I press my lips and turn to Giovanni.
“The man she describes is called the Puppet. His real name is Cosimo Umberto, and he’s a well-known mafioso. He lost his hands in a bomb explosion and now he wears prostheses. Ring a bell?”
Giovanni shakes his head.
“He’s pretty hard to miss. When you were in the hospital, your mother and I saw this creep, right outside your room.”
“Why would he be outside my room?”
“You tell me.”
“I don’t know anything that happened in the hospital. I was in a coma, remember?”
The bus is slowing down. A shuttered convenience store swings into view.
“This is Monteriggioni,” Giovanni says with more enthusiasm than you’d expect for a deserted bus stop. “From here it goes straight to Poggibonsi. Do you want to go there?”
Satisfied that if someone was following us they aren’t anymore, Sterling says we don’t need to go any farther. Monteriggioni is another, smaller walled fortress town, a mini-satellite built for the defense of medieval Siena. We get off the bus outside the gates and see that in the piazza they are having a festival. A kiddie carnival has been set up in front of the old stone church. Although it is close to midnight, the rides are still going. Giovanni says the bus back to Siena won’t come for an hour, so we buy sodas and tufts of fried dough and sit on a wall.
The wind is humid and cold. The misty lights against the flat storefronts remind me of the outdoor dinner party in the ruins of the church at the abbey when I first arrived — white tables, white roses, the Nicosas’ flashy friends. All of that has vanished with Cecilia. Under tender little strings of lights, sleeping children are carried by their young fathers, leaves blow across the piazza, and the black sky presses in. The moment is surreal.
“Will you help us?” Sterling asks the girl.
“Yes; I’ll do anything. I don’t care what happens. I hate that man with the terrible hands. He didn’t care if Yuri died on the kitchen floor. I’ll shoot him myself.”
“We don’t want you to do that,” Sterling says. “But can you draw a picture of the apartment complex?”
“I’m a bad artist.”
“Just a sketch.”
Sterling takes out a memo pad and pen he keeps in the pocket of his cargo pants. Zabrina puts down the tiny mirror she is using to reapply the bloodred lipstick. Beneath the studded jacket she wears a black shirt with extra-long sleeves that have holes for the thumbs, like leggings for your hands. The sleeves make it awkward to hold the pen; childlike, she clutches it and scratches out the rectangles of the Little City.
“Now show me the apartment.”
She makes an X.
“You’re doin’ real good.” He flips the page. “Give me a layout inside the apartment. Every window and door you remember.”
A picture emerges of Cecilia’s prison.
“Here is where you come in. This is the kitchen,” Zabrina says.
“Where does that hallway go?”
“Sinistra. Going left. Next to it, the bathroom.”
“Where do they keep Dr. Nicosa?”
“It must be here, in the back.”
I get up and pace, while Sterling runs the interrogation and Giovanni throws in a few words of translation. The three of them huddled on the wall in the foggy nighttime chill, creating the outlines of a hostage rescue plan, could almost look like an investigative team.
“A shipment comes in, and the druggies show up for a free fix. How do they know?”
“They receive a text message,” Zabrina says.
“Who sends it?”
“For me, it is my cousin, Fat Pasquale.”
“You’re from Calabria, so you have cousins there. Family.”
“That is correct.”
“They know you.”
“They don’t live there. In Little City. But Fat Pasquale knows me.”
“What happens when you bring your boyfriend, Yuri?”
“Yuri comes with me, so it is fine.”
“You vouch for him and it’s okay?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever brought anyone else?”
“Once, a girl. She paid for the gas.”
“And Fat Pasquale had no problem with that? If you vouch for someone, in they go. No questions asked.” She shrugs. “Why not?”
We see the lights of the oncoming bus split horizontally in the mist.
“Do they check for weapons?” I ask. “Before you go inside?”
“Not me,” says Zabrina. “Because I am family.”
We are not the only ones on the ride back to Siena. It turns out a group of English tourists has come over to Monteriggioni for the little festival. They ask how we liked it, and we say fine. Zabrina falls asleep next to Sterling with his arm around her shoulders.
THIRTY-SIX
We intercept Nicosa at his morning swim. Despite the alluring nothingness of sunlight on clear water, the pool holds no appeal. Sterling and I are ready to engage; our minds are working twenty-four, forty-eight hours ahead.
“We know where your wife is and how to get her out. But you need to hire professionals,” Sterling says. “You need us.” “Who?” asks Nicosa, toweling off. “You and the bartender?” “No, sir. Oryx, the security outfit we work for. Chris and I could not execute an operation this size alone.” “What size operation are you talking about?” “There are a couple of ways to go, but each one involves manpower and hardware. It’ll be expensive.” “I’ve been there before, in El Salvador.” “This will be kinda different from protecting coffee beans.” Nicosa, wary of a sell job, lights a cigarette and moves toward the pool house — more like a CEO considering coffee futures than a desperate husband.
“Why can’t you just go in and get her out?” “Think of it this way,” Sterling explains. “You know the Taliban?” “Not personally.” “You know how they operate in Afghanistan. Without mercy, trust me. Rescuing your wife being held captive in Little City by ’Ndrangheta is like trying to spring someone from a Taliban prison compound.” “Sorry, I don’t see the connection.” “You have to get inside an armed fortress protected by a close-knit, fanatical local population,” I explain. “And then you have to get her and your operatives safely out.” “Sir?” Sterling looks straight into Nicosa’s eyes. “Please believe me — this is not the time to fuck around.” “Just because you tell me you can do it, why should I put my faith in you?” I am losing patience. “We got a lucky break with Zabrina. We knew Cecilia is alive, but now we know exactly where she is being held.” “As of the time Zabrina saw her in Calabria,” Sterling reminds us. “This thing is like rotten meat. Each day that goes by, it becomes more spoiled. You keep letting time run on, and we can’t guarantee you’ll even recognize your wife when we bring her back. That’s the truth as I’ve seen it.” Sterling’s candid delivery finally gets to Nicosa. He slips on a white terry robe, takes a quick hit off the cigarette, and decides.
“Let’s go upstairs,” he says.
The deep voice coming from the speakers in the twelve-sided tower belongs to “Atlas,” the handle for the crafty boss at Oryx whom I have never met. I picture him in a fake wood-paneled office in their covert warehouse outside Heathrow Airport, but he could be anywhere in the world. The theatrical Welsh accent is the same as when he called to offer Sterling the mission that took him out of London — although, come to think of it, Atlas could be putting on the persona to disguise his identity. They love pulling that crap. It doesn’t matter. At the end of the day, Nicosa is buying the services of a private army that will materialize at the right time and in the right place, with extreme prejudice.