the truck?”
“That would be a good idea.”
De Grazia nodded, invited Caravale in with a gesture, and clambered deftly up into the driver’s seat. He was a fit-looking, small-waisted man who moved the way he spoke, with conciseness and efficiency. Caravale, not quite so deftly, hoisted himself in opposite him. They left the doors open.
De Grazia’s expression had changed. He realizes this is something serious now, the colonel thought. Probably, he’s worried that we’ve found out about some shady quid-proquo arrangement to get a variance approved. Too bad that wasn’t all it was.
Best to get right to it. “Signor de Grazia, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your son has been kidnapped.”
De Grazia, with his mind not totally clear of whatever the problem with the blueprint had been, nodded along with him as he spoke and then kept on nodding as if he were waiting for the punch line. Caravale paused, letting the words sink in.
After a couple of seconds de Grazia’s head snapped around. “What did you say? My son? Kidnapped? Achille de Grazia?”
“In Stresa, two hours ago. From one of your company cars.”
De Grazia frowned, blinked, and frowned again. His long fingers—manicured?—played over the steering wheel. “No, that’s wrong, someone’s made a mistake. Achille is in school, he goes to a private school, up near La Sacca.”
“There’s no mistake, signore. I’m sorry about it. Can you tell me what he was doing in Stresa?”
“What he was...” He smacked the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Who did it? What do they want? Is he all right?”
“We don’t have much information yet. Can you tell me what he was doing in Stresa?”
De Grazia made a small, impatient gesture, as if brushing away a fly. “I just told you. He goes to school near La
Sacca. In the mornings, he comes with me to work—”
“Here to Intra?”
“No, to the main office in Ghiffa. That’s where I go first. We take the launch. From there, I have him driven on to school. How did—”
“So to get to his school the driver—”
“The driver goes through Stresa, yes, yes. What difference does it make why he was there?”
“Who else knew about it?”
“Who else knew?” He shook his head, exasperated, “Tell me, how the hell would you suggest one get from Ghiffa to La Sacca? Over the mountains and down to Rome, then around the back way and up through Milan?”
Caravale didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but given the circumstances, he was willing to allow de Grazia some leeway. “What I’m getting at, signore,” he said mildly but with a shaded hint of warning, “is whether other people knew that he was driven over this route every day at this time?”
“Ah. I see what you’re getting at. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m a little...”
“I understand perfectly.”
“Many people would know, Colonel. It’s not a secret. Please, tell me what happened. Is he all right?” He was staring straight ahead, through the windshield, with his hands back on the steering wheel.
“It was elaborately planned. A traffic disturbance was created on the Corso, forcing your son’s limousine into a side street. There it was trapped by two cars, one in front, one behind. There was shooting—”
De Grazia’s head jerked. “Shooting!”
“Your driver was killed.”
“Killed—he was
“So was one of the kidnappers. The—” “What about Achille? Was he—did they—”
“No, no, there’s no reason to think he was injured.”
Not quite the truth, but what would be the point of passing on an unverified report of the boy’s having been dragged from the limousine? If he was hurt, he was hurt; if he wasn’t, he wasn’t, and nothing was served by giving de Grazia something more to worry about. “As far as we know, he’s all right.”
De Grazia sank back against the seat.
“Does your chauffeur always carry a gun, Signor de Grazia?”
“What? Oh. No, not always. On regular trips, yes. To work, from work...” He hit the steering wheel again, this time with his fist, and with considerable force. “Bastards,” The word escaped pinched, as if hung up on something in his throat. He was breathing shallowly; Caravale could see his nostrils dilate and contract.
Why, he’s angry, Caravale realized with interest. Not stunned or appalled, as he’d first supposed (those being the usual reactions), or worried, or dismayed, or fearful, but angry. For Caravale, who had handled a dozen kidnappings in his career, this was something new. Anger usually came later, after the reality of the situation had been absorbed.
“What do they want, money?” de Grazia asked.
“That’s what they usually want, yes. It could be something else—some political point, maybe, but my guess is you’ll get a call in the next few days; maybe a fax.”
