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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 walls were hung with landscapes, most of them Fattoris or Rosais. The wife, Francesca, was an interior designer, Haslam remembered the brief: if this was their town apartment wonder what the family home in Emilia was like.
The oval mahogany table was in the centre of the lower floor level, three men and one woman seated round it. As Santori and Haslam entered they stood up.
‘Signore Benini, Mr Haslam.’ Santori began the introductions.
Umberto Benini, the victim’s father, Haslam assumed: early sixties, tall and alert, slightly hooked nose and immaculate suit. Businessman with the usual political connections.
The observations were in shorthand, and shorthand inevitably led to value judgements which might or might not be correct, Haslam reminded himself.
Umberto Benini took over from Santori.
‘Signore Rossi, who is representing BCI.’ Early forties, sharp looker though dressed like a banker, and wearing tinted spectacles.
‘Marco, my son.’ Mid-thirties and less conservative suit. The victim’s brother.
‘Signora Benini.’ The victim’s wife. Late thirties, therefore younger than her husband, five feet four tall and holding her figure, despite the two daughters. Eyes red, had been crying shortly before his arrival but had covered the fact with make-up. Clothes expensive and beautifully cut.
Santori confirmed there was nothing more the family wished to ask him, shook their hands – starting with Umberto Benini – and left.
Interesting order of introductions, Haslam thought: banker, son, and only then the victim’s wife. How many times had he sat in this sort of room and looked at these sort of people and these frightened faces?
The positions round the table had already been determined: the father at the head, the banker on his right and the son on his left, the wife two away from him on his left, and the empty chair for Haslam facing him at the other end. Only the father and the banker smoking, and the wife re-positioning the ashtray as if it didn’t belong.
The housekeeper poured them coffee, left the cream and sugar on the silver tray in the centre of the table, and closed the door behind her.
‘Before we continue, perhaps I should introduce myself more fully and outline what my role is. The first thing to say is that everything said in this room, from you to me or me to you, is confidential.’ He waited to confirm they understood. ‘As you know, my name is David Haslam, I’m a crisis consultant, in this case the crisis is a kidnapping.’
It was the way he began every first meeting, partly to establish a structure and partly because there were certain things to arrange in case the kidnappers telephoned while they were talking.
‘Before you begin, perhaps you would allow me to say a few words.’ Umberto Benini made sure his English, and his intonation, were perfect.
Because I’m Paolo’s father, but more important than that I’m head of the family and the person in charge. Therefore I say who says what and when.
‘Paolo worked for the Banca del Commercio Internazionale. He was based in Milan but travelled extensively. Signore Rossi is a colleague.’ The wave of the hand indicated that Rossi should provide the details.
‘Paolo was in Zurich. We have a branch there.’ The banker looked at him through the cigarette smoke. ‘On the day in question he had returned from London, where we also have a branch, with more meetings in Zurich the following morning.’
They were already playing it wrong, Haslam thought. If the kidnappers phoned now they wouldn’t be prepared. And once he’d arrived they should be, because his job was to make sure they were.
‘After work that afternoon he was driven to the hotel where he normally stays. He arrived at about seven, took dinner at eight-thirty and retired to his room at ten. He was last seen at eleven. When he failed to come down for breakfast the next morning his bodyguards opened his room. The bed had not been slept in and nothing had been touched or taken.’
‘How many bodyguards?’ Haslam asked.
‘One with him all the time, plus his own driver and two more he normally has when he is in Italy.’
Except that Benini wasn’t in Italy when he was snatched, but he still had a whole army of minders. ‘How did the kidnappers access his room?’
‘We’re not sure.’
‘You said he was last seen at eleven?’
‘Apparently a fax was sent to the hotel for his attention. Reception informed him and he asked for it to be sent up. The porter remembered it was eleven o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes, when he delivered it.’
Haslam knew what the kidnappers had done and how they had done it. Months of research and planning behind the snatch itself. Which was bad, because their security would be watertight, but good, because they’d know the rules.
‘You’ve checked the fax?’
‘It’s being checked now.’
Haslam nodded. ‘As I began to say earlier, my name is David Haslam. I work regularly for companies like the one to whom the bank is contracted under the kidnap section of its insurance policy. I’m British but based in Washington. Before that I was in the Special Air Service of the British Army.’
Umberto was about to intervene again, he sensed; therefore he should get the next bit out the way and fast, because that way he was covered, that way even Umberto might begin to understand how they all had to play it.
‘Have the kidnappers been in touch yet?’
The father drummed his fingers on the mahogany. ‘No.’
‘In that case the first thing we do is prepare for when they do.’ Why – it was in the way they looked at him. ‘Because they might even phone while we’re talking.’
His briefcase was on the floor; he opened it and took out an A4 pad.
‘Where do we think the call will come?’ The question was directed at Umberto Benini.
‘I assume it will be to here.’
‘So who’s most likely to take it?’
‘I am.’ It was the wife.
Haslam focused on her. ‘The man who calls you will be a negotiator. He won’t know where Paolo is being held or anything else about him. Nor will he have power to make decisions. He’ll report back to a controller. But the negotiator is important, not just because he’s the contact point, but because he’s the man who’ll interpret to the controller how things are going.
‘The key thing in the first call is that you don’t commit yourself to anything. The negotiator will say certain things. We have him. If you want him back you’ll have to pay. How you react will govern the rest of the negotiations. So it’s imperative, imperative …’ he repeated ‘… that you don’t say anything you might regret later. We do this by giving you a script.’
He looked at her. ‘May I call you Francesca?’
She nodded, too numb to do otherwise.
He wrote three brief sections on the paper and passed it across the table. The wife read it and passed it in turn to her father-in-law.
Umberto Benini nodded at the wife but kept the paper in front of him.
‘Signore Santori gave you the recording device?’ Haslam asked.
‘Already in position.’
‘Good.’ He turned again to the wife. ‘Tell me about Paolo.’
‘We’ve been married sixteen years; he’s away a lot now, so the girls miss him. We have this apartment in town and a home in Emilia.’
‘What about you?’
‘I run my own interior design company.’
‘I can see.’ He looked at the paintings on the walls and saw that she’d smiled for the first time. ‘Tell me about the girls, where they are now.’
‘They’re with their grandmother,’ Umberto informed him.
‘Have you and Paolo ever discussed the possibility of one of you being kidnapped, made any plans for it?’ Haslam looked at Francesca. ‘Any codes, for example?’
‘No.’ The wife’s face was drawn again, the tension showing through.
‘Have the police been informed. And if not, do you wish them to be?’
Most families suffering a kidnapping preferred to keep that fact secret from the police. Partly because Italian law forbad the payment of money to kidnappers; therefore if a kidnap was reported or suspected the first action of the state was to freeze the family’s funds to prevent payment. And partly because most families rich enough to attract the attention of kidnappers normally wished to conceal the size of their wealth.
‘No to both questions.’ Umberto and Rossi answered simultaneously.
‘Fine, that’s your decision. You should be aware, however, that it’s possible they’ll find out.’ At least they were in Italy, he thought, at least there was no Ortega to worry about.
‘That aspect is already covered.’
Because this is Milan and in Milan we pay to make sure that sort of thing doesn’t happen. Or if it does somebody sits on it and fast.
Umberto Benini lit another cigarette.
Haslam took them to the next stage.
‘In that case the next thing we have to discuss is our own organization, what some people call the CMT, the crisis management team. Who’s on it and who fills which roles.’
They went through the positions.
Chairman.
