White Shotgun (39 page)

“I know I’m addicted. We’re all addicts—my friends, my old boyfriend, Yuri. We know we’re all going to die. I knew from the time I was born I was going to suffer. I tried to leave and come to a beautiful place like Siena, but it is my fate to suffer, like the women in Calabria. Sometimes they marry you off, and then the husbands leave. My father drove a truck all over Europe. He was never home. My mother raised six children alone. When I saw that lady … Giovanni’s mother … I recognized her. She was the doctor in Siena who said I have to stop taking drugs because already, at this moment, I have hepatitis.”

“You have hepatitis?” Surprised, Giovanni asks in English.

She pats his hand. “Don’t worry, I am fine.” Continuing in Italian, she says, “I went to Calabria to get high. Big deal. If you get there right after a new shipment comes in, the stuff is good, and my cousin, Fat Pasquale, takes care of me. This time, we went there to get high and Yuri almost died. Because that sick freak with the hands like Frankenstein made it too strong. He couldn’t give a shit. You are just a sack of weeds to them. And I saw this poor lady—I am sorry to tell you because she is your sister and Giovanni’s mother—well, she looked very bad.”

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.

“Not only does ’Ndrangheta have an infinite number of boy lookouts, but also, quite frankly, their best defense is the fact that they have your wife entombed inside a living maze of a thousand civilian apartments,” Atlas intones. “Negotiation has failed. Despite all this endless macho posturing, there is a point when the bad guys actually do become fatigued, and then the application of force is a reasonable alternative.”

“That’s what I have been saying.” Nicosa, still wearing the robe, says in the direction of the speakerphone. “Go in and get her out.”

“We could go full-on tactical,” Atlas agrees. “Would you like to know what that would look like?”

“I’d like to know what I’m buying, yes.”

“Understood. We would execute before first light, when the suspects are asleep or drugged out, or at best, generally unfocused. Using the advantage of surprise, we quickly defeat their lookouts, move in fast and locate the victim. In and out in less than two minutes.”

“Killing everyone who gets in your way?”

“There will be casualties. Not ours.”

“You sound very certain.”

“I am certain, Mr. Nicosa.”

“How do you know Cecilia won’t be—
Come si dice?—
”

“Collateral damage? Has Sterling told you about his experience and training?”

“No, sir,” Sterling answers.

He is sitting ramrod straight beside me on the leather couch, both of us looking FBI-ish and military in boots and jeans. Outside it is another summer day in Tuscany.

Atlas invites him to explain.

“In Delta Force,” Sterling says, “we have a training exercise they call the shoot house. The walls are made of ballistic material that will stop bullets, and they can be moved around so the configuration changes every time out. On initiation there would be a flash-bang—that’s a little bomb that gives off noise and smoke to distract the suspects. Then a team of three or four will enter, and it’s their job to take out the targets. The targets are paper cutouts of men, like shooting targets, okay? So they rush the door and take up positions, making sure they’re not crossing fields of fire. The first guy in is always right. You follow his lead—go where he’s not. There can be no missed shots,” Sterling adds. “All bullets accounted for.”

Nicosa is unimpressed. “So? Target practice with paper dummies.”

“There is a bit of a complication. There’s always one living body in the shoot house, and you never know where he will be. Maybe sitting there on the couch. That’s your victim, the one you’re
not
supposed to kill. First out, it’s the unit commander, then we all trade off with our teammates—being the one sitting on the couch, live ammunition whizzing past your head. It’s like if Ana and I burst in here and you’re at that desk, and we let loose busting out those windows with real bullets. And you just sit there. That’s how much you have to trust your buddies. It’s the point of the exercise, really.”

For the first time since I’ve known him, Nicosa is struck silent.

After a moment Atlas says, “All right?”

Nicosa shakes his head and shouts at the speakerphone. “No! It’s not all right! Shooting crazy guns with my wife on the couch!”

Atlas’s voice is bemused. “I thought not. Would you care to hear another alternative?” He waits and continues. “The most reliable way to rescue your wife would be to use human intel.”

“No guns?”

“Yes, guns.”

“They still ain’t gonna just hand her over,” Sterling says.

“It means getting tactical assets
inside
the apartment,” I explain. “Without using deadly force. We enter the apartment, locate the room where Cecilia is being held, and use force
if necessary
to get her out.”

“How do you get those soldiers, fighters, whatever they are, inside the apartment with nobody seeing?”

“Because they don’t
look
like soldiers,” Sterling says. “They look a hundred percent like drug addicts. They’ll be posing as friends of the little girl, Zabrina—the one who came lookin’ for Giovanni. She vouches for them. They get in.”