Fatal Error, page 11
The taxi slowed. Ahead was an entrance. Two lanes in, two out, separated with orange cones. Red and white striped barriers blocking the entrance lanes. A large brick built guard shack sat in the middle of the in and out lanes. The windows were slivered, and the roof bristled with cameras.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Pella slowed the taxi to a walking pace, and turned into the entrance. Two guards walked out of the building and took up positions in front of the barrier. They wore uniforms, and around their waists she could clearly see holsters.
Her “no problem,” boast to Morris that she’d easily get into the train yard began to look optimistic.
As Pella stopped the taxi in front of the guards Jess saw through the doorway into the guard shack. A large red light flashed. There were several guards inside, all of them on the phone. Television screens revealed images of the shunting area fed from cameras roaming back and forth across the miles of track.
Pella rolled down his window. The guard approached. They exchanged rapid fire Italian, as the guard gesticulated toward Jess. They stopped talking. Jess pointed into the guard shack. “Carabinieri. ROS.” She pointed to herself with her thumb, “FBI.”
The guard looked her up and down.
“Sì.” Pella jerked his thumb toward her. “FBI.”
The guard scowled. He snapped his fingers and said something she didn’t understand.
She pointed at the train yard. “Rapido, rapido.”
The guard shook his head and held out his hand.
Since the guard didn’t speak English, she hoped he didn’t read English either. She dived into her bag, and pulled out her Colorado driving license. “FBI. Rapido!”
The guard reached for her license but before she handed it over, another guard stuck his head out of the shack, phone in hand.
“FBI.” He gestured to his phone. “FBI.”
Jess said, “Yes.”
He waved his hand at the barrier. “Avanti, avanti.”
The guard withdrew his arm from the car. Jess nudged Pella. “Ask him for directions to the control tower.”
Pella frowned.
“Control room?” Jess said.
He nodded, and exchanged more rapid Italian with the guard at the barrier across the entrance. The guard pointed to the right, and Pella launched the taxi into the train yard with a squeal of tires. He made a couple of turns, and the control tower appeared straight ahead.
It was a cylindrical building several stories high with a dome at the top, much like a water tower. Mirrored windows ringed the dome, and antennas covered the roof.
Pella raced through the parking lot, around the base of the tower, and stopped at the only entrance.
Jess handed Pella a bundle of euros. She pointed to the ground. “Wait here, okay?”
He nodded.
She jumped out. Sirens sounded in the distance. A swipe key box was next to the entrance, and the door was locked. She surveyed the empty parking lot, and hammered on the door with her fist. The sound echoed, but no one opened the door.
She walked around the base of the tower. There were no signs, no markings, no phone numbers.
The distant sirens grew closer. Pella stepped half out of the car, staring toward the noise. He looked at Jess and back at the approaching police vehicles. His brow furrowed.
“It’s okay,” she said. “They’ll help.”
The man slid back into his seat, leaving his door open, and looked at Jess.
A line of police cars poured into the parking lot, screeching to a stop and surrounding the tower. Polizia jumped out. One officer shouted instructions, sent most of the police for the rail tracks, and directed the others to the control tower.
The Polizia gathered by the tower’s entrance. It sprang open, and a woman held the door open while they raced inside.
Jess made to follow, but the woman held up her hand.
Jess moved closer to the door. “I’m working with the FBI.”
“Then you’re in the wrong country.” Her English was perfect.
Shouts came from inside the control tower.
“I have to go.” She slammed the door.
Jess tried the handle, but the door had already locked.
Behind her, an engine revved. Her taxi was moving.
She ran toward the car, shaking her hands in front of her. “No, no. Pella, don’t—”
Too late. Pella must have taken his cue from the woman’s refusal to admit Jess with the Polizia. He reversed out of the parking lot, J-turned in the road, and sped toward the exit.
Dammit! No control tower and now no transportation.
She ran her hands through her hair and sucked in great gulps of air.
A helicopter thundered overhead, swiveling in the air. Carabinieri hung out of the doors on either side, scanning the ground below.
Jess looked around, but she was not elevated enough to see much. Low buildings and warehouses stretched along the road. Countless train tracks lined up in the other direction, endless strings of containers shunting back and forth.
In the distance was a bridge. Signs and lights hung from its girders. It spanned the tracks into the distance. Apart from the control tower, it was the only elevated structure in the area.
Two Polizia had remained with their patrol cars. She dismissed the idea of asking them for a ride to the bridge.
She stretched her calves, and rotated her waist to stretch, as she always did before running. She took a deep breath and set off. A steady jog. Her usual speed. She had run faster in college, but that was when she’d practiced every day. And when she’d worn the right shoes.
Never again had her schedule allowed the luxury of daily running, but fitness was essential to her life. She could do this.
It was hard to judge distance with the open spaces and large warehouses. In a straight line, the bridge was perhaps a mile. She soon realized that she wasn’t going to run in a straight line. Various buildings had six-foot chain link fences. She turned left at the first one, thinking she could skirt around the rear parking lot, only to find the fence linked to a neighbor’s, forming a dead end. She jogged back, and took the road. The tarmac was easier, smooth underfoot, but it angled away from her destination.
She picked up her pace. She looked for an entrance in the fences to cut through. She breathed hard. Keeping her oxygen up. She focused to avoid the hypnotic spell of her rhythm. Her bag bounced under her arm. She wedged it closer to her body.
She took the shortest route across a roundabout. The driver of a bright red Alfa swerved around her, waving his fist out of the window. She briefly considered begging a ride, but he was already gone.
The road arced around. Here, the buildings were smaller, closer together. Older. Not like ancient Roman ruins. More like run down sections of Detroit. She’d been mugged there once in just such a place.
She shivered and shoved the memory to the back of her mind. She patted her pocket. The Heizer was still there.
A few yards farther and she was able to glimpse the bridge between two buildings. She lurched to a stop.
The buildings were close together. The gap between them a trash-filled alleyway. But there was a path.
She checked her watch. Where was Morris, anyway? Shouldn’t he be here by now?
She walked into the dim alleyway, flanked on both sides by corrugated iron walls, dark and rusty, that seemed to suck up all remaining daylight. She wrinkled her nose. Piles of cardboard boxes had decayed into formless lumps. Unidentifiable contents oozed out across the alley.
She walked carefully around the obstacles.
An open black square, a full story high, interrupted the mottled wall on the right. She inched closer. The blackness seemed total. As if no light dared enter, and none was released. Whatever it had been at one time, now it was a perfect hiding place. Their fugitive could be waiting there. She’d tell Vanelli when she caught up to him.
She took a deep breath.
She put her hand in her pocket, wrapping her fingers around the Heizer, and inched closer.
The blackness inside the square was total. No glints of light, no mottled forms. She strained to hear the slightest movement, but heard nothing.
She turned to face the blackness, back-pedaling, still gripping the Heizer.
She sighed. She made it past. She shook off her misgivings. She was being ridiculous. Her memories of Detroit were messing with her. She was wasting time.
She turned to run again.
Her heart thumped.
She emerged from the alley with a shiver. She jogged around the potholes in the old road that led to the bridge.
Up close, the structure wasn’t the sort of bridge it had seemed from afar. An aluminum ladder led up to an overhead section. The overhead section was a flat walkway with railings on either side.
By the ladder were large signs with graphics warning of danger and electrocution. The warnings were pictures she could easily decipher.
She climbed the ladder carefully until she reached the walkway, and then increased her speed. The bridge ran at right angles to the lines of track, which gave her an excellent view between the carriages and trains, as Morris had expected. But the sheer number of tracks was daunting.
Her phone rang. She controlled her panting long enough to say, “Morris.”
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Couldn’t get access to the control tower.” The helicopter appeared overhead. She pressed a finger into her ear to mute the noise. She shouted, “I’m on the bridge over the tracks. At the north end of the yard.”
“Don’t run. The ROS are likely to take shots at anything moving quickly.”
“Now you tell me. I just ran about two miles to get here. But I can see between the parked trains.”
“Anything?”
“A lot of police.”
“We’re searching down here. Let me know if you see anything.” He hung up.
Jess walked on. She saw Vanelli, and later Morris. She walked to the far end of the bridge. She turned and dialed Morris as she walked back.
“No sign of anyone that might be Ficarra that I can see from up here.”
“Us neither. We’ve met up with the Polizia.”
“He has to be here.”
“There’s been a bunch of trains in and out of the yard. He could have hitched a ride on any one of them.” Morris paused. “And the shooter might not have been Ficarra at all.”
“True. Whoever he was, he had a head start. And he knew where he was going.”
“Best guess is that he’s in the wind already and we’re wasting time here,” Morris said. She heard the frustration and exasperation in his voice. “Lots of Polizia on scene. Vanelli’s decided to let them finish the search. His men have taken everything from the office cubes back to headquarters for analysis. Vanelli thinks the carabinieri can do more to find Ficarra from there now.”
She sighed again, which might have been an effort to draw breath. “We were so close. We could have got him.”
“We’ll get Ficarra, Jess. This guy might not have been him, anyway. We never found the tracker, don’t forget.” Morris covered his phone to talk briefly with someone else while Jess made her way back to the ladder at the end of the bridge. “Do you need a ride back to your hotel?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Enzo Ficarra responded instantly when he received the message from Bruno. It was a simple message with no hint of drama. Are you watching the game tonight?
He had planned this, and several other meaningless phrases to pass emergency information. None of the phrases conveyed good news. This was one of the worst.
It meant the secret office north of Rome from which he ran his illegal businesses had been raided.
Enzo had weighed his options. He needed to know everything Bruno knew. But if Bruno had been caught in the raid, the message could be luring him into a trap. Enzo could be captured in the close confines of Bruno’s apartment or on the streets outside.
But if he did not meet with Bruno, the police would know more than Enzo did. His only option, far from ideal, was a personal meeting with Bruno. As soon as possible.
Enzo replied to the message as planned. Maybe we could watch at your house? Which told Bruno to wait at his apartment. Bruno knew Enzo would arrive in due time.
Police resources were always stretched thin. They couldn’t afford to waste resources waiting to spring a trap.
Time was on his side. Patience was required. He waited until the following day to make contact.
He took a taxi to avoid the subway cameras. He surveyed the streets around Bruno’s apartment block, front and rear. He sat in a coffee shop, reading a newspaper for two hours, his body charged for action.
Only when he was satisfied no one was watching the apartment building, did he venture near.
The building had a dirty yellow door and filthy windows. Like Bruno, the building had seen better times. Once Bruno’s family had owned a prosperous winery. He’d been famous in Tuscany. And then he’d lost everything. Enzo shook his head. Fortunately, no one cared about Bruno anymore.
Enzo waited until another tenant approached and opened the door. Enzo followed behind before the door could latch closed.
He took the narrow steps up two flights to Bruno’s apartment. The door was ajar, as he suspected. He pushed it open with the tip of his boot.
He’d been here before. The apartment was small. A bedroom, living room, and kitchen combined. The only separate room was the bathroom.
Bruno sat on the bed, waiting. “We’re safe.”
Enzo placed a finger over his lips. He nudged open the bathroom door, sweeping his gun across the small space. He pushed the shower curtain back, and whipped open the closet door. Only then, satisfied there was no trap, did he lock the front door.
He sat on a kitchen chair, and listened to Bruno’s story.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Jess woke early. Breakfast on the terrace was as beautiful as the first day, but it didn’t move her this morning. Her mind was elsewhere, racing through what she knew, what she didn’t know, and how to bridge the gap.
They’d received no further demands for ransom from Enzo Ficarra. Wilson Grantly might already be dead. She shivered. Harriet and Roger Grantly wouldn’t accept that for an answer, so Jess wouldn’t accept it, either.
So she backed up and reviewed what she knew.
The man she’d chased at the airport was a courier for Enzo Ficarra. He’d taken the suitcases into the remote area of the warehouses where the tracking signal inside had been on the ragged edge of its maximum range. Whatever had allowed Morris’s detector to locate the signal had been nothing more than a lucky fluke.
Morris had confirmed the man at the airport wasn’t Enzo, although they hadn’t managed to identify the courier yet. Which meant Enzo had at least one accomplice here, in addition to his brother, Luigi, now dead.
The rooms they had found inside the office cube yesterday were a professional set up, right down to the escape route. Enzo ran his extortion ring from there. Which didn’t surprise her, for Enzo Ficarra did nothing on a whim. That much they’d known almost from the outset.
Vanelli’s carabinieri were busy collecting evidence at the warehouse. The burnt computers were being analyzed. The hard disks had been recovered in various stages of decomposition. It wouldn’t be a quick process, but they would extract all data from the delicate electronics. Eventually.
Young Nicci, wounded in yesterday’s gun battle, had survived surgery, although his prognosis was guarded.
She checked her phone for messages from Morris. Nothing.
Yesterday, she’d left the train yard despondent and spent a sleepless night. After two full days in Rome, they’d failed to find Enzo. Failed to find Wilson Grantly. Failed to find the courier or the luggage. Failed to find any useful leads at all. She couldn’t stay here much longer.
She needed to return to Denver. She’d spent too long away from her main job, which was first, last, and always, finding her son, Peter.
Morris, on the other hand, had been uncharacteristically confident yesterday. “We’ve made progress, Jess. The wheels of law enforcement grind slowly. We aren’t giving up yet.”
But she couldn’t shake the frustration. They’d chased their fugitive to the train yard, and it should have been a simple matter of the weight of law enforcement numbers to flush him out. And there had certainly been numbers. The helicopter, and the mass of Polizia plus carabinieri, and technology en masse.
Yet they had failed.
The train yard had cameras, but they were aimed high, to focus on arriving trains, not people on the ground. Despite their efforts, train traffic in and out of the yard hadn’t halted. Hundreds of tons of moving metal didn’t simply come to a stop while police searched for a shooter. He must have caught a train headed away from here.
Jess clenched her teeth. She should have run harder. She could have made it to the bridge quicker. Seconds could have made all the difference.
She exhaled slowly. She, Morris, and the carabinieri had uncovered plenty of evidence already. While she sat here eating breakfast, they worked to uncover more. But where were the results?
She shoved her chair back. She’d had enough of waiting, she had to do something to flush Enzo Ficarra out of hiding. But what? She twirled, and made for the doors from the terrace into the hotel.
Her waiter, Romeo, stepped back from the entrance to let her pass. He opened his mouth to speak, closing it as she strode away.
She took the steps down to the foyer. A blonde-haired tour guide stood in the middle of a mass of people, shouting instructions in German. His party jostled for position, shoving overstuffed bags along in a winding line that finished at the check-in desk. Two harassed staff checked passports against their check-in list, and handed back keys. They parroted the same directions to each guest. When one guest moved off, dragging their belongings, another stepped forward for the same routine.
She threaded her way through the mêlée, and out onto the hotel steps. Early morning traffic jammed the square, honking and inching their way around the fountain. The question was, what could she do now?
