Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens
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be West Coast, he thought; three hours’ time difference so it was only just gone midnight in LA. Unlikely though. Or Far East, where it would be mid-afternoon, though he had few contacts there. Most probably Europe. Nine in the morning in London, ten in the rest of the Continent.
‘Yes.’
‘Dave. This is Mike.’
London, he confirmed. You know the time? he began to ask.
‘The two o’clock flight out of Dulles this afternoon. You’re on it. A job in Italy.’
The thoughts were like wisps of cloud in the sky. Paolo Benini reached up and tried to pull them down, to bring them into contact with that thing called his brain, his mind, his intellect; so that he would have something to anchor them to, so that his brain would have something to work on.
Something about the fax.
He was not aware of the process of thinking, not even fully aware of the thoughts, was only aware of the images which represented them. He was in his room at the hotel, taking the telephone call about the fax and phoning reception back and checking with them. He was opening the door and feeling in his pocket for a tip, was going backwards into the room, the vice round his throat, the men on top of him and the needle in his arm. Was being bundled along the corridor and down the emergency stairs at the rear of the hotel. Was being pushed into the boot of a car, the lid slamming shut and the car pulling away.
Something about the fax, and if it was about the fax it must be about one of the accounts he’d been working on. His mind still struggled to find a logic in the disorder. If it was about one of the accounts it would almost certainly be one of those he’d just dealt with, probably the last one. And if it was the last one it would be the account code-named Nebulus.
The car was stopping – ten, fifteen minutes later, perhaps longer – the boot opening, the hands holding him and another needle in his arm. He was being lifted from one car to another. Was coming round, the boot suffocating like an oven and the smoothness of the autostrada beneath him.
The road was rougher, probably a country road, the car climbing. The road was no longer a road, was a track, the car bumping along it and the vibrations shuddering through his body. He was being blindfolded and lifted out, was being half-dragged, half-pulled, half-carried across a patch of ground. Illogical, his mind was telling him, you can’t have three halves. He was lying down, the blindfold no longer over his eyes but a pain round his right ankle.
Something more about the fax, something still confusing him. The last account he had checked was Nebulus, but reception had said the fax was from Milan and Nebulus was London. Therefore it wasn’t about Nebulus.
He was waking from the nightmare. The pain was still round his ankle and the hotel room was still dark, only the globe of the morning sun through the lines of the curtains. Perhaps not the sun, perhaps the bedside lamp, except that he hadn’t switched it on. He reached for it but found it difficult to turn, his hand going through the lamp or the lamp further away than he had thought.
He jerked awake.
The hurricane lamp was on the other side of the iron bars and the bars themselves were set in concrete in the roof and floor of the cave. The cave was small and the floor was sandy. Against the bars – his side of the bars – were two buckets, and the mattress on which he lay was made of straw. He was wearing his shirt, trousers and socks, and the pain was caused by the manacle clamped round his right ankle, the chain some four feet long and ending in a piton driven into the wall.
Paolo Benini curled into a ball and began to cry.
* * *
The line of passengers stretched through customs and the ranks of friends and relatives waited outside, the drivers holding the names of their pick-ups on pieces of paper in front of them.
Welcome to Milan, Haslam thought, welcome to any airport in any city in any part of the world. Same noise and bustle inside, same chill of air-conditioning. Different smells once you stepped outside, of course, different degrees of heat or cold, and different levels of affluence or poverty. Different reasons for being there.
Santori was standing by the coffee bar.
Ricardo Santori was the company’s man in this part of Italy. Not full-time but paid a retainer, with a successful legal practice outside his kidnap connections. He was in his mid-forties, wearing a business suit and a somewhat colourful tie, and saw Haslam the moment he emerged through the double doors from Customs.
Santori was good: excellent sources and unrivalled access, but because of this he was known not only to those who lived in fear of kidnap, but also to the police units dealing with it. For these reasons, and in case he had been observed, he did not acknowledge Haslam; instead he turned away, paused momentarily for Haslam to spot any tails he might have picked up, then left the terminal. Only in the relative security of the carpark did they shake hands.
‘Thanks for getting here so quickly.’ Santori’s English was good, only a little accented. ‘You’re booked in at the Marino.’ The hotel was in a side street near Central Station and Haslam had stayed there before. Santori gave him a telephone pager and the case file, and swung the Porsche out of the airport and on to the autostrada.
‘Any problems?’ Haslam asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Schedule?’
‘You’re seeing the family at twelve. I thought you’d like time to change and shower first.’
‘Thanks.’
He settled in the passenger seat and skimmed the two closely typed sheets of the briefing document: the victim’s name and background, family and friends, approximate details of the kidnapping, going rates and time scales for kidnappings in Italy over the past two years in general and the past six months in particular.
‘Have the family heard from the kidnappers yet?’
‘Not when I spoke with them this morning.’
‘But all telephone calls are being recorded?’
A modified Craig 109 VOX on to the main phone in the wife’s flat. VOX – voice activated switch.
‘Yes. I set it up myself.’
The traffic was heavy; by the time Haslam checked in at the Marino it was gone eleven, when they turned in to the Via Ventura it was almost twelve.
The street was attractive and expensive, the pavements wide and lined with boutiques and cafés, apartments above them. The block in which the Beninis had their town apartment was modern and, unlike many buildings in the city, it looked out rather than being built round a central courtyard. It was some fifty metres from the shops and set back from the road, with parking space for visitors in front. A striped canopy protected those arriving by car at the front door, and a side road swung round to what Haslam assumed was an underground carpark. Security door on the garage, he also correctly assumed.
There were three cars in the parking area opposite the front door: a top-of-the-range Saab 9000, a dark blue BMW soft-top, and a Mercedes with two men lounging near it, the air of driver and minder stamped upon them.
Haslam pulled his briefcase from the rear seat and followed Santori to the entrance. The front door had a security lock and intercom system. Only after the lawyer had announced them and the porter had confirmed they were expected were they allowed inside. The entrance was marble, lined with busts and statuettes, and the lift which took them smoothly and swiftly to the fifth floor smelt of lavender. There was a moment’s delay after Santori had rung the bell on the door to the front right, then it opened and a housekeeper showed them inside.
Even in the hallway, the paintings on the walls – oils, and mainly of flowers – were perfectly positioned and subtly lit. They followed the housekeeper through to the lounge. The room was on a split level and the