All He Saw Was the Girl (9 page)

    McCabe
crept down the hall and went out the front door and took off, running.

    Angela
had an odd feeling as they got in the car and called Sisto at the house. She
listened and said, "Where is he?" She listened. "What do you
mean you don't know? Find him." She flipped the phone closed and said,
"The American has disappeared."

    Mazara
floored the Lancia. She watched the speedometer climbing - 80, 100, 120, 140, 160
- flying now on the two- lane country road, heading south out of Orvieto, six
kilometers to the farm.

    Mazara
said, "He is chained to a post. How can he disappear?"

    "Why
are you asking me? They are your friends," Angela said.

    They
were a street gang when she met Mazara at the Scene, a disco in Rome, a year
earlier. After she got to know him he told her he was an
'ndrina.

    Angela
said, "What is that?"

    Mazara
said, "'Ndrangheta."

    She
had heard of them, the Calabrian Mafia. "What are you doing in Rome?"

    Mazara
said, "I was born in Calabria, but my family moved here when I was a
boy."

    She
said, "What do you do?"

    He
said, "A little of everything: kidnapping, extortion, guns, drugs."

    He
was good-looking and fun to be with. Mazara had dropped out of the Lyceum
school and formed a gang with some friends. But they were no more 'Ndrangheta
than she was. All of them except for Mazara were born in villages outside Rome.

    Angela
dated him, but quietly. If her father found out she was seeing a Calabrian he
would have disowned her or worse. She joined the gang and took a twenty per
cent cut of everything she was involved in. Mazara had suggested they kidnap
the American after reading the article in
II Messaggero,
Mazara telling
her he knew him. He had played basketball against him in Rebibbia. It looked
like easy money.

    Up
ahead she could see something blocking the road. "What is that?"

    "Sheep,"
Mazara said.

    He hit
the brakes hard, tires squealing, the back end of the Lancia fishtailing,
coming to a stop. Sheep were crossing the road, twenty-five, thirty, at least.
Mazara honked the horn, leaned on it, but the sheep just stared at them, not
moving.

    Angela
said, "We better try something else and do it fast."

    She
reached down under the seat and brought out her Beretta. She raised her arm out
the window, aimed at the sky and pulled the trigger. The sheep took off,
scattering in all directions, clearing the road enough so they could get by.
Mazara put the car in gear and floored it. They passed a truck going the other
way and then a car, lettuce fields on both sides of the road. She could see the
farmhouse now, and coming toward them, the figure of a man running, it looked
like the American, going full speed, the blue van coming fast behind him.

    McCabe
could hear a truck coming behind him. Turned and saw a big diesel semi, waved
his arms and it blew by him. He glanced back at the farmhouse, saw the big man
and the two others come out of the house, scanning the flat fields. One of them
spotted him and pointed. They ran and got in the van. A car was approaching
from the opposite direction. He waved his arms and it started to slow down, a
red Lancia pulling up next to him, Angela pointing a gun at him from the front
passenger seat.

    "Where
you going?" she said.

    "Back
to Rome."

    "What's
the matter? You don't like it here?"

    "Not
so much."

    "I
think you better stay where you are, don't move."

    Mazara
got out from behind the wheel and came around the car toward him. The girl got
out too, holding the gun on him, standing a few feet away. The blue van pulled
up behind the Lancia. The big man and the two others got out and came toward
him. He could see all the faces of the kidnappers now. "How much you
asking for me?'

    The
girl said, "What difference does it make?"

    "Believe
me, it does," McCabe said. "I think we have a misunderstanding. You
think I'm someone I'm not."

    Mazara
said, "We will go back and talk about it."

    McCabe
said, "What's wrong with right here? This is a good place to talk."

    "We
can make it difficult," Mazara said. "Or we can make it easy. How do
you want it, uh?"

    "First,
I've got to ask you something," McCabe said. "Who you think is going
to pay to get me back?"

    The
girl said, "Your rich father."

    McCabe
said, "I don't have a rich father."

    "Then
you have a problem," the girl said.

    "No,"
McCabe said. "I think you do."

    "Signor
Tallenger, we do not know who kidnap your son," Captain Arturo Ferarra
said. "Most of the kidnaps, eighty per cent, are from gangs hired by the
Mafia. The other twenty per cent are political, which clearly this is not. You
have heard of the Cosa Nostra, the Sicilian Mafia? The Sicilians are in Rome
for many years. They can be responsible. But more likely, I believe, is another
organization. Do you know of the Camorra?"

    "No,
I don't think so," Tallenger said.

    He was
wearing a blue sport jacket, and a white shirt but no tie. They were in a
conference room at police headquarters. The man from the university, Signor
Rady, was sitting across the long table next to Signor Tallenger, perspiring as
if it were his profession. The armpits of his yellow golf shirt were dark with
sweat, and his face was slick with it, Signor Rady blotting his forehead with a
handkerchief.

    "Camorra
is the Neapolitan Mafia, the Mafia of Napoli, and the surrounding area,
Campania." He took his pipe and tobacco out of his shirt pocket. The pipe
was a full bent Brebbia. He filled the bowl with Cyprian Latakia and lit it,
blowing incense-like smoke into the air.

    "That's
150 miles south of here on the Mediterranean," Signor Rady said.

    Signor
Tallenger ignored him.

    Arturo
took the pipe out of his mouth and said, "The

    Camorra
began after the Second World War. They smuggle weapons and cigarettes. Over the
years they expand into other type of crime: drug trafficking, prostitution,
kidnapping. The suburbs of Naples are ruled by the Camorra. Children sell
heroin and cocaine in the streets."

    Signor
Rady said, "So you're saying they've moved to Rome?"

    "Let
him tell us," Signor Tallenger said, an angry tone in his voice.

    "They
have been in Rome for many years," Arturo said. "They are all over
Italy and Europe. The Camorra is a possibility, but more likely, I believe, is
a faction of' Ndrangheta."

    "What's
that?" Signor Rady said, as if Arturo was speaking only to him.

    "An-Dran-Ged-Ah,"
Arturo said it slowly, accentuating each part of the word.

    "Never
heard of it," Signor Rady said, interrupting again.

    Arturo
could see Signor Tallenger give him a serious look. This man Rady was very
annoying. "'Ndrangheta is a criminal organization from Calabria, located
in the t— of the Italian boot. More powerful even than the Sicilian Mafia,
generating thirty billion euro every year. And until 1980 their principal
business was kidnapping."

    Signor
Tallenger said, "You're telling us there are three major criminal
organizations in southern Italy?"

    "Four,
if you include Sacra Corona Unita in Apulia."

    "You
say it as if you're proud," Signor Rady said.

    Pride
had nothing to do with it. They misunderstood him. It was complicated. Arturo
was trying to give them perspective. "I tell you so you will understand
the situation, what we are dealing with."

    "I'd
say you've got a serious problem," Signor Tallenger said, "I
understand that much. What I don't see is what this has to do with my
son."

    It
had everything to do with his son, Arturo was thinking. But if the man did not
want to listen there was no point in telling him again. He remembered the son sitting
in this same room the night he was arrested, his arrogance, acting as if he was
better than everyone, as though he deserved special treatment after stealing a
man's taxi, his livelihood. Arturo had had to walk out of the room he was so
angry, walk out or he might have done something he would later regret. He
puffed on the cool-smoking Latakia, blowing smoke down the table away from the
Americans.

    Signor
Rady said, "I'd like to know what you've done to find Chip
Tallenger?"

    Arturo
ignored him. He took the pipe out of his mouth and held the bowl in his hand.
"We send the photograph of young Signor Tallenger to departments in the
regions and provinces around Rome. We have alert the Raggruppamento Operativo
Speciale and Gruppo di Intervento Speciale, the elite forces of the carabinieri
fighting organized crime. We give the photograph to Polizia di Stato and our
contacts on the street. That is what we have done."

    Signor
Tallenger said, "What per cent of kidnap victims make it home alive?"

    Arturo
knew the answer, less than fifty, but he said, "I do not recall." Nor
did he tell the man most victims were found strangled or shot to death.

    Signor
Tallenger said, "The odds aren't very good, are they?"

    Arturo
took the pipe out of his mouth and shook his head.

    Signor
Tallenger said, "What do we do now?"

    "You
withdraw the money and we wait to hear from them," Arturo said. "Are
you a religious man?"

    Signor
Tallenger glanced at Arturo, his expression giving nothing away.

    "I
suggest you pray to God," Arturo said. "It is in his hands now."

    Arturo
listened to the distorted voice of the kidnapper, the voice slow and deep, the
conversation recorded earlier on Signor Rady's telephone.

    "Signor
Tallenger, are you there?"

    "I'm
here."

    "Do
you have the money?"

    "I
have the money. Do you have my son?"

    He
had been instructed to buy a white Adidas soccer bag and put the money in it.

    "Yes,"
Signor Tallenger said, "now I want to speak to Chip."

    "He
is not with me," the kidnapper said, "but if you do as I say, you
will speak to him tonight or sooner."

    Signor
Tallenger said, "How do I get the money to you?"

    "You
get on a bus, and I tell you where to go and what to do. Remember this - we are
watching you, but you never know when or where. If we see police, say goodbye
to your son. Do you understand?

    "The
police aren't involved," Signor Tallenger said. "You won't see
anyone."

    "Now
you better go," the kidnapper said. "The bus is coming in ten
minutes."