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.”
“Rules again,” muttered Bella Barbero with a toss of her head.
EIGHT
While the consiglio met in the gallery, Gideon and Julie sat at a wrought-iron table in the breakfast garden, a flagstone-tiled patio overlooking the formal plantings and classical statuary of the three terraces that made up the rest of the island. The crescent-shaped terraces nestled, each one within the curve of the one above, and descended in measured, eighteenth-century perfection from the rear of the villa down to the shore.
They had meant to stroll the attractive, well-kept paths, but when Vincenzo’s “man” Clemente appeared with a pitcher of iced coffee, two frosted glasses, and a tray of anise and poppy seed cookies, a pleasant, jet lag-induced laziness got the better of them and they stayed where they were, sitting in the warm breeze from the lake, inhaling the thick, lush scents of oleanders, camellias, rhododendrons, and citrus, chatting about nothing, and half-dozing.
A white peacock strutted up and down in front of them, showing off its tail feathers for a while before concluding that neither one of them was a likely prospect for love, and at one point a pint-sized monkey with a body no bigger than a fist scrambled up onto their table to balance on the edge and scowl at them like the outsiders they were. Contemptuously turning down an anise-flavored cookie but deigning to accept a poppy seed one, it briefly scolded them, stuck the sweet in its mouth for safekeeping, hopped down, and scuttled irritably off.
“Cute little fella,” Julie said, smiling. “Kind of crabby, though.”
“Marmoset,” Gideon said. “Family Callithricidae, genus Callithrix, species jacchus flaviceps. ”
“I knew that.”
“The most primitive of the New World monkeys. They lack opposable thumbs.”
“Aw, is that why he was so crabby?”
Other than these island fauna, and the venerable, elephantine Clemente, who lumbered back twice simply to pour their coffee for them, the only sign of life they saw was a drab, narrow-shouldered woman in sneakers who came around the side of the villa from the back, smoking a cigarette and pulling her thin sweater around her despite the day’s warmth. When she saw them, she turned on her heel and went quickly back around the corner.
“I’m afraid we spoiled one of the maids’ break times,” Julie said. “What do you say we take that stroll after all, and leave the tables to the staff?”
“You’re on,” Gideon replied. “Just let me gather my strength for a minute.”
But they were still gathering their strength five minutes later, when Vincenzo and Phil came out to find them. Vincenzo offered a curt, pro forma invitation to the three of them to stay for dinner, but they declined and went back to Stresa with Colonel Caravale in the police launch. Squalls were dancing over the lake, so they were inside, sitting knee-to-knee on the U-shaped, cushioned bench in the tiny cabin. After a little small talk about the weather, conversation flagged. Caravale was terse and preoccupied, and his glowering, thuggish looks hardly invited socializing. With his ostentatiously decorated military headgear, grim black uniform, epaulets, Sam Browne belt, and holstered sidearm, he could have been a corrupt police chief in some tinpot republic. If nothing else, he looked as if he’d be a good man with a rubber hose or an electric prod.
“You speak English extremely well, Colonel,” Julie said, searching for something to say.
He turned from the window he’d been staring through. “I’d better, signora. This is a tourist region. A lot of the people I have to deal with here don’t speak anything but.”
“Victims or perps?” Phil asked.
Caravale gave them a brief smile. “A little of both. There are English courses at the academy, signora.” He touched the brim of his cap and went back to looking out the window.
“But you speak it so idiomatically,” said Julie, who was hard to deter when she wanted to get someone talking. “Where did you learn? Surely not in a class?”
“No, I learned in Connecticut.” He turned toward them again, more fully this time, and with an air of resignation. Apparently these Americans weren’t going to let him think in peace.
“My father was a supply master in the Italian Army. He was captured in 1942 and spent the rest of the war at a POW camp in Colorado. He had a wonderful time, he couldn’t say enough about America. So after the war, before I was born, he went back and lived in New Haven with my aunt and her family for five years, until he came back home to get married. Later, he sent me back there every summer but one from the time I was twelve until I was seventeen. I still visit with my own children every few years. And so now I speak Italian with a Connecticut accent, and Connecticut with an Italian accent. Nobody understands what the hell I’m talking about.”
It was a joke-Caravale’s English was excellent-so everyone laughed, but then the conversation died again, until Phil spoke up with the air of a man who’d just come up with a terrific idea. “You know, Colonel, I was just thinking. Dr. Oliver might be able to help you out on this case.”
“Oh, really?” Caravale’s stiffened slightly, which Gideon, an old hand at this, correctly read as a danger sign.