“What is it, bella?” “Now I understand why you said my sister is like the Mangia bell tower. Why she is lonely in her marriage.” “Why is that?” He is looking straight ahead, chin lifted and eyes narrowed with the emotion of the day. Before us, in the lane of pinkish houses, the crowned white goose flies from every window. The street is narrow as a stream and choked with people, but little boys still find a way to jump across it, doorstep to doorstep.
“I want to be careful how I say this.” I check for eavesdroppers. There is nothing at our backs but the church. The group in front of us is speaking German. “I’ve been told that in the past, Cecilia has been a special friend of the police.” Sofri doesn’t answer.
“Do you know what I’m talking about?” “We may become separated after the blessing,” he replies, instead of addressing the question of Cecilia’s affair with the chief. “The mood will change, you’ll see. Everyone is meeting at my palazzo. There will be plenty to eat and drink. It is the best spot in Il Campo to watch the race.” “But Cecilia won’t be there. Will she?” “I don’t see why not.” “Sofri, she’s been gone forty-eight hours. We should notify the police.” “That’s up to her husband.” “Nicoli seems to think he can handle it without the police. I think he’s wrong. They need to be involved.” The crowd has begun to stir. We can hear the pattern of the approaching drum.
“Not today. Impossible. Look what’s going on here.” “It has to be today,” I hiss. “If she’s been kidnapped, every hour that goes by means less of a chance of finding her and now we’re in the red zone.” “Maybe in America. In Italy, these things take longer to become clear.” The church doors open, and the bespectacled priest who was at the party at the abbey appears, wearing plain white robes and an Oca scarf. He shakes hands with Sofri and then descends the steps, so that we are in a position to look over the top of his pomaded head, at the upturned faces expecting a sign; but the priest just rests in patience, hands folded.
“They are coming now,” Sofri says tersely. “The comparsa.” A cry goes up from the crowd and all heads turn toward the drummer and flag bearers appearing at the top of the street, followed by the duce and his men at arms, who are dressed in luxurious dark green velvet tunics embroidered with gold. Their tights are made of one red leg and one green, and there are lace cuffs at their wrists. I am impressed by the authenticity of the weapons — the lances, small swords at the belt, the large two-handed spadone carried by the duce with a blade that could chop off your head with one whack.
The alfieri spin the flags with confidence and finesse, just like Nicosa that night in the darkness of the abbey courtyard — the flags are rolled up, tossed into the air, caught behind the back. These two young men are the same age and height, and heartbreakingly good-looking. It would have been Giovanni, marching ahead of his proud father, who follows now with a group of other powerful contrada men, looking as beleaguered as the president of a country in wartime.
The soft white horse appears in the piebald medley of the human crowd. In place of a saddle, an Oca banner hangs over its back. It is wearing just a halter with a tufted pouf between the ears. The horse is calm and relaxed, led by a burly fellow in a beret with tobacco-colored skin and dark circles under his eyes, as if this awesome responsibility has kept him up for days. The horse is surrounded by its own bodyguards. The jockey, also protected by a security detail, is wearing an Oca tunic and jeans, considerably less dressed up than the horse. Clapping and cheering rise steadily from the crowd until the priest walks down the steps to where the horse has stopped, and then the people of Oca become so silent you can hear the clicking of camera shutters. The priest lays a palm on the forehead of the horse and speaks in Latin.
Sofri becomes utterly absorbed, transported by the prayer. It is hopeless trying to get his attention. The cell phone in my pocket vibrates silently. It is Dennis Rizzio, calling from Rome.
I text him back: Urgent?
Yes.
“See you at your apartment,” I whisper to Sofri and slip out before he can answer, weaving between the rapt parishioners and onto the street.
Dennis texts: Need to talk.
Not secure.
Where r u?
Oca district.
Via dei Rossi 63 in 15 minutes.
The GPS on my phone takes me to Via di Città, where I join a flood of humanity coursing down all eleven streets that lead into the Campo. I feel my heartbeat synching up with those caught in the race to claim a good spot near the track. There are three minutes left to get to the address on Via dei Rossi, where I assume Dennis Rizzio or one of his agents is waiting, and will evaporate if I’m not there.
Something has escalated. The Bureau must have gotten word of Cecilia. Jogging, I pass speed-walkers dragging their children, who curse the rudeness of Americans. Turning breathlessly onto Via dei Rossi, I almost run into a giant ice cream cone and realize with a start that Dennis’s directions have led to Kopa Kabana, described by him as having the best gelato in Italy.
Is this a joke? Number 63 is actually a few doors down — an open alcove without a door. It looks like a white-tiled Laundromat, until you enter, to the overwhelming stench of urine, and discover that it is a bank of red pay phones. Graffiti crawls up the walls, and the floor is strewn with trash. A phone in the far corner is ringing. I use a tissue to pick it up.
“Dennis? What the hell?” “Welcome to the monkey house.” “Smells like it.” “First off, we have no evidence that Cecilia has left Italy or crossed an international border. We checked airports, boats, and trains, but you and I know there are a million ways she could have been spirited out. Has there been a demand for ransom?” “Negative.”
“What’s the mood up there?” “It’s insane. Today is the Palio race.” “No shit. Are we still secure?” The phone bank remains deserted. Outside the open doorway, stragglers stream by at intervals. Dennis has chosen a side street that foreigners wouldn’t normally favor.
“Clear.”
“When we ran a search for your sister’s movements through Interpol, something else came up. There was a no-fly alert at the Glasgow airport, with a name attached that sounded familiar. On closer look, I realized why. The incident was concerning you.” “Me? I’ve never been to Glasgow.” “That’s not the point. The officer on the Interpol request was our friend Inspector Reilly of Scotland Yard.” “What was he looking for in Glasgow?” “He got an ID on some suspects in the attack. The ones who left the getaway car in Aberdeen. The Brits worked some local boys and got them to flip. The geniuses gave up a couple of Italian nationals who had been staying with their lowlife Sicilian cousins in Aberdeen. The names were put on Interpol, and the Italians were picked up at the Glasgow airport, attempting to leave Scotland, booked on a flight through Cairo to Rome.” “Sounds good. Do they need me to confirm the ID?” “Might. The suspects are being interrogated. Let’s go back to family matters,” Dennis says. “How has your brother-in-law reacted to his wife’s disappearance?” “Hostile and defensive. He thinks he can handle whatever happens himself.” Dennis clears his throat. “You’ve only been in Italy a short while, Ana. You haven’t had a chance to really get to know your sister. Not like we do.” “You ‘know’ my sister? What does that mean?” “When she wrote to the Bureau looking for you because of the inheritance money, we saw a connection between you two, and an opportunity.” “What kind of opportunity?” “For you to get close to her. SAC Galloway put you on official business so we could see where it went. See if you and your sister could find some common ground. Build up trust.” “Galloway was in on this?” “Take it easy. It’s for her own protection.” “Always is.”