“I assume you mean the ’Ndrangheta,” Lumaga said. “Look, this has to be the most likely theory, even before we get a ransom demand. This family could be thought of as a fat goose to be plucked. The ’Ndrangheta have spread all over the world—Europe, North America, South America, even Australia—but this region is their home. It’s true that their roots are in kidnapping and protection, but this is relatively minor these days. It’s drugs, drugs, drugs. This is their main business.”
“But it’s not like there’s a central command and control, right? They have lots of autonomous cells, some of them small.”
“Yes, for sure. These cells, as you call them, are based on family units. Some of the smaller ones still might find this kidnapping to be a tasty piece of trade. There are other possibilities, including the unfriendly state actors you spoke of, but for me, the ’Ndrangheta must be high on the list. I also have to say that Armando Cutrì is someone to think about. To be sure, not him as the perpetrator, but he is a prominent lawyer in this area, and he may have represented some members of the ’Ndrangheta. Who knows if there could be a—what’s the word—a disgruntled client?”
“Tell you what. You work on your angles. I’ll work on the corporate angle. We’ll share everything. Okay?”
“It’s a deal, Marcus. We’ll help each other. Now, we’d better go inside before your boss gets me demoted several ranks.”
“There’s one more thing,” Marcus said. “Andreason wants to make a statement to the media.”
“And what would this statement be?” Lumaga asked.
“That he wants his family back and is willing to pay to make sure it happens.”
Lumaga erupted. “That’s crazy! We haven’t even gotten a ransom demand yet. If he does this, we’ll be buried in fake demands.”
“I know. I told him.”
“How much does he wish to offer?”
“A million euros.”
“A fortune, but if he offers a million, the kidnappers will demand twenty. Don’t you see?”
“I do see. Here’s the problem. Mickey Andreason’s a billionaire. He owns a big company. He plays golf with presidents and kings. Nobody tells him what to do.”
4
That night, Mickey told Marcus he wanted to stay in the house instead of the hotel. There were two guest bedrooms and they’d be closer to the action, he said. When everyone else had departed, Marcus sat on the minimalist sofa in the minimalist living room, going through Jesper’s phone while Mickey roamed the house.
“Everything is white, white, white,” Mickey complained. “Even the fucking flowers.”
Mickey had stopped by the house while it was under renovation, but he’d never seen the finished product.
“Anything on his phone?” he asked.
“Strictly business—and nothing we don’t know about. No threats, no blackmail, no sign of hacking or phishing attempts.”
“Nothing personal? Was he having affairs?”
“From what’s on his phone, it looks like he’s been a good boy.”
“Remind me not to let you into my phone.”
Even in his eighth decade, Mickey had a reputation as a player. Marcus knew all the rumors and more. A year ago, Mickey tasked him with delivering a nondisclosure agreement and a payoff check to a cocktail waitress in Las Vegas. It was an unpleasant piece of business. Freja Andreason was a very lovely woman with a very bad heart—some genetic condition, apparently. Marcus didn’t know the details, but he heard she’d had at least two heart attacks, even though she was considerably younger than Mickey.
“I’ll be done with the phone in a few minutes. Want to see it after me?”
“I’ll take your word,” Mickey said. “I’m going to bed.”
“Do you want me to set the alarm?”
“Yes, of course. My son was stupid. I am not. Did you bring your gun?”
“I left it on the plane. I’m not licensed here.”
Mickey grunted his disapproval.
Marcus finished trawling through Jesper’s mobile, then found the stash of Scotch. He poured himself a large neat one and went onto the patio for the last cigarette of the night. The cicadas had wrapped up their annoying serenade and the waves had the stage for a solo. The gentle lashing of the shore made him drowsy and he synchronized his drinking and smoking to finish both at the same time. It was early evening in Chicago, but there wasn’t anyone to call. He had come to appreciate the lightness that came with no attachments, but on this night, high over a black sea, the emptiness got to him.
He washed out his glass, armed the panel with the code Giuseppe had given him, then went upstairs, pausing briefly at the forlorn thresholds of the family bedrooms.
*
The next morning Mickey put out the word to the media who were beginning to assemble at the gates of Villa Shibui that he wanted to make a public statement at noon. At the appointed time, he trudged down the gravel drive and opened the gate. The Carabinieri officers struggled to maintain order as TV and newspaper reporters rushed forward. Marcus and Lumaga tried to stay out of view of the cameras.
“My name is Mikkel Andreason,” he started, but he was immediately interrupted by “Spell it, please!” He shot off a sourball look but complied. “This will be in English. I’m sorry I don’t speak Italian. I am the father of Jesper Andreason, the father-in-law of Elena Andreason, and the grandfather of Elizabeth and Victoria Andreason. My beloved family was taken from their holiday home here in Reggio Calabria. All of them are missing. We don’t know who took them or why. What I do know is that I want them back immediately. I assume that some group of criminals knows that we are a family of some resources. I know how negotiations work. I’m a businessman. We will receive a ransom demand for a big number and the practice is to reply with a small number. Eventually, over days, weeks, or months, a number will be agreed upon. I don’t want
