I’m grinding a needle dropped by some crack addict with the heel of my shoe.
“And why would she need protection, Dennis?” “Cecilia Nicosa owns three private medical clinics in northern Italy and one in the south. Her husband’s money built the facilities.” “She told me that was the trade-off. Her clinics, his women.” “Italy has a good health-care system,” Dennis goes on, “but there’s always a need for private hospitals. Your sister’s clinics cater to the rich, but they also help poor people who need certain types of operations. They do good things, and she’s a hero, okay? But the only reason they stay open — and do what they do outside the system — is because the mafias have given Cecilia their blessing. The reason for that is simple: she pays them off.” “Cecilia has been paying protection bribes? Does Nicosa know?” “Everybody knows how it works.” “Dennis, you led me to believe my sister’s husband was the dirty one.” “He is still the focus of our investigation.” “That’s what Audrey Kuser, the legat, said in London. Nobody said Cecilia was part of it.” “Don’t worry; we’re not interested in criminal prosecution of your sister.” “Thank God,” I say sarcastically.
“Cecilia looked to us like a way into the mafias — a good citizen caught in the evil machine. We were hoping somewhere along the line we might be able to turn her. She was on our radar, but we had no idea you two were related, until she reached out to the Bureau to find you. Like I said, we saw the connection and took the opportunity.” “But you intentionally denied me the information that she’s involved with the mob. The whole damn family is involved with the mob! Don’t you think that’s a crucial thing for me to know?” “Your supervisors recommended against it.” “Why?”
“Because you are a perversely moral person, Ana. They were afraid knowing she was doing business with the bad guys would prejudice you against Cecilia and screw up the whole shebang.” Instead they let that piece of information hang, hoping I would fall in love with her and have a stake in the outcome. I shouldn’t be surprised. This is how recruitment works. They get you hooked so they have something to manipulate.
“Right now your sister has been taken, in all likelihood kidnapped by the mafias because, like that dame Vincenzo who went missing, she stupidly fucked them over somehow.” “Which means Cecilia is no longer useful to you.” “We are committed to getting her back. She is the sister of an American national; it’s part of our mission.” “Also a convenient way to keep me close to Nicosa.” “I won’t lie. Absolutely it is. The wife being gone is scary stuff. He might let down his guard.” “Damn it, Dennis.” “I know,” he says with sympathy that is almost real. “It’s just the way things worked out.”
TWENTY
Kidnappings are a unique crime because they unfold in real time, simultaneously with the investigation. You never know which way they will go, but certain events are likely: if the suspects don’t want money, they’re in it for the torture and the kill. There has been no ransom demand, which bolsters Rizzio’s theory that Cecilia was taken by her own mafia bosses as retribution for some misstep. Which means they are not overly interested in keeping her alive.
Neither is the FBI legat, despite the “sister of an American national” speech. His agenda is still to use my proximity to Cecilia to get intel on the mafias. He’s got a hard-on for her disappearance because I am already established inside the abbey, where I can observe Nicosa make his moves, pick up on who he’s talking to. Rizzio sees this as an organized crime case first, a kidnapping second. Even if he believes Cecilia is already dead, playing it out could present “an opportunity.” Anything he can bring back on ’Ndrangheta will mean a bigger piece of the pie for the Bureau, and for him.
Leaving the phone bank from hell, I feel like a disembodied soul among the living, still trying to absorb the fact that earnest Cecilia has been paying protection bribes. The soft whoop of a siren parts the throng going to the Campo. A police car slowly plows along Via di Città, plainclothes detectives trotting on either side. Pedestrians attempt to move out of the way, people tripping over one another. Excited shopgirls are pouring from the stores.
A sophisticated-looking young woman wearing a black suit and pearls is watching coolly from the doorway of an expensive jeweler. I suspect that she speaks English.
“Who’s inside the car?” I ask.
She names an American movie star.
“Wow. You get some famous people during Palio.” “Oh, molti.” “Who is that with him?” Beside the actor I can just make out another gentleman. Older and leaner.
“That is our Commissario of police.” Without hesitation, I shoulder through the wall of humanity. It makes sense that Nicosa would not go for help to a police chief who had an affair with his wife. But what if the chief still has feelings for Cecilia? What if he would throw his weight behind an investigation?
In trying to get a look, I have drifted too close to the car.
“Get lost,” says one of the detectives in English, and I do, but not before snagging a close-up view of the Commissario. He looks like a tidy, underweight, middle-aged banker. The car turns into the Campo, where it is immediately swamped by military police. These soldiers are the real deal. They wear riot gear and carry automatic weapons. You’d need an armored personnel vehicle just to get their attention. I watch as the Commissario and his celebrity guest are absorbed into their ranks.
Somehow I have been spit into the dead center of Il Campo. The genius of the design is hard to comprehend. How did they do it? The shell shape and the slope of the brickwork is exactly right to hold a crowd. The walls of one palazzo adjoin the next in a crescent that overlooks the bowl of the Campo, which is quickly filling from all eleven entrances with spectators from all over the world. They didn’t have sixty thousand people in Siena in the fourteenth century. How did they know? Turning in circles, I take in the maroon-draped balconies, contradaioli waving colors in the stands, clusters of medics in aqua scrubs, seas of law-enforcement blue, all simultaneously present inside the Campo for this one electrifying moment.
The afternoon is sultry, but at least the sun is hidden by clouds. I can pick out Sofri’s windows. Behind them is that red-and-white-striped couch. Iced aperitifs. Moist slices of melon, bruschetta covered with olive paste, and, no doubt, coffee-flavored gelato. Here there is a popcorn stand. I am almost in the same spot as Cecilia was during the choosing of the horses.
I will never get to Sofri’s; I am stuck. The density of population is multiplying by the minute. I see a sliver of space right up against the rail and make for it. A big man moves six inches to the right, enough for me to slip in beside him. I say, “Grazie,” and he says, “You’re welcome.” He is American. In his forties and balding, with red artistic glasses, greasy slicked-back hair, and a graying goatee. At his feet is a plastic milk crate and a bag of cameras. Professional.
His name is Chuck. Chuck from Findlay, Ohio — a photographer, he says, for the Associated Press.
“How long have you been here?” “Since eight this morning,” he replies. “Hope you like the heat. This is going to take a while. You know what that scarf you’re wearing means?” he asks.