The stern, thin, measured voice of Cosimo de Grazia was heard from his corner. “My nephew is not a commodity.”
“Certainly not, Uncle,” Vincenzo agreed. “Colonel Caravale, when do you suggest this advertisement be placed?”
“Not until you do have the money available. It would be a mistake to mislead them on that score.”
“A million, do you mean? That’s no problem. I’ll go into Milan tomorrow morning and see my banker. To be completely safe, the advertisement can appear the following morning. Wednesday.”
Caravale showed his surprise in spite of himself. “You can raise—borrow—a million euros cash in one day?”
De Grazia smiled. “But it’s not cash, Colonel, it’s a wire transfer. No money actually changes hands. Very up- todate. I assure you, it involves far less in the way of logistics than trying to collect a million euros in ten- and twentyeuro notes, or whatever you’re used to.”
“Of course,” Caravale said, but the truth was that he hadn’t given much thought to this aspect of the demand. All of the kidnap-ransom cases that he’d dealt with had concerned cash ransoms. And de Grazia was right about the logistical difficulties involved. As it happened, Caravale knew from personal experience exactly what one million euros in ten-euro notes involved. It took one hundred thousand ten-euro notes—no easy thing to collect— and when you had them all together, they weighed two hundred pounds and filled four garbage bags to bursting.
Even the crooks in that case had been taken aback when they saw what they had to deal with.
He was going to have to get himself filled in on electronic money transfers before this went much further. He didn’t like being behind the times. And he didn’t like being patronized by Vincenzo de Grazia.
“I’ll see that the advertisement runs Wednesday then,” he said. “Who knows, they might even accept, although that’s doubtful. But if not, it’ll give you a chance to raise more while we negotiate.”
“One moment, please,” Bella Barbero said, her nail-chewed fingers playing over her pearls. “I realize I don’t know much about such things, but it seems to me you’re putting quite a lot of confidence in these gangsters knowing these, these ‘rules’ as well as you do.”
“Yes, that’s so,” exclaimed her husband Basilio. “For all we know, we could be dealing with crazy people, or amateurs who don’t know how such things are supposed to work.”
“Oh, I think we can assume that these gangsters, as you properly call them, signora, belong to the class of experienced, professional kidnappers of which Italy, unfortunately, has no shortage. The abduction of Achille was”—a work of art, he almost said—“meticulously planned. The diversion on the Corso, the blockage of the police cars on their lot, were executed with foresight and precision. There was nothing amateurish about them.”
“That may be so, but I don’t agree with your conclusions,” Bella said, openly challenging him. “What about the kidnapping itself? It could hardly have been more botched. All that wild shooting, two people dead. They might easily have shot...” She didn’t finish the sentence.
“True, signora, the execution of the plan was bungled, but that was the fault of those that were hired to do it, not of the men behind it. Kidnappers for ransom often use hired thugs for the most dangerous aspects.”
“I don’t quite see how you can be so confident anybody hired anyone,” Vincenzo said irritably. “Why is it necessary to conjure up some hidden mastermind behind it all?”
Caravale shook his head. “I don’t know about any ‘mastermind,’ but we do have an ID on the dead one. His name is Ugo Fogazzaro, and he is—he was—a Milanese hoodlum who survived partly through his own petty crimes, and partly by making himself available, for a fee, to others who could come up with grander schemes. It seems reasonable to assume the other men involved in the actual kidnapping were of the same type. I might be wrong in this, but I don’t think so. I can tell you this much: Ugo Fogazzaro didn’t think this up by himself.”
Vincenzo nodded slowly. “So you have been working on your own.”
“I told you I would.”
“Yes.” He looked as if he wanted to comment further but changed his mind. “All right, does anyone else wish to say anything before we close?”
“Colonel,” Phil said, “are you able to tell where the fax was sent from?”
“Yes, we know that, but unfortunately it came from the biggest, and busiest, public copy facility in Milan. I’m afraid there’s no help there. No one can remember who sent it.”
“All right then, is there anything else?” Vincenzo asked. He was getting out of his chair. “I’m sure Colonel Caravale wants to—” He sighed and dropped back down. “Yes, Uncle, you wish to say something?”
“A question, if it’s permitted?” said Cosimo.
From Vincenzo, a resigned dip of the chin, barely this side of polite.
“What about Achille?” the old man asked. “Is he all right? How can we be sure? How do we know these people who sent the message really have him, as they say they do?”
Well, bless the old buzzard, Caravale thought. Somebody in this room full of cold fish finally expressed some concern for the boy. And naturally, it would be Cosimo. It was strange—the old man was the snootiest of them all, the most like Caravale’s idea of an arrogant, time-warped aristocrat, and yet there was something about him he liked, something that reminded him, of all people, of his beloved grandfather, his loving, morally upright, steadfastly old-fashioned maternal grandfather Fortunato, who had been a humble ice-wagon driver all his life.
“That’s a good question, Signor de Grazia,” he said, “and it’s the first thing that must be established. When they call, I will ask to speak to Achille myself.”
“And if they refuse?”
“I expect they will. In that case, I will have ready—with your help, ladies and gentlemen—a set of questions that no one but Achille could answer. They will have to provide me with his replies, not only then, but at each step before we proceed further. I don’t expect this to come as a surprise to them. Even in a kidnapping, there are certain conventions, certain rules, that are to the advantage of all.”
