-Ged-Ah,' Arturo said it slowly, accentuating each part of the word.
'Never heard of it,' Signor Rady said, interrupting again.
Arturo could see Signor Tallenger give him a serious look. This man Rady was very annoying. ''Ndrangheta is a criminal organization from Calabria, located in the t- of the Italian boot. More powerful even than the Sicilian Mafia, generating thirty billion euro every year. And until 1980 their principal business was kidnapping.'
Signor Tallenger said, 'You're telling us there are three major criminal organizations in southern Italy?'
'Four, if you include Sacra Corona Unita in Apulia.'
'You say it as if you're proud,' Signor Rady said.
Pride had nothing to do with it. They misunderstood him. It was complicated. Arturo was trying to give them perspective. 'I tell you so you will understand the situation, what we are dealing with.'
'I'd say you've got a serious problem,' Signor Tallenger said, 'I understand that much. What I don't see is what this has to do with my son.'
It had everything to do with his son, Arturo was thinking. But if the man did not want to listen there was no point in telling him again. He remembered the son sitting in this same room the night he was arrested, his arrogance, acting as if he was better than everyone, as though he deserved special treatment after stealing a man's taxi, his livelihood. Arturo had had to walk out of the room he was so angry, walk out or he might have done something he would later regret. He puffed on the cool-smoking Latakia, blowing smoke down the table away from the Americans.
Signor Rady said, 'I'd like to know what you've done to find Chip Tallenger?'
Arturo ignored him. He took the pipe out of his mouth and held the bowl in his hand. 'We send the photograph of young Signor Tallenger to departments in the regions and provinces around Rome. We have alert the Raggruppamento Operativo Speciale and Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, the elite forces of the carabinieri fighting organized crime. We give the photograph to Polizia di Stato and our contacts on the street. That is what we have done.'
Signor Tallenger said, 'What per cent of kidnap victims make it home alive?'
Arturo knew the answer, less than fifty, but he said, 'I do not recall.' Nor did he tell the man most victims were found strangled or shot to death.
Signor Tallenger said, 'The odds aren't very good, are they?'
Arturo took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.
Signor Tallenger said, 'What do we do now?'
'You withdraw the money and we wait to hear from them,' Arturo said. 'Are you a religious man?'
Signor Tallenger glanced at Arturo, his expression giving nothing away.
'I suggest you pray to God,' Arturo said. 'It is in his hands now.'
Arturo listened to the distorted voice of the kidnapper, the voice slow and deep, the conversation recorded earlier on Signor Rady's telephone.
'Signor Tallenger, are you there?'
'I'm here.'
'Do you have the money?'
'I have the money. Do you have my son?'
He had been instructed to buy a white Adidas soccer bag and put the money in it.
'Yes,' Signor Tallenger said, 'now I want to speak to Chip.'
'He is not with me,' the kidnapper said, 'but if you do as I say, you will speak to him tonight or sooner.'
Signor Tallenger said, 'How do I get the money to you?'
'You get on a bus, and I tell you where to go and what to do. Remember this — we are watching you, but you never know when or where. If we see police, say goodbye to your son. Do you understand?
'The police aren't involved,' Signor Tallenger said. 'You won't see anyone.'
'Now you better go,' the kidnapper said. 'The bus is coming in ten minutes.'
Signor Tallenger told Arturo he did not want any police involvement.
'We'll do it their way,' he'd said. 'I don't want to take any chances.'
This was high-profile. Arturo understood the concerns of the senator, but his duty was to protect this man, and engineer the safe return of his son. He did not tell him he had assigned two detectives, Grossi, a man, dressed as a tourist, with maps and a camera, and Pirlo, a woman, dressed as a nun, to go with him, the detectives standing near him but not too near at the bus stop on Via Trionfale.
Arturo and Luciano, a young detective named after the great tenor, were watching them from his car parked on the street. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the 913 bus approaching. It passed them and stopped. He saw people get off. He saw Signor Tallenger with the heavy athletic bag, and the two detectives, get on.
The bus was pulling out, picking up speed. Arturo was following, but keeping a safe distance. There was a GPS tracking chip sewn in the bottom of the soccer bag. He could see it, a red icon on his laptop, the screen displaying a map of Rome.
The bus stopped at St Peter's Basilica. Arturo was watching Signor Tallenger emerge and walk to Piazza San Pietro. He was standing in the middle of the immense square, the white soccer bag hanging from his right shoulder, as if he was waiting for the team to arrive, the bag looking out of place on a man his age, the senator long past his playing days, glancing in different directions.
Arturo was parked behind the taxi queue at the east end of the square on Via della Conciliazione. He watched Grossi and Pirlo walking in opposite directions, disappearing behind columns in the colonnade. He glanced at Luciano next to him in the front seat and said, 'How long have you been engaged?'
'Four years.'
'Four years? How do you do it?'
'It's not me. It's her. I want to get married, Carmen has a career, her own apartment.'
'You don't live together?'
'A few days a week.' Luciano grinned. 'It's not bad, I have to tell you. She has her space, I have mine.'
Arturo knew he was old-fashioned, but this was crazy.
Luciano said, 'It might be the new model for a modern relationship.'
Arturo was going to tell Luciano he was out of his mind. If you have a disagreement, how do you work it out if you both have your own apartment? He watched Signor Tallenger take out his mobile phone and hold it up to his ear, listening and then moving, running awkwardly with the heavy bag.
Instead of proceeding east out of Piazza San Pietro toward the open street, he went south through the colonnade. Pirlo radioed him and said Signor Tallenger got in a taxi. He glanced at the map on his laptop: the red icon was moving south toward the river. Grossi and Pirlo were running to the car. They opened the doors and got in the rear seat.
