Good Blood

“Days!” de Grazia exclaimed. “I’m not waiting days!”

“Possibly longer. I believe we’re dealing with professionals, and they’re likely to let you stew a little first before getting in touch. It makes people more accommodating.”

“Animals,” de Grazia said under his breath. He turned his head to look at Caravale, and hesitated, as if searching for the right way to say something. “How do I... what should I do?” The words came hard. Asking for help wasn’t something he was comfortable with.

“First, you need to decide whether you’re going to cooperate with the carabinieri in this. They will almost certainly warn you not to. If my experience is a guide, there may be threats, frightening threats, against your son. All the same, in my opinion, it is to your advantage, to your son’s advantage, for you to work with us.”

“Why?” de Grazia asked bluntly. “What can the carabinieri do for me? Can they help me get my son back sooner?”

“Probably not, but it would still be helpful if you worked with us. Otherwise the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, never a good arrangement. You’ll want them caught, won’t you?”

De Grazia thought it over but remained skeptical. “Would I be dealing with you personally?”

“I would be in charge, yes.”

“I’m not accustomed to dealing with corporals, with sergeants.”

Caravale took a breath before answering. “You would deal with me,” he said quietly. He was determined not to let de Grazia rub him the wrong way.

“What would be involved? I won’t agree to anything that might put my son in jeopardy. None of your famous middle-of-the-night raids with all guns blazing and the news cameras grinding, nothing like that.”

Another deep, calming slow breath. “Agreed. Achille’s safety is paramount. I’m talking only about cooperation, about sharing information for later use—after your son is safe. I’m sure you want these people caught as much as I do.”

De Grazia ran a hand over his hair. It came away coated with oily dust, which he wiped off on his pants. “All right then, we’ll share information.”

“Good. I suggest that we begin by having the telephone lines to your offices and your home tapped.”

“No.”

Caravale’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

“No. I’ll share information with you—and I expect you to share it with me—but I won’t take any part in trying to trap them, nor will I permit you to use me for that purpose—not until the boy is safely home. Until then nothing is to be done that might frighten or anger them.” He looked directly at Caravale, his frost-blue eyes boring in. “Have I made myself clear?”

That did it. Deep breaths or not, de Grazia had finally gotten under his skin. Caravale was a carabinieri colonel, and carabinieri colonels weren’t accustomed to being ordered around. “Signor de Grazia,” he said in his most official manner, “you seem to be under the illusion that this is a private matter between you and your son’s kidnappers. But let me remind you that kidnapping is also a crime against the State. Moreover, two men have been shot to death. If you think I’m about to sit around and do nothing for days or weeks because it might displease you, you’d better think again.”

De Grazia’s face flushed. He had stiffened dangerously as Caravale spoke. “Now just a minute. I am not accustomed—”

“And be good enough to remember, I do not take instructions from you.” He was matching de Grazia scowl for scowl.

“You—”

“Have I made myself clear?” He sat back, anticipating some outraged sputtering, but satisfied that he had gotten his point across. He hoped not to have to do it again.

To his surprise, de Grazia didn’t respond in kind. For a moment he bridled, but then the tension drained out of his posture, and with a shake of his head, he lifted his hands to massage his temples in slow circles. “I apologize, Colonel. This is all new to me....I don’t know how to behave. Please, do whatever you think best.”

“Thank you, signore. I promise you, nothing will be done that might endanger your son.”

De Grazia nodded and looked out at the huffing earth-moving machines for a while. “How strange,” he said dreamily. “Half an hour ago, I had nothing worse to worry about than drainage schemes. Now...” He let the sentence die away. “And what else?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that first I should decide whether or not to cooperate with you. All right, I’ve agreed to cooperate. What next?”

“Next, I would strongly advise you to employ a professional negotiator to deal with them. I can put you in touch with several good ones.”

De Grazia seemed surprised. “What is there to negotiate? Colonel, I’m not about to bargain for my son’s life. ‘Yes, I’ll give you a million euros to spare him.’ ‘No, I won’t give you two million, go ahead and shoot him.’ Is that what you want? Absurd. I will not have it said that the boy was killed because Vincenzo de Grazia was reluctant to part with his money.”

There it was again, Caravale thought—the presence of anger, of pride; the absence of anything that came across as deep human feeling. Another man might have said, “I won’t let the boy be killed because I was reluctant to part with my money.” But Vincenzo had said, “I will not have it said...” To Vincenzo de Grazia, the big problem was what people might say about him, about the de Grazias.

“Let me understand,” Caravale said, “whatever they ask, you’re prepared to pay?”