All He Saw Was the Girl (29 page)

    She
went into an office with a view of Piazza del Plebiscito. There was a cluttered
desk with two chairs in front of it, and one behind it, the desktop covered
with stacks of papers. There was a computer, an IBM, and a printer, an HP, on a
credenza behind the desk. She looked out the window at the congested square.
She saw a policeman at the far corner of the building, posing with two female
tourists.

    There
were so many people it took time to locate Joey, but there he was with the soccer
bag, standing in front of the building, talking to McCabe like old friends.
Then she saw Mazara approaching, and Noto pushing his way through the crowd.
She saw Sisto directly below her, moving along the front of the building. From
this overhead angle she could see it all happening, three of them going toward
McCabe, closing in on him, surrounding him, and she knew they had no intention
of giving him the money.

    Out
of the corner of his eye McCabe saw someone come up behind him. He tried to
move but he wasn't fast enough and now Noto's arms were wrapped around his,
locking him in place like a human vice.

    Joey
looked at him and said, "You're in the wrong business. You really think I
was going to give you the money?"

    "No,
I thought you might do something stupid like this, and you did."

    Joey
looked at Mazara, and pointed to the second-story window. "She's up there,
go get her."

    It
was quiet in the Palazzo, the only sounds coming from Piazza del Plebiscito.
Mazara gripped the Tanfoglio in his left hand as he moved up the stairway to
the second floor. Checked four offices. No one in any of them. Looked in the
fifth and saw Angela standing at the window. He watched her for a few seconds,
wondering what she was doing. She turned and saw him, put her finger in front
of her mouth, telling him not to say anything.

    He
went in, aiming the gun, checking the room. She seemed calm and relaxed, not what
he was expecting of a hostage kidnapped for days. What was she doing in this
office in a municipal building by herself? It was strange. Something was not
right. He approached her and whispered, "Where are they?"

    She
looked at him and shook her head.

    "Don't
move," Mazara said in a quiet voice. "You are safe now." He
walked out of the room, thinking Angela did not look as if anything was wrong,
nor did she seem happy to see him. He moved along the hall checking the
remaining offices on the floor. He saw no one. What kidnapper leaves their
hostage before the ransom is collected?

    When
he went back to the room she was gone.

    McCabe
saw Mazara appear, coming out of Palazzo dei Priori, moving toward them. Joey
turned and saw him and said, "Where the hell's she at?"

    "She
was in an office, right there," Mazara said. "And then she was
gone."

    Joey
said, "What're you talking about?"

    "Angela,
she vanish like a ghost," Mazara said.

    "A
ghost, huh?" Joey grinned and glanced at McCabe. "Where is she,
Slick? Still in the building?"

    "Now
you're starting to get it," McCabe said. "You want Angela, you've got
to give me the money."

    Joey
handed the soccer bag to Mazara. "Hang on to this and keep an eye on him.
I'm going in to have a look," he said, walking toward Palazzo dei Priori.

    McCabe's
mistake, he figured they'd do something, but didn't think they'd jump him in a
public place, local police thirty yards away. But it wasn't over. The bag of
money was right there and he was going to get it. Now a tour group, about
thirty people, walked by them and stopped, crowding together in front of the
arch that led to the courtyard behind Palazzo dei Priori, the mass of people
separating them from Joey. McCabe lifted his heel and brought it down in the
center of Noto's left foot. The big man grunted and let go of him, hobbling,
trying to stay on his feet.

    Sisto
rushed him, and McCabe hit him with a straight right and he went down. Mazara
came from behind, surprising him, almost knocking him off his feet. McCabe
swung an elbow into his face and Mazara went to his knees. The strap slipped
off his shoulder and the bag fell on the ground. McCabe went for it, picked it
up, and took off running across the square, dodging people, trying to get
through the crowd. He banged into a guy taking a photo and sent him flying.

    He
ran out of the piazza and down Via San Lorenzo to his car parked on the street,
opened the door, threw the bag on the passenger seat and got in. He started the
Fiat, put it in gear and saw Sisto and Mazara, coming toward him. He waited for
an opening in traffic, pulled out and there was the little guy they called Psuz
standing in front of the car, aiming a shotgun.

    McCabe
gunned it, engine winding, driving right at him. Psuz stepped out of the way,
disappeared, and McCabe saw him in the rearview mirror. Saw him level the
shotgun: firing and blowing out the rear window, firing and blowing off the
passenger side mirror, firing and blowing out the passenger side windows, glass
flying, glass all over him, all over the dash and front seats.

    McCabe
jerked the steering wheel left, then right, and floored it, speeding on a
narrow one-way street toward Porta San Pietro, a straight shot out of the city.
He drove through the arched exit, went left on Via Cassia, passed Porta Romana,
cars lined up, bumper to bumper, waiting to enter Viterbo, the once holy
residence of popes.

    Joey
was about to go in the building, looked back and saw McCabe take off with the
soccer bag. He was gone five seconds and they'd lost the money. Now he was
about thirty yards behind Mazara and Sisto, running, sucking air, trying to
catch them. He heard a shotgun blast and then two more. Saw Mazara get in the
front passenger seat of the Opel, and got there as they were pulling out. Joey
was on the driver's side, aiming the Beretta at Sisto behind the wheel. Sisto
stopped and Joey opened the rear door, jumped in and slid across the seat
behind Mazara, pressing the barrel of the Beretta against the back of his head.
"The fuck you think you're going?"

    "He
take the money," Mazara said.

    "I
know he take the money you fucking bozo." Joey hit him on top of the head
with the barrel.

    "He
was lucky," Mazara said, turning in the seat, putting his hands up to
protect himself.

    "He
was lucky? There were three of you, you can't handle a college kid.
Jesus." Joey drove his fist into the seatback. In Joey's mind it was a
no-brainer, a slam-dunk. What were they doing? Standing there holding their
dicks while McCabe got away with ˆ437,000.

    Sisto
stopped and picked Psuz up down the street that was as wide as an alley, Psuz
getting in next to him saying, "He go this way, we catch him."

    "You
better catch him," Joey said.

    Sisto
gunned it, speeding along the narrow street, going through Porta San Pietro,
stopping at the main road. Joey looked to the right and saw a gas station and
beyond it a mirrored-glass building that looked out of place next to the old
city.

    "There,"
Mazara said, pointing left.

    Joey
saw the blue Fiat in heavy traffic up ahead. "What do you think Don
Gennaro's going to say when I tell him what happened?" That got their
attention. Mazara, still rubbing his head, glanced back at Joey.

    "Why
do you tell him?"

    "Why
do I tell him?" Joey shook his head. "Dude, his little girl, my
cousin's been kidnapped in case you forgot, and she could be in serious fucking
trouble. Oh, and you lost his share of the money. That's why I tell him."
He leaned back in the seat, trying to get comfortable. There wasn't much
legroom.

    Psuz
was next to him with the shotgun, barrel pointed at the floor, the stench of
gunpowder filling the car. Psuz had bleached blond hair, a dark beard and dark
eyebrows, and gave Joey the creeps. He grinned at him and Joey said,
"What's your problem?"

    Mazara
looked back and pointed straight through the windshield. "You see? There,
the blue Fiat?"

    Joey
saw it turn right up ahead, and they did too on Viale Fiume, a two-lane country
road. They passed irrigation canals and flat dirt fields that had been
harvested. They passed farmhouses in the distance and sheep grazing.

    Mazara
said something to Sisto in Italian and Sisto grinned, and looked at Joey in the
rearview mirror.

    "What'd
you say?" Joey said.

    "No
more telling us what to do," Mazara said it like he was trying out the
line, waiting for a reaction.

    "Is
that right?" Joey said. "Let me remind you, if it wasn't for you
clowns we wouldn't be in this situation. We'd be on our way back to Rome with
Angela and the money." Joey decided to keep the Beretta handy, even the
odds if they were thinking about a mutiny.

    Psuz
was grinning at him again. Joey brought the Beretta up and aimed it at him.
"You don't quit looking at me like that I'm going to put this in your
mouth, let you suck on it like a big dick. You'll probably like it."

    Mazara
looked over his shoulder and said, "Be careful what you say. Psuz was in
the Bersaglieri, a sniper in Italian army, can kill you from three hundred
meters."

    "Yeah,
right." He didn't look like a sniper. He looked like a rump ranger.

    "No,
is the truth."

    They
passed through a little village, La Quercia, and saw a sign that said Bagnaia 6
kilometers. Joey lowered the pistol and rested it on the seat next to him.
Glanced at Psuz. A sniper, huh? Maybe he'd come in handy. They passed a truck
and a couple of cars, and came up behind a dark-blue Fiat. The rear window was
blown out and the sheet metal was puckered with buckshot.

    Sisto
pulled out in the oncoming lane, trying to drive next to the Fiat, but the Fiat
sped up and they couldn't quite catch it, didn't have the power to pass it, and
swung back and got on McCabe's tail again and rammed him. The impact jarred
them, Joey jerking forward, the shoulder belt straining, but holding him. Sisto
accelerated and rammed McCabe's car again, and then pulled out, gaining on the
Fiat this time, almost next to it.

    McCabe
saw Joey leaning out the rear window of the Opel with a gun in his hand. He heard
the blast and felt the left rear tire blow, and felt the back end slide out. He
hit the brake, trying to slow down, get the Fiat under control but couldn't,
and then lost it, the back end going all the way around, and he was spinning,
doing a 360. He turned the wheel, trying to correct his course, trying to
straighten out the car, and he went off the road and over the embankment,
rolling now, hands squeezing the steering wheel, conscious of his body going
head-over-heels twice as the car rolled, blowing out all the glass.

    The
Fiat landed right side up, but was still moving, slamming head-on into a tree
with impact. McCabe was conscious of the airbag blowing in a split second,
hitting him in the face, knocking him back against the headrest, nose and
forehead stinging. Conscious, too, of the dull pain in his arms and shoulders
from holding the steering wheel so tight.

    McCabe
was dazed from the collision. The windshield was gone, roof caved in, hood
buckled, and he could hear a hissing sound from the radiator that must have
been punctured, steam escaping under pressure. He looked out the driver's side
window and saw the Opel on top of the embankment, backing up fast. He was woozy
but knew he had to move. It was difficult with the airbag pressing against him.
He pushed the seat back as far as it would go, unhooked his belt, brushed glass
off the soccer bag, and pushed it out the passenger side window. He glanced
back toward the road and saw the Opel in profile on top of the embankment,
skidding to a stop in reverse seventy yards away.