White Shotgun

THREE

Rome is burning in the blaze of June. The heat comes at you in scorching puffs, like the fiery breath of seraphim, that eternal chorus of angels who do nothing but praise God. They must work extra hard in this fervent air, singing their adoring prayers in clashing discord with the earsplitting racket of motor scooters and jackhammers.

The ancient, toothless cabdriver has installed a navigation system in his vehicle, but not air-conditioning. We ride with the windows down, ripening by the minute, like olives. The summer crowds are global, colossal. As we come to a standstill in heavy traffic yet again, I am starting to feel as if I might evaporate along with my own sweat, leaving an empty black Brooks Brothers suit on the seat.

The taxi crawls up the Via Veneto. Every town in the U.S.A. has a “Via Veneto”—an Italian restaurant or shoe store named after the famous avenue lined with sycamore trees. Swank cafés have taken over the sidewalks in front of stately old hotels and apartment buildings, flaunting awnings and wicker chairs, tables separated by gauzy billowing curtains. I am not going there. I am going to an armed fortress.

The American embassy in Rome is housed in the Palazzo Margherita, which sounds grand, and probably was, until the threat of terrorism made it prudent to enclose the entire block in a web of concrete buttresses. We used to build embassies with walls of glass to demonstrate the pride of an open democratic society in a foreign land. Now the symbol of American diplomatic presence has been buried inside a depressing and impenetrable military stronghold.

I disembark on the Via Veneto at a confusing maze of stanchions, furnace-heated air gusting up my skirt. Somewhere close by is the disconcerting sound of fresh bubbling water. The driver has left the cab idling in the middle of the street in order to fill a water bottle from an archaic moss-covered fountain behind the barriers that has survived since God knows who was emperor. I would like to stick my head in it.

Young carabinieri are directing traffic while talking on cell phones. There are a lot of uniforms, but none seems to know the location of the main entrance, or how to interpret my paltry Italian. Why did I assume Americans would be guarding the American embassy? After several phone calls and three separate checks of credentials by three humorless Italian officers, I go through the gate and am met by a robust young lady from Virginia, who guides us through a blazing inner courtyard, zigzagging through a den of construction, until at last we come to the old chancery building, home of the ambassador and the site of sensitive consular activities, where I am relieved to be greeted by a pair of alert on-duty U.S. Marines.

We go through a gap in the scaffolding and enter a hundred-and-twenty-year-old palazzo, cross burgundy marble floors, and trudge up a stone staircase. It gets weirder.

Rome is not a solid city bound to granite like New York, but a fluid stratum of centuries of cities that seem to rise and fall and remake themselves by the hour. It exists in layers; layers of history, layers of paradox — visible and buried — all bound up in a modern hodgepodge. Nothing in Italy is only as it appears. The nice young woman describes two-thousand-year-old fresco paintings preserved in an underground passage beneath this very building. Maybe in Rome one should expect such juxtapositions, but after swishing down a mosaic-lined hallway with gold tiles, it is a bit of a shock to open a door to an exact replica of the same standard-issue FBI office that you would find in Omaha, Nebraska.

The air-conditioning is freezing, American-style, the tiny room jammed with steel filing cabinets; Old Glory droops in a corner. On the walls we have plaques and awards, and a display box of medals with the familiar caption, “Once a Marine, Always a Marine.” Coming out with hand extended from behind a wooden desk identical to the one my boss has in L.A. is the FBI legat in Italy, Dennis Rizzio — a balding, moon-faced paesano from Brooklyn.

“Agent Grey! How ya doin’? Welcome to Rome.” The accent is unrepentant.

“What can I getcha?” He opens a small refrigerator. “How about a cold soda? Outside, you could fry eggs on the sidewalk.” “Tell me about it.”

We sit across from each other in Bureau-issue high-backed leather chairs that always make me feel like a midget in a neck brace. They fit Dennis, however — a big man, easily six foot four — soft from too much gnocchi and nobody breathing down his neck to pass a fitness test. He’s wearing the traditional white shirt, gray suit, and dull-ass blue tie. The wardrobe is deliberately neutral. The mind is like a diamond drill.

I press the icy can of soda to the back of my neck.

“Coming in, did you pass the Colosseum?” “Yes, it was kind of a surprise. You’re going through a slum covered with graffiti and then — wow. There it is.” “Did you know you could scuba dive underneath it?” I must have stared blankly.

“Yeah. Under the Colosseum. They still have sewers from ancient times, underground rivers filled with statues and all kinds of crap. People go down there. Scientists. Oh, man, I thought I died and went to heaven.” “Swimming in crap?”

“That I could do in New York,” he deadpans. “No, when I first saw the Colosseum. I always wanted to raise my girls in the old country. I wanted to hear them speak the language of my father. I can’t tell you how many years I had to finagle and kiss ass in order to get over here.”

“Special Agent in Charge Robert Galloway is from Brooklyn.”

Dennis’s sallow face almost lights up. “I just spoke to Bob on your behalf. About you coming on board. We worked the organized crime squad together in the early nineties. That sounds strange. ‘The early nineties.’ Like it was another century, which it was. How’s he doin’? Still with the turtlenecks and the cigars?”

I nod. “He was my boss on a deep cover case. I had total confidence. Always knew he had my back.”

Dennis grins. “Bob’s got a gift for undercover. This was during the famous crack cocaine epidemic we had in New York City. We did good. Put a lot of creeps in jail. Bob and I, we were working out of the social clubs on Mulberry Street. I consider myself from Little Italy, even though I had to move to Brooklyn because the yuppies came. My entire family grew up in Little Italy, four generations. My great-grandparents came over from Napoli. There was this volcano called Vesuvius?” He looks at me with round, sad eyes. “You heard about it?”

I have learned, sitting in a room like this across from Robert Galloway, that you always answer New York irony with New York irony. Otherwise, they think you’re a moron.

“I heard about it.”

Without changing expression, Dennis goes on. “I got so good at communing with the mafiosi, the Bureau brought me here to oversee operations against drug trafficking by the mob. Excuse me, tasked. I was tasked — like taking out the garbage. And we don’t say ‘mob’ anymore; that dates me. It’s ‘mafias,’ to distinguish the fact that there’s no single organization but — aren’t we lucky? — lots of family-operated crime groups in Italy. So I hear you were in London and it was no picnic. Not exactly a cruise on the Thames.” “You saw the 302s?”

“London sent a priority alert. Whenever there’s an agent involved in a shooting incident, they wake up the legats and tell us about it.” “Sorry to disturb your sleep.”

“Sorry for the bullets whizzing by your head. Thank your lucky stars.” He knocks on the wooden desk. I knock on the coffee table.

“I have your debrief with Inspector Reilly from New Scotland Yard. You had a pretty good look at the gunman. What was it he said to you?” “He said, ‘Want a cigarette?’ but I’m not sure he meant me.” “Just the general public?”

“I don’t know, Dennis! Do terrorists have a sense of humor? It’s the kind of thing a lowlife jerk-off would say before he blows out a restaurant. Like, Want a cigarette, asshole? Here’s a match.” “Anything else come to mind that’s not in the report?” Dennis asks.

“The attackers knew there was a party, and who was there.” “Why do you say that?”

“The street. A feeling I had.” I am remembering the stillness of the cherry trees. “When we came out, it was quiet. Deep quiet, the way it is past midnight on an upper-class street. The place was dead — I would have noticed something, but there were no lookouts. Nothing hinky. Then right on cue, a car speeds past. Twice as fast as you’d expect in that neighborhood. Doesn’t stop, opens fire. Hits multiple targets.” “The Metropolitan Police are investigating the victims for links to terrorism or organized crime. The Italian government has asked for our assistance concerning the mafias, so we’re into this on both accounts.” “Talk to the owner of the restaurant. His name is Martin.” I surprise myself by saying this, as I had thought of Martin as a decent, if somewhat unctuous, guy. “He was nervous and didn’t want to seat us. Interesting that he didn’t turn out to be one of the victims.” “You think Martin was the tip-off?” “The knuckleheads knew the targets were there. Somebody must have told them.” Dennis nods and jots a note.

“Got some new intel from the Met.” He indicates the monitor of a massively outdated computer. “It was a Ford Focus, right? The attack vehicle? Kinda old? Bad paint job? Do you recognize the year?” He shows me a group of Ford Focus photos. I can’t reliably tell the difference between the models.

“London has more video cameras than God,” I say. “They should check surveillance tapes of the nearby intersections. Interview everyone in every apartment building in Edgewater Crescent. I hope they understand that this is a boots on the ground operation.” “They’re on it. What’s your gut on the motivation?” Dennis makes his face go slack. Open to whatever the subject wants to bring.

“It was a brazen act, meant to send a message.” “Not just random?”

“I can’t believe it’s random when you drive into an upscale neighborhood and shoot seven people with automatic weapons, with the city on high alert and cops patrolling the streets, in some tucked-away little square with not a lot of options for escape, unless you’ve got a compelling reason.” “Money?”

“Or you believe in something.”

“Like radical Islam, you mean? I’m sure the British Counter Terrorism Command is looking very carefully at who the targets were — if there’s a connection to the extremist attacks they’ve had the past few weeks, or similarities to other crimes.” “It’s not necessarily the individuals who were targets. It could have been English society in general. It’s a very tony area they hit. Diplomats, businesspeople. And a fourteen-year-old kid.” Dennis shrugs. “Collateral damage. What do they care? This is fun for them. Tell me again why you were there?” The question is not as casual as it sounds. I had ducked it before, with Inspector Reilly, in order to protect Sterling. Now Dennis is watching me with an intensity I know very well.

“I stopped in at Baciare for a glass of wine.” “Just on your own?”

I give him a look. “I’m a big girl, Dennis.” “No doubt.” He slaps a passport on the desk. “This is for you. Official government business.” “I feel like James Bond.”

“Don’t get cocky. We’re dealing with ’Ndrangheta, not Dr. No,” he says.

“Isn’t ’Ndrangheta based in the south?” He nods. “In Calabria, at the shit-caked bottom of Italy’s boot, which they’ve turned into the distribution hub for cocaine in Europe. We’re talking a multibillion-dollar crime syndicate made up of a hundred or so tribal families with strong blood ties, six thousand strong, holed up in remote mountain villages.” “Like Afghanistan.”

“From a tactical point of view, it’s the same. Just like the Taliban, ’Ndrangheta operates out of an inaccessible fortress, where they hook up with other trans-national crime organizations, running heroin from the poppy fields in Afghanistan to the port of Napoli, and eventually, to Hometown, U.S.A. That’s the FBI’s interest, aside from helping our Italian friends. We want to know how and where these drugs are entering the United States.” “Where does Nicoli Nicosa fit in?” “He could be a ’Ndrangheta affiliate, working behind a screen of respectability to run cocaine in the north. To do business at his level in society — believe me, nobody is clean. They all swim in the same swamp.” Dennis opens both hands like a book.

“Let me introduce you to your new family. Nicoli Nicosa is forty-eight years old. Drives a Ferrari, travels by private jet. He’s made a fortune with a genetically engineered coffee bean — started out providing coffee to upscale restaurants, and now he’s got his own chain of stores. Have you been inside a Caffè Nicosa?” I shake my head.

“Did you ever take the train in Paris? Ever been to the Gare du Nord, where the Eurostar goes?” “No.”

“Ever taken a train in London? You don’t take public transportation? What are you, a snob?” He leans forward and puts his big paws on his knees. I can see him admonishing his little girls in Brooklyn. Whatareya, stupid? How could you not know this?

“If you were ever on a train, or spent two minutes walking around Rome, you would know that Caffè Nicosa is the Starbucks of Europe. You don’t get your cafés into major train stations without heavy-duty connections and bribes, and that’s just the beginning.” “What about the wife, Cecilia? My relative. The one who called the Bureau?” “She’s a medical doctor and a socialite on the Italian scene. Always in the magazines. She never contacted you before?” “I didn’t know she existed until the London legat told me on the way to the airport.” “So, why is Cecilia Nicosa calling you now?” Dennis asks rhetorically.

I consider the question. “Does she know her husband was cheating on her?” “The world knows. It was in the papers.” “Does the world also know that his mistress, Lucia Vincenzo, disappeared?” “The mafias make sure of that. Every so often someone who vanished after refusing to pay shows up in the ocean or as remains in a vat of lye. It keeps the little people on their toes.” “Cecilia could be afraid for her life.” Dennis presses the intercom, instructing the girl from Virginia to get Dr. Nicosa on the landline.

“If we really are related, am I supposed to spy on my own family?” “Go and observe, then we’ll decide. Don’t bitch; this is a high-class assignment. Siena is a beautiful city. Plus, they have the best gelato in your life — at a hole-in-the-wall called Kopa Kabana. And you’re there for Palio,” he adds, his eyes taking on a rare sparkle.

“What’s the big deal about a horse race?” “It’s not a horse race, it’s ‘a spectacular,’ as my father would say. Trust me, you’ve never seen anything like it — tens of thousands of people squeezed into a piazza, all going nuts.” “Security must be interesting.” He nods. “They have their hands full. Siena is made up of what they call contrade, like neighborhoods — actually little city-states, with their own seat of government and coat of arms — who have hated one another for centuries. Instead of killing one another, they have a race. It’s the most dangerous, fastest horse race in the world. Ninety seconds, that’s it, in the middle of town, on a track with mattresses stuck in the corners. The jockeys ride bareback and do anything to win — make deals, shove one another off the horse. The whips are made of the skins of calf penises. It’s so crazy Italian.” “Calf penises?”

“They use them to whack the hell out of each other. It’s a blood sport. Someone always gets hurt. God forbid the horse. The horse eats at the table. I kid you not. They have outdoor dinners, and the horse eats at the table. Kind of like Thanksgiving at my in-laws’ house,” he muses, screwing in an ear pod as the phone rings with my alleged new family member on the line.

“Oh, Ana!” exclaims Cecilia Nicosa when I’ve picked up and identified myself. “How beautiful to hear from you! I was hoping I would, but I was never certain that you got my letters.” Her accent would be hard to place. Latin, but not quite.

“I was on vacation in London when I got the call from Los Angeles that you were looking for me,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Dennis.

“Where are you now?” she asks.

“At the FBI office in Rome.”

“Rome! That is just two hours from us!” she says, and immediately invites me to come and stay with her husband and their teenage son, Giovanni, in their “little house on a hill.” Dennis gives the thumbs-up. We settle on a train the following day.

“A car will take you back to your hotel,” he says, “and drop you off tomorrow at Stazione Termini. Look for Caffè Nicosa, smack in the middle of the station. Get the prosciutto, goat cheese, and arugula panino. Trust me.” Despite the frigid air-conditioning, there are sweat stains under his arms. Had the interview been that stressful?

“I trust you,” I say with a hollow laugh.

“We should be in good shape in Siena. No worries; I work closely with the locals. I’ll be checking in.” He hands over a bound report issued by the U.S. Department of Justice, Federal Bureau of Investigation. “For Trusted Agents Only. PROFILE: NICOLI NICOSA.” “Reading material for the train.” “How long have you been keeping files on my relatives?” I ask lightly.

Dennis lays a big hand on my shoulder. “The city never sleeps.”

FOUR

At Stazione Termini the next day, an impatient crowd is staring at a board where all the departure signs are rolling over to say, “Soppresso.” Nearby, a group of exhausted teenagers lies in a pile on top of their rucksacks in the middle of the floor. I ask what’s going on.

“It is a train strike,” replies a girl with a Persian accent. “We’ve been waiting all night.”

Everybody in Rome seems to know the trains aren’t running, except the FBI’s legal attaché. I wonder why this is. Has Dennis Rizzio been prisoner of the mock Bureau office so long he has forgotten that we are actually in Italy?

At least Caffè Nicosa is where he said it would be, a deftly lit island of elegance in the center of the hall. Brick dividers, aluminum moldings punched out with playful circles. Starbucks, it is not. Enviable customers are picking at tiny balls of mozzarella in nice white bowls. Floating like a golden leaf in a sea of sweaty, pissed-off commuters, Caffè Nicosa beckons you to come in and be civilized. I am dying to sit down with a cold glass of Pinot Grigio and bask in the irony of reading the FBI file on its owner, Mr. Nicosa, but every table is occupied and there’s a long line.

Slowly I come to understand that the only way to get to Siena in the foreseeable future is by bus. I text Cecilia the change in plans and haul my suitcase outside, where the devilish cobblestones break a wheel. The heat is laughable; the hot winds must blow directly from Algeria, because my face has dried out like a date. When I shout, “Stazione d’autobus?” over the car horns and swirling grit, a man in uniform directs me to a city bus, with instructions to get off at the last stop.

When I arrive at the bus terminal an hour later, there aren’t many passengers left. It is the last point before the freeway in a run-down section of bleak, graffiti-covered apartment buildings that look as if they’ve taken one too many power punches to the midsection. I squeeze myself and the rebellious roller bag into a tiny cafeteria the size of a gas station convenience store, where skinhead families and black-shrouded nonnas have taken refuge from the hundred-degree heat. The mood is tense and incendiary, as if a harsh word could cause the place to combust. There are round signs dangling from the ceiling with Coca-Cola bottles riding rocket ships. I stare at the floor, meditating on the black and green diamond pattern of purgatory.

Hell is waiting. Hell is being unable to go forward or back, when your boyfriend is in parts unknown and home is a stack of cartons in a storage locker. What am I doing in this remote Roman ghetto, so far off the track that my sense of self has dissolved like the puddle of melted Popsicle at my feet? The language, the foreignness, the uncertainty, the heat, are percussive beats like the blood pounding in my head, urging me to flee. The exhilaration of being plucked out of London for a whirlwind trip to Rome now seems hideously misplaced. It’s just another assignment. The arrows lined up and put me in the picture with Nicoli Nicosa, that’s all.

Like Sterling, I am a soldier for hire, part of whose job is to soldier on alone. Every time I catch a TV monitor showing encounters in Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, the Philippines, I wonder if he’s there, boosting my spirits by remembering that we both keep making the same choice. When I’m working, I don’t question things. I feel whole. I know my world, and I’m confident there. As long as I respect the coach, I can be a good team player, but in this job, the best work is often done off the grid, on your own terms. You deal with the blowback later. Sterling and I are the same — happiest when we’re acting solo. Or maybe it’s the American way to go it alone. Looking around, I seem to be the only non-Italian packed into the Roman bus station; certainly the only woman not in the company of a mother or a sister.

There’s no place like Italy to make you feel like an orphaned child.

I leave the cafeteria, dragging the suitcase toward an open lot backed by tenements that has been turned into a field of corn, a hopeful sign that somewhere in this degraded landscape the human spirit has prevailed. Ahead at the horizon is an elevated highway where cars are speeding out of the city.

Silhouetted against the setting sun is a woman, six feet tall with storklike legs, wearing nothing but a bikini and heels; obsidian-black skin, hair in a knot at the nape of her neck, languidly moving to a boom box playing African music. Curtains of laundry flutter from the windows above her. A car pulls off the ramp. A white businessman steps out. The woman extends her hand and leads him into the cornfield.

When the bus comes, it is new and air-conditioned. Despite the hordes at the station, there are not many going to Siena. The front seats are taken by two elderly nuns and a blind priest. When we pass the outer industrial rings of the city, the terrain becomes deeply green, broken by raked fields of mustard yellow, dappled with rolls of hay. As we enter the provinces of Umbria, and then Tuscany, there are no malls or subdivisions. The bus stops in few towns along the way. Soon the only sign of modernity is a power line going by in a hypnotic stripe.

I open the file Dennis gave me on Nicoli Nicosa. It describes a cagey player, adept at choosing the side in power, and apparently without political loyalty. He first came to the FBI’s attention when he was observed by a surveillance team that had been following Lucia Vincenzo, forty-two, the widow of a crime boss who was executed in classic manner while he drove to the sweatshop he owned outside Naples, where he employed master tailors and seamstresses to make high-quality copies of designer clothing. He got behind on his extortion payments to ’Ndrangheta; they threatened to seize the business. He resisted; they took him out before breakfast.

After her husband’s murder, ’Ndrangheta made Lucia a deal. She would continue to run the fake high-end clothing business, but now as a money-laundering scheme for their cocaine operation. Profitable for everyone. Her mistake was to hire Chinese immigrants, cheap labor, to work in the shop. It didn’t matter that drug money flowed in and out as usual. By hiring the Chinese she had crossed the crime families who control the counterfeit merchandise trade — an unforgivable slap in the face that could unbalance the delicate truce between the clans. She was a wild card. ’Ndrangheta had to cut her off.

They called her La Leonessa, the Lioness, because she was remorseless and arrogant as a cat, and she obliged the nickname by sporting skintight animal prints, furs, and ropes of gold. From the photos and news clippings reproduced in the file, the Lioness looked like the cliché of a mistress: full-busted, with thick black hair and the size-two body of a teenager. She vanished from a supermarket parking lot in January of this year — punishment for dealing with the Chinese without permission.

That was the theory. But if the husband is always the prime suspect, the lover must be second in line. While the file details five trysts in luxury hotels in Como and Milan between Nicoli Nicosa and Lucia Vincenzo over the past year, it contains no hard evidence that they were in the cocaine business together — but why not? Lucia was an overconfident amateur and Nicosa a street-smart opportunist who might have been looking for a partner. Maybe he saw a way to prove himself to the big boys by aiding in her death.

Like the princes of the Italian city-states, Nicosa seems to possess a natural understanding of alliances. The son of a Sienese coffee roaster, he graduated from the Università degli Studi di Roma and studied in the United States at Harvard Business School. There he connected with the son of a member of the ruling class of El Salvador. In that deeply troubled country it was open season for ruthless young men. His classmate’s father liked the charming, big-eyed Italian and treated him like another son; he gave him a postgraduate course in bribery and corruption that allowed Nicosa to buy out the indigenous farmers who were growing yucca, in order for him to plant coffee. The file notes that although the civil war had ended, “buy out” was often a euphemism for “disappeared.”

Nicosa continued to profit from a cordial relationship with the right-wing power brokers. After a major earthquake, he was awarded a contract to build a water treatment system. Although the water project is still touted on the official government website as having revitalized a devastated area, it was never built. Nicosa and his behind-the-scenes benefactors pocketed millions.

It was in the aftermath of this earthquake that he met Cecilia Sanchez, a young doctor working in an emergency clinic set up near his plantation. There is a gap of three years before Cecilia immigrated to Italy, and they were married in Nicosa’s hometown of Siena. It could not have been easy for a young woman to leave a poor extended Catholic family that depended on her income as a doctor. There isn’t much in the file on Cecilia’s side of the story, except copies of the letters she sent to FBI HQ in Washington, D.C., searching for an American relation named Ana Grey. She gives the reason as a small inheritance she is allegedly holding for me, but then the letters grow more desperate:

“… Since I was a little girl, I have held in my heart the name of Ana Grey, our relative who lived in America. I believe that we are meant to find each other. The discovery of her work for the American Federal Bureau of Investigation gives me hope. It is very important to my family that I can find her. Please reply as soon as possible …”

I can hear her voice as it was on the phone, with its unique blend of accents, like nutmeg and tamarind, speaking through the words on the dull photocopy. “Since I was a little girl, I have held in my heart the name of Ana Grey.” As Dennis Rizzio had wondered, why make contact now? What is going on inside that “little house on a hill” that would cause the wife of a wealthy man in Europe to reach out to a stranger in America?

Glancing out the bus window, I see the landscape has changed. The yellow fields are gone; instead there is a cheesy strip mall with a discount shoe pavilion and outlets for tires and wine. As I observe families at tables outside a pizzeria, the image of the two young brothers at the London restaurant comes into my head. I watched as the younger boy expired in his brother’s arms. I saw his body receive that decisive stillness. And Marco never once let go.

I hear the desperation in Cecilia’s voice on the page and wonder if this is ultimately what she asks of me — the unconditional devotion of family. My heart stirs, but I deny the feeling. My grandfather Poppy’s house, where I grew up, was a forbidding, unsafe place of locked-away love with no possibility of consolation. All my life I have held myself apart from family bonds because I never believed family could mean anything but cold disappointment. Yet now, under orders of my superiors at the FBI, I am speeding toward it.