Downhill, in the center of the area, Samuel saw a cluster of buildings and activity that led him to believe it was the main part of town.
Carefully checking over his shoulder, he eased down the hill, ready to bolt at the first sign of trouble.
The center of town was a vibrant mix of small shops, cafes and restaurants, all surrounded by freshly painted stone buildings washed over in bright yellows, greens and white. Samuel slowly navigated his way through a mix of camera toting tourists and locals, all crowded in what he heard his mother once refer to back home as a farmer’s market.
Old men hawked fresh fish and meat, the most beautiful vegetables Samuel had ever seen, and oranges so orange, and apples so green and red, they didn’t seem real. One of the old men smiled at him and handed him a large orange, which Samuel thankfully peeled and inhaled in record time. Near the end of the marketplace, he passed a small newsstand filled with magazines and newspapers, all written in Italian.
He picked up a paper. Next to the word Citta, which he quickly figured out to mean city, was the word Fascati.
Samuel pointed to the word. “Fas-ca-ti, city,” he said to the crusty, bushy bearded man drilling a hole in Samuel’s head with a harsh glare.
“Si,” the man hissed. “Fascati.”
Samuel’s smile was not returned. The old man’s eyes narrowed and gave the universal mandate, b uy or move on. Samuel had no idea how far he was from Rome and The American Embassy, but an idea surfaced in his mind, t he police. He looked around for a police officer to plead his case. If nothing else, he’d get a trip to the police station, where someone would figure out what to do with a distraught ten year old kidnapped American boy.
“Samuel,” a female voice called out. Samuel froze, his eyes darting back and forth, looking for a lane to run through. “Samuel, it’s me, Dianora.”
He turned around and saw the beautiful woman who caused his boyhood to tingle back at Luciano’s apartment. She was behind the wheel of a tiny, beat up red car, with an old man in the passenger seat.
Dianora waved him over. He hesitated. He’d been chased, slapped and beaten, and wasn’t about to get more of the same. What choice do I have? I have nowhere else to go.
He inched toward the car, his head on a swivel, scanning the area for any sign of Father Sin or Sister Bravo. When he reached the car, Dianora’s smile and the old man’s basset hound eyes put him at ease.
“What are you doing down here alone?” Dianora asked.
Samuel wasn’t sure how much he should tell and decided to feel them out. “Is this your father?” he asked, forcing a smile.
“Such a smart boy,” the old man said, sitting up to get a better look at Samuel. He had crooked yellow teeth, and a brown cap pulled down over his forehead.
“Yes,” said Dianora, “this is my father, Rinaldo.”
“Hello, little one,” said Rinaldo, stretching his boney hand out toward Samuel.
Samuel shook his hand, the gentle grandfatherly grip making him more comfortable and at ease.
“Where’s Luciano?” asked Dianora, her face full and bright.
“He’s back at the apartment,” said Samuel. “I’m going to the American Embassy in Rome.”
Dianora and her father gave each other curious looks.
“And how do you propose to get there?” asked Rinaldo. “Surely you don’t plan to walk 30km.”
Samuel, not adept at the metric system, had no idea how far 30km was, but it sounded far. Dianora smiled, her father nodded. “Get in,” she said, “we’ll take you there.”
The old man opened his door and pulled down his seat. Samuel, exhausted, climbed in back and the car sputtered to full speed, barely missing a tourist or two as they sped out of the small town. Samuel looked back and watched Fascati fade away, all the time thinking of Luciano.
The old man turned toward him. “You are an American,” he said, his English surprisingly clear.
“Yes,” answered Samuel. He stopped and thought about his next words. He didn’t know who to trust, but felt he didn’t have a choice. He told them everything, just as he had told Luciano, except he added the confrontation back at his Italian friend’s apartment.
Dianora and Rinaldo launched into a splattering of Italian, both their faces red, eyes welled-up with tears.
“Don’t worry, we’ll get you there,” said Dianora, glancing back at him, water pooling in her hypnotic eyes. “We’ll do what we can.”
“Don’t you have a friend who works at the Embassy?” asked Rinaldo. “The young American who fancies you.”
“Yes,” said Dianora. “Charles Rainge. He’s a teacher there at the American School.”
“Good,” said her father. “Call and have him meet us there.” Dianora rifled through her purse, almost veering off the road several times, and eventually came up with her cell phone.
While she talked to Charles Rainge, Rinaldo looked back at Samuel and wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry for you,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be taken from home. When I was a boy, not much older than you, both my parents were killed by bandits. They left me for dead, but I survived.
It will do my heart good to see you get home.”
“It’s arranged,” said Dianora, hanging up the phone. “I didn’t give him details, but he’s going to meet us there just the same. He said for us to park in the lot across the street. He’ll be waiting. You better stay low on the floor,” she told Samuel. “Whoever’s looking for you will surely be close to the Embassy and stationed around Rome.” Samuel slid down to the floor, excited to be so close to getting home.
He closed his eyes and saw his parents’ faces, smiling, welcoming him home. He saw himself jumping up into his godfather’s arms and hugging his Aunt Nikki. Forty-five minutes later, the bumping stopped and the car came to a halt.
“We’re here,” said Dianora, exasperation in her voice. “But I don’t see Charles.”
“Patience, my child, patience,” said Rinaldo.
Samuel eased up and peeked out the window. Across the street, he saw a white, three-story building surrounded by a black metal fence.
Burgundy shutters hung next to each window, and he saw a sight that made his heart pound with excitement, two U.S. Marines at the gate, and a sign that read U.S. EMBASSY. He sat back down on the floor and smiled so hard he felt his face stretch.
“There he is,” said Dianora. “I’ll go wave him over.” She leaned over the front seat and gave Samuel a hug and kiss. She smelled sweet and her breasts felt like pillows. Samuel wasn’t sure he wanted to let go, but he did, and Dianora got out of the car.
“Here,” said the old man, handing Samuel a bar of chocolate.
“Remember me.”
Samuel took the candy, his eyes watery. “I will,” he said, “forever.”
“Ah, here we go,” said the old man, stepping outside and folding back the seat.
Samuel sat up, but a hard punch in the chest sent him back to the floor. He felt the tight grip of a heavy hand around his neck. Father Sin stared down at him and pressed the tip of a gun to Samuel’s head.
“One word, just one,” Father Sin growled, snatching him out of the car.
Samuel glared at Dianora and Rinaldo, the old man’s grandfatherly countenance replaced with a sinister smile. Dianora nonchalantly watched over the area as she puffed on a cigarette. Sister Bravo opened the back door to the Mercedes, looking genuinely relieved to see him.
“Get in,” she ordered. “Now!”
Samuel stopped at the door and stared hard at Rinaldo.
“Remember me,” the old man said fiendishly.
Samuel stared hard at the old man. “I will,” he said, through gritted teeth. He jumped inside the car, grabbed the handle and slammed the door. Sister Bravo and the others stood, mouths open.
Samuel flailed about in the backseat, then stopped, exhausted, and listened intently to the conversation outside.
“Inform the cardinal that we put the boy back in your hands,” said Rinaldo. “He’ll be pleased.”
“Thank you for your assistance,” gushed Sister Bravo. “I’m sure you’ll be amply rewarded.”
“What about Luciano?” asked Dianora.
