Good Blood

THREE

The site was just where he’d feared it would be, on what had once been a wide ribbon of undulating meadow dotted with old flowering plum trees, which curved around the mountain’s flank. When he’d been a boy, it had been his playground. He and his friends had played soccer here and badgered the resident goats, pretending to be matadors-but now backhoes and bulldozers were shoving piles of rock and naked earth from one place to another. Already it was hard to remember the meadow as it had been.

GOLF AND COUNTRY CLUB LAKE MAGGIORE, the big, laser-embossed sign said in almost-English (which presumably gave it the trendy American tone that would attract rich Swiss and Milanese buyers), and underneath it a smaller, tacked-on placard for the benefit of the locals: Circolo Golf del Lago Maggiore. Una Realizzazione di Aurora Costruzioni.

Vincenzo de Grazia stood in consultation with another man, both wearing hard hats, work clothes, and work boots, and leaning over a blueprint spread out on the hood of a mud-caked cement truck. Truck, men, and everything else in sight were covered with dust. That was one thing you had to say about de Grazia: He didn’t run from getting dirt under his fingernails.

Caravale approached and waited for them to look up, but they remained immersed. “Signor de Grazia?” he said after a minute.

De Grazia glanced up, calculatedly leaving his forefinger resting on the diagram. “Yes, Colonel, can I do something for you?”

Caravale was impressed. It was natural enough that he himself should recognize de Grazia. He had seen him about often enough, and his picture was frequently in the newspaper; once there had even been a two-page spread on him in Oggi (“The Aristocrat of Waste-Water Treatment Plants”). Besides, de Grazia was quite striking-looking: a tight-knit, distinctively hawkfaced man with thick, stiff, ropy gray hair brushed straight back from the hairline, and a nose that cleaved the air like the prow of a ship. Add to that an air of bottled-up, restless energy and a rarely disguised impatience to get on with things, to move along, and he was not someone who would be easy to forget. Beyond that, once you watched him for a while, you couldn’t help but be aware of an ingrained sense of natural authority and entitlement that was hard to ignore, although it also tended to grate on the nerves. On Caravale’s nerves, anyway.

Colonel Caravale’s picture was occasionally in the papers or on local TV as well, but it was always in connection with some ceremonial affair or other, for which he’d be one of a crowd, and in dress uniform, complete with lavish gold braid and cocked hat with feather. Today he was wearing his workaday uniform, a simple, businesslike black with a white shirt and dark tie. And no one, to his knowledge, had ever called him “striking.” He was swarthy, short, fifteen pounds overweight, and heavy-featured, with beefy jowls that rode over his collars. Adolescent acne had left his cheeks deeply pitted. His thinning hair and receding hairline were more than made up for by the thick eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead and even dipped a little, so that he had to shave the top of his nose every Sunday.

Once, dressing before a civic affair, stripped down to undershirt and shorts, he had taken a long look at his slope-shouldered, barrel-chested, short-legged figure in the mirror and shaken his head.

His wife, who had been unwrapping tissue paper from the ridiculous hat, had looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

“Ah, it’s hopeless,” he had said. “Look at me. Without my uniform, I look as if I should be slicing salami at the corner trattoria.”

She had shrugged and gone back to unpacking the hat. “With your uniform, you look as if you should be slicing salami at the corner trattoria.” Then, under her breath, with the slightest of smiles: “Or holding it up.”

That was as close as anybody had ever come to calling him “striking.” It was amazing that de Grazia, whom he’d never met, should recognize him.

“If you don’t mind,” Caravale said to him now. “I need to talk to you for a few minutes. Privately.”

“I’ll take care of this for you, Vincenzo,” the other man said promptly, rolling up the blueprint and snapping a rubber band over it. “We’ve caught it early enough. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

De Grazia grunted and turned to Caravale. “Yes, Colonel, is something the matter?”

“Is there someplace we can sit down?”

De Grazia waved at the chaos around them and laughed. “In three months, I hope so. Unless you want to sit in the truck?”

“That would be a good idea.”

De Grazia nodded, invited Caravale in with a gesture, and clambered deftly up into the driver’s seat. He was a fit-looking, small-waisted man who moved the way he spoke, with conciseness and efficiency. Caravale, not quite so deftly, hoisted himself in opposite him. They left the doors open.

De Grazia’s expression had changed. He realizes this is something serious now, the colonel thought. Probably, he’s worried that we’ve found out about some shady quid-proquo arrangement to get a variance approved. Too bad that wasn’t all it was.

Best to get right to it. “Signor de Grazia, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your son has been kidnapped.”

De Grazia, with his mind not totally clear of whatever the problem with the blueprint had been, nodded along with him as he spoke and then kept on nodding as if he were waiting for the punch line. Caravale paused, letting the words sink in.

After a couple of seconds de Grazia’s head snapped around. “What did you say? My son? Kidnapped? Achille de Grazia?”

“In Stresa, two hours ago. From one of your company cars.”

De Grazia frowned, blinked, and frowned again. His long fingers-manicured?-played over the steering wheel. “No, that’s wrong, someone’s made a mistake. Achille is in school, he goes to a private school, up near La Sacca.”

“There’s no mistake, signore. I’m sorry about it. Can you tell me what he was doing in Stresa?”

“What he was…” He smacked the steering wheel with the flat of his hand. “Who did it? What do they want? Is he all right?”

“We don’t have much information yet. Can you tell me what he was doing in Stresa?”

De Grazia made a small, impatient gesture, as if brushing away a fly. “I just told you. He goes to school near La Sacca. In the mornings, he comes with me to work-”

“Here to Intra?”

“No, to the main office in Ghiffa. That’s where I go first. We take the launch. From there, I have him driven on to school. How did-”

“So to get to his school the driver-”

“The driver goes through Stresa, yes, yes. What difference does it make why he was there?”

“Who else knew about it?”

“Who else knew?” He shook his head, exasperated, “Tell me, how the hell would you suggest one get from Ghiffa to La Sacca? Over the mountains and down to Rome, then around the back way and up through Milan?”

Caravale didn’t appreciate the sarcasm, but given the circumstances, he was willing to allow de Grazia some leeway. “What I’m getting at, signore,” he said mildly but with a shaded hint of warning, “is whether other people knew that he was driven over this route every day at this time?”

“Ah. I see what you’re getting at. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m a little…”

“I understand perfectly.”

“Many people would know, Colonel. It’s not a secret. Please, tell me what happened. Is he all right?” He was staring straight ahead, through the windshield, with his hands back on the steering wheel.

“It was elaborately planned. A traffic disturbance was created on the Corso, forcing your son’s limousine into a side street. There it was trapped by two cars, one in front, one behind. There was shooting-”

De Grazia’s head jerked. “Shooting!”

“Your driver was killed.”

“Killed-he was killed?”

“So was one of the kidnappers. The-”

“What about Achille? Was he-did they-”

“No, no, there’s no reason to think he was injured.”

Not quite the truth, but what would be the point of passing on an unverified report of the boy’s having been dragged from the limousine? If he was hurt, he was hurt; if he wasn’t, he wasn’t, and nothing was served by giving de Grazia something more to worry about. “As far as we know, he’s all right.”

De Grazia sank back against the seat.

“Does your chauffeur always carry a gun, Signor de Grazia?”

“What? Oh. No, not always. On regular trips, yes. To work, from work…” He hit the steering wheel again, this time with his fist, and with considerable force. “Bastards,” The word escaped pinched, as if hung up on something in his throat. He was breathing shallowly; Caravale could see his nostrils dilate and contract.

Why, he’s angry, Caravale realized with interest. Not stunned or appalled, as he’d first supposed (those being the usual reactions), or worried, or dismayed, or fearful, but angry. For Caravale, who had handled a dozen kidnappings in his career, this was something new. Anger usually came later, after the reality of the situation had been absorbed.

“What do they want, money?” de Grazia asked.

“That’s what they usually want, yes. It could be something else-some political point, maybe, but my guess is you’ll get a call in the next few days; maybe a fax.”

“Days!” de Grazia exclaimed. “I’m not waiting days!”

“Possibly longer. I believe we’re dealing with professionals, and they’re likely to let you stew a little first before getting in touch. It makes people more accommodating.”

“Animals,” de Grazia said under his breath. He turned his head to look at Caravale, and hesitated, as if searching for the right way to say something. “How do I… what should I do?” The words came hard. Asking for help wasn’t something he was comfortable with.

“First, you need to decide whether you’re going to cooperate with the carabinieri in this. They will almost certainly warn you not to. If my experience is a guide, there may be threats, frightening threats, against your son. All the same, in my opinion, it is to your advantage, to your son’s advantage, for you to work with us.”

“Why?” de Grazia asked bluntly. “What can the carabinieri do for me? Can they help me get my son back sooner?”

“Probably not, but it would still be helpful if you worked with us. Otherwise the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, never a good arrangement. You’ll want them caught, won’t you?”

De Grazia thought it over but remained skeptical. “Would I be dealing with you personally?”

“I would be in charge, yes.”

“I’m not accustomed to dealing with corporals, with sergeants.”

Caravale took a breath before answering. “You would deal with me,” he said quietly. He was determined not to let de Grazia rub him the wrong way.

“What would be involved? I won’t agree to anything that might put my son in jeopardy. None of your famous middle-of-the-night raids with all guns blazing and the news cameras grinding, nothing like that.”

Another deep, calming slow breath. “Agreed. Achille’s safety is paramount. I’m talking only about cooperation, about sharing information for later use-after your son is safe. I’m sure you want these people caught as much as I do.”

De Grazia ran a hand over his hair. It came away coated with oily dust, which he wiped off on his pants. “All right then, we’ll share information.”

“Good. I suggest that we begin by having the telephone lines to your offices and your home tapped.”

“No.”

Caravale’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

“No. I’ll share information with you-and I expect you to share it with me-but I won’t take any part in trying to trap them, nor will I permit you to use me for that purpose-not until the boy is safely home. Until then nothing is to be done that might frighten or anger them.” He looked directly at Caravale, his frost-blue eyes boring in. “Have I made myself clear?”

That did it. Deep breaths or not, de Grazia had finally gotten under his skin. Caravale was a carabinieri colonel, and carabinieri colonels weren’t accustomed to being ordered around. “Signor de Grazia,” he said in his most official manner, “you seem to be under the illusion that this is a private matter between you and your son’s kidnappers. But let me remind you that kidnapping is also a crime against the State. Moreover, two men have been shot to death. If you think I’m about to sit around and do nothing for days or weeks because it might displease you, you’d better think again.”

De Grazia’s face flushed. He had stiffened dangerously as Caravale spoke. “Now just a minute. I am not accustomed-”

“And be good enough to remember, I do not take instructions from you.” He was matching de Grazia scowl for scowl.

“You-”

“Have I made myself clear?” He sat back, anticipating some outraged sputtering, but satisfied that he had gotten his point across. He hoped not to have to do it again.

To his surprise, de Grazia didn’t respond in kind. For a moment he bridled, but then the tension drained out of his posture, and with a shake of his head, he lifted his hands to massage his temples in slow circles. “I apologize, Colonel. This is all new to me… I don’t know how to behave. Please, do whatever you think best.”

“Thank you, signore. I promise you, nothing will be done that might endanger your son.”

De Grazia nodded and looked out at the huffing earth-moving machines for a while. “How strange,” he said dreamily. “Half an hour ago, I had nothing worse to worry about than drainage schemes. Now.. .” He let the sentence die away. “And what else?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You said that first I should decide whether or not to cooperate with you. All right, I’ve agreed to cooperate. What next?”

“Next, I would strongly advise you to employ a professional negotiator to deal with them. I can put you in touch with several good ones.”

De Grazia seemed surprised. “What is there to negotiate? Colonel, I’m not about to bargain for my son’s life. ‘Yes, I’ll give you a million euros to spare him.’ ‘No, I won’t give you two million, go ahead and shoot him.’ Is that what you want? Absurd. I will not have it said that the boy was killed because Vincenzo de Grazia was reluctant to part with his money.”

There it was again, Caravale thought-the presence of anger, of pride; the absence of anything that came across as deep human feeling. Another man might have said, “I won’t let the boy be killed because I was reluctant to part with my money.” But Vincenzo had said, “I will not have it said…” To Vincenzo de Grazia, the big problem was what people might say about him, about the de Grazias.

“Let me understand,” Caravale said, “whatever they ask, you’re prepared to pay?”

“Well, not if they name an impossible amount, naturally. But whatever is necessary, yes, of course. And the sooner it’s over with, the better.”

“They may ask a great deal. You’re a rich man, you have a big company.”

De Grazia gave him a wry smile. “I’m not as rich as you might think, Colonel. But this is Italy, and I’m like any other sensible businessman. I have kidnapping insurance. The policy is for ten million dollars-twelve million euros. I’ve been paying regular premiums for years, damned big ones. A Bermudian company, Argos Risk Management. Now it’s their turn to live up to their obligations.”

Caravale shook his head. “All right, I can’t make you hire a negotiator, but one thing you’d better understand right now is that it’s not going to be over and done in a day or two. These people don’t work like that, it’s not to their advantage. Three weeks, a month-that’s more like it. And all kinds of unexpected things are going to happen, because they just do. Believe me, it’s very much to your benefit to have someone who isn’t emotionally involved representing you, someone experienced-”

“I’m not bringing some stranger into it, Colonel, someone I don’t know and don’t trust with my son’s life. I’ll deal with them myself.” The skin under his eyes tightened. “We de Grazias are not known for being overemotional.”

Caravale shrugged. How unemotional would “we de Grazias” be when they threatened to send him one of the boy’s ears to convince him to be more forthcoming? The man was hard, but was he that hard? Well, he just might be. In any case, it was up to de Grazia, not him. Besides, he probably did have enough money to meet their demands, so the chances were that it wouldn’t come to that.

“Fine,” he said. “If you change your mind, let me know. In the meantime-”

“What about you?” de Grazia said.

“What about me?”

“Didn’t you say you had some experience in these things?”

“Yes, I was assigned to the crisis management unit in Cosenza for a year. I handled a few cases.”

“All right, will you negotiate in my behalf? You, I would trust.”

Automatically, Caravale began to jerk his head no. Such a thing was out of the question. Policemen and negotiators had different goals, conflicting priorities. A negotiator was a middleman, a facilitator, a neutral. He wasn’t an adversary of the kidnappers any more than he was an ally of the police. His overriding objective was to bring the situation to an end without harm coming to the abductee or to anyone else. If the prisoner was released without anyone’s getting hurt, he had successfully done his job, and whether or not the kidnappers got the money or got away were distant, secondary concerns. But as a carabinieri officer, the priorities were necessarily reversed. These men were not only kidnappers but murderers, and his primary objective had to be their apprehension.

It was impossible to do both. In Cosenza he’d been part of an experimental unit that had been kept scrupulously independent of the carabinieri ’s law enforcement arm. But in Stresa there was no experimental unit. There was only law enforcement.

“I’m sorry, that’s impossible,” had already formed itself in his throat and was on its way to his lips, when he surprised himself by a sudden reversal of gears.

“All right, if you want,” he was amazed to hear himself say.

But on second thought, maybe not so amazed. There was no rule, after all, or at least nothing in writing, that prohibited a carabiniere from negotiating a kidnapping. And Silvestri, his regional commander in faraway Turin, had happily given Caravale his head in just about all matters a long time ago, so there would be no difficulty there. (Silvestri was the nephew of his older sister’s husband, after all.)

Why shouldn’t he try it, then, given that Vincenzo had explicitly asked him to? Serving as the contact with them would likely provide valuable information for later that he’d otherwise have to try to get secondhand. So where was the problem? If he didn’t take it on, Vincenzo had made it clear that he would do it himself, and surely that was the most dangerous path of all.

One thing was sure. It wasn’t going to get in the way of his catching the bastards.