White Shotgun

“Isn’t he going to take his clothes off?” asks a little child.

Inside the bedroom prison cell, Cecilia sinks onto the foam mattress, recalling where she saw the girl. She was a patient at the clinic. An intravenous drug abuser diagnosed with hepatitis C, an advanced disease that can be fatal. She tried to get her into treatment, but the girl never came back. And here she is, still shooting. At the thought of this, Cecilia springs up and pounds her fists against the wall. Of all the people in the world who might have recognized Cecilia, might have notified the police — who shows up to save the day but an addict. An ignorant, damaged, self-destructive, diseased addict.

In the bathroom, Yuri shivers violently as his eyes slowly open.

In the kitchen, Zabrina doesn’t hesitate to sit in the chair. She gets her turn. The new cut has been adjusted by adding talcum powder. One tulip up, one tulip down.

THIRTY-ONE

I won’t believe she is alive until I hear Cecilia’s voice. While Nicosa goes off on a manic call to Sofri, instructing him to get the cash to pay the ransom subito, I am compartmentalizing the information we have, refusing to get keyed up. Somebody has to keep a clear head.

We can’t miss the next opportunity to trace the calls.

“Nicoli? Can we use your office?”

“For what?”

“In the FBI, we have what we call a command post, the nerve center of a major case. I want to set one up in the bell tower. You already have the technology.”

“Can I be there, too?” asks Giovanni.

“Come with me,” I say, leading him from the kitchen to the entry-way, where we can be alone. “Why should I trust you?”

He doesn’t understand the question. “I’m worried about my mother.”

“I hear that. It’s a crisis now, but what about last week? Last year? All the time you’ve been running cocaine, putting your parents at risk?”

“I’m sorry. It’s over.”

“Just like that? Giovanni, you’re a good kid, but you’re all over the map. Smart in school, on the soccer team — but you still get sucked in. You don’t like the way your father does business, do it differently. You’re not him. You are not obligated to shoulder his mistakes. Make a statement — about who you are, not how pissed off you are at him. You need to figure out how you want to be in the world. I’m here if you want to talk.”

“That’s cool. Meanwhile, can I be in the command post?”

“No, you can’t. I’m sorry, no minors.”

“I’m sixteen!”

“In America, you’d be locked in a hotel room with a couple of agents, and the abbey would be under surveillance 24/7. If we had more manpower, that’s exactly what we’d do.”

“Why don’t we?”

“Have the manpower? Because your father doesn’t want to go to the police.”

“Why can’t I stay? What’s safer than here?”

“You need looking after, and we have work to do.”

“ ‘Looking after’? Are you serious?”

“Until you prove otherwise, yes.”

We go back into the kitchen.

“Is there a responsible adult Giovanni can stay with?” I ask.

Nicosa says, “Padre Filippo.”

Giovanni protests in rapid Italian.

“You have to be protected. That’s the protocol,” I say flatly.

Giovanni makes a face, grabs his keys and cell phone.

“You’re not ready to drive.”

“Are you serious?”

“Have a friend take you. Call when you get to the rectory.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” Giovanni replies sardonically, hopping out of the kitchen on his crutch.

The front door heaves shut. Nicosa smiles briefly with something like gratitude. He believes that now he is in control: his wife has been kidnapped for ransom, a common crime he has the power to resolve, as long as we heed the kidnappers’ warning and do not involve the police — and his rival, the chief.

“He accuses me of an act against God, against my wife?” Nicosa says of the Commissario as we ascend in the elevator. “He threatens to arrest me? Why? To prove Torre is great? I should have strangled him right there!” He points dramatically to the courtyard, a tiny puzzle piece below. “The police are lower than swine. They will never — never — come into this house.”

I have to agree that right now it is better to leave them out of it. A kidnapping is unpredictable enough without an overlay of byzantine grudges and backstabbing disloyalties. I’d much rather deal with normal criminals. As the darkened floors of Renaissance art slip by, I tick off the tasks ahead: install phone taps to record and monitor calls. Establish communication with the kidnappers. Assign roles of negotiator and coach. Sterling has already been dispatched to Chris for the necessary equipment.

Trickier is Nicosa’s insistence that we also do not inform Dennis Rizzio in Rome that contact has been made with the alleged kidnappers. He believes the situation is too porous. If they get a whiff of the authorities, they will kill her. I am not willing to take that risk. This is no time to get all bollixed up in Bureau procedure. When we have something solid, I will inform my boss.

We arrive at the top of the tower. Nicosa hops off the elevator, strutting around like a rooster in his airborne office, while I wonder what crazy arrogance had convinced me that we could pull this off on our own — and at what risk to my career at the Bureau?

The real command post in Los Angeles, created for response to terrorist attacks and natural disasters, is stocked with food and water. Okay, got that. There are dozens of TV monitors and laptops, to say nothing of hundreds of agents. I angle the flat-screen so it faces the empty leather couches, and make sure Nicosa’s computer is online. Nice. Just like home. As for a timeline to keep track of unfolding events, instead of the familiar, low-tech roll of brown paper usually tacked across the wall, I lay pieces of printer pages edge to edge and secure them with cellophane tape, leaning back with a sigh. It’s amazing what you can make out of desperation and a few ordinary household items.

The intercom buzzes and Sofri appears minutes later, carrying a small duffel. He gives Nicosa a strong embrace, patting him on the back.

“Did they call again?” Sofri asks.

“Not yet.”

“Right now they’re playing cat and mouse,” I say.

“I have the money.” Sofri takes off his blazer. Folding the sleeves precisely as a haberdasher, he lays it across the back of a chair. “What do we do, topolina?”

“We have to wait,” Nicosa interrupts, before I can answer. “Exactly what I said in the beginning.”

The intercom buzzes. They both jump.

It is Sterling.

When the glass elevator surfaces, it is filled with the alarming shape of a man dressed for war. Sterling, wearing boots, camos, and the black dragon T-shirt, brings soldierly weightiness into the room — the real possibility of someone getting killed. He shoulders the rucksack while carrying a sniper bag in one hand, a scuffed suitcase made of yellow plastic in the other. Nicosa and Sofri step away. This is not their movie.

“How are you all doin’ today?” Sterling asks, setting the equipment down.