Fatal Error, page 19
“You realize no one here drinks that stuff,” Vanelli said.
Morris shrugged. “I need the caffeine this morning.”
The machine chugged. A bell rang. He slid open the drink dispenser door. There was no drink.
Vanelli laughed. “And that is exactly why no one here drinks that stuff.”
“It took my money.”
“It does. Every now and again. It’s criminal, really.” Vanelli grinned. “Perhaps you should arrest it?”
Morris fumbled for more change. Vanelli held out a handful of coins. Before Morris could take one, his phone rang. He looked at the display. “My boss.” He pressed talk. “Sir?”
“Those names don’t jive,” Assistant Director Roy Ryans said.
“Sir?”
“We woke up the head of the magazine, and half his staff. There’s no one who works there by those names. They’ve never heard those names before.”
“Damn.” Morris furrowed his brow. “Then it was a clue. Some kind of code.”
“No kidding,” Ryans deadpanned.
“Can the magazine fund the ransom?”
“Maybe.”
“How maybe?”
“The publisher, a man named Carter Pierce, said they carry insurance for this sort of thing, but the insurers are wriggling.”
“Swell.” Morris bit his tongue and ran a hand over his head.
“Exactly,” Ryans agreed. “Pierce is working on it. Taboo’s a big outfit. Probably raise the money himself.”
“Probably?”
“Pierce can afford it. But he has to transfer the money to Italy, and convert it into used banknotes.”
“That can be done.”
“It takes time, Morris. Don’t make me tell you how long it took to build Rome.”
Morris blew out a long breath. “So is the embassy our best bet?”
“They have the cash on hand,” Ryans said.
“Then let’s use that.”
“First things first. To start with, the Director has to approve us to be involved in any kind of payoff.”
Morris pressed his lips into a hard line. “And?”
“He hasn’t returned my call.”
“So, we’re still at zero for the ransom.”
“We’re doing our best.” Ryans paused. “You’d better do yours, too, in the meantime.”
Morris grunted, “Yes, Sir,” and ended the call.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Vanelli dumped his change back in his pocket. “The names aren’t real?”
“Not even close.” Morris shook his head. “She was clearly sending me a message. So she believed she was telling me something I should understand.”
“But you don’t? Understand, I mean?”
“Not yet. But I will.” Morris dialed the FBI’s Rome business office, and relayed the names to a female analyst with a strong Texas accent.
Vanelli called to the carabinieri officers working in the cube farm outside his spacious conference room.
He heard the keyboard clacking as the Texan started to search the databases. As he waited for her to check the names, a tide of officers swept into Vanelli’s office.
Morris elbowed his way through the crowd to the rear, his phone pressed against his ear.
Vanelli wrote the names Jess had relayed on a wall-sized whiteboard. People jostled for position to see clearly. The two carabinieri Vanelli used as daily muscle leaned against a wall near a filing cabinet.
Vanelli tapped the board. “The names the hostage identified as her bosses from her magazine in Denver are not real. Her magazine has never heard of them and doesn’t know what the names mean.”
Vanelli paced the small space in front of the board. “She was being clever.”
“And damned brave, if you ask me,” muttered the fresh-faced, nerdy Luca Rosso who stood beside Morris.
“What we need now,” said Vanelli, “is to be as clever as Miss Kimball.”
Clever. Jess was clever. Resourceful, too. Morris had been thinking about her message. What had she said? Right at the end after she’d offered the names? “Vanelli, can we hear the message playback? I only need the last few seconds. I want the exact words she said at the end.”
Vanelli nodded toward Luca Rosso, who pushed a few buttons and replayed Jess’s clues. “They’ll get the money. It’s pocket change to them. They know what to do. They’ll rearrange things.”
“That’s it.” A smirk lifted the corner of Morris’s mouth. He slammed his hand on the wall. “Did you catch it, Vanelli?”
Vanelli cocked his head and lifted his palms.
“Remember that game you were playing at the stakeout? What was it called?” Morris stuffed both hands into his pockets. “Jess saw you. She watched you.”
“Warped Words.” Vanelli nodded slowly. And then his lips parted in a genuine smile. “Anagrams. The names she gave us are anagrams.”
Morris frowned. “So rearrange the letters. Let’s figure this out.”
“But what kind of words are we looking for?” a woman in the middle of the carabinieri crowd asked. “American names?”
“I don’t think so. She gave us names because of the way she stated the message. But Miss Kimball is much more clever than that.” Vanelli shook his head. He gestured to the entire front row of officers. “Get to the computers. Start looking. Names, sure. But not limited to American names. Include towns, villages, events, tourist locations, street names. Cover everything.”
The front row filed out.
“First letters? CV? TM? Mean anything to the Ficarras?” said a blonde-haired guy.
“Maybe.” Vanelli nodded for him to leave the room. “And look for anything in her past, too.”
“No good matches against American names,” said the Texan at the American Embassy through the speaker on Morris’s phone, confirming Vanelli’s hunch. “A few partials. Scattered across the country. None in Italy.”
“Any connected with Miss Kimball, any of the Blazek extortion ring members, any name we’ve heard before during this investigation?” Morris ran splayed fingers through his hair. “Try Italy, Florida, Canada, Louisiana, and Texas. In that order.”
“Checking now. Standby.”
Morris covered the mouthpiece, and caught Vanelli’s attention. “A few partial matches to American names. We’re checking for any connected to Kimball, Ficarra, Grantly, or Blazek.”
Vanelli gestured to the muscle men by the filing cabinet. “Prep the vans. Vests, guns, and radios for ten.” He glanced in Morris’s direction.
Morris nodded.
Vanelli’s nostrils flared, and his mouth clamped shut. He breathed in and out. “Make it eleven.”
They hustled from the room.
The Texan came back on the line and spoke in Morris’s ear. “No one connected to Miss Kimball. A couple have lived in the same cities, and a few in New York where she works occasionally? Big place, doesn’t mean much.”
Morris sighed. “And the other locations?”
“I’m still checking, but nothing so far.”
The room was empty. Vanelli turned back to his whiteboard.
The Texan continued clacking a keyboard in Morris’s ear. “No towns, villages, or streets match. I have a giant list of anagrams. A couple of villages are close, but not identical.”
“Close to Rome?”
“No. Close matches, anagram-wise.”
Morris hissed through his teeth. “Where?”
“North of Turin. Three hundred miles, plus.”
“Not likely he’s taken her that far.” Morris clicked his tongue and rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “Send the close matches anyway. Anything you’ve got. And keep digging.”
The Texan agreed and hung up. Moments later the email on his phone dinged. He flipped through long lists of computer generated anagram matches. Although none seemed likely, he forwarded the email to Vanelli.
Vanelli was scrawling on the whiteboard, writing names, crossing out letters, and wiping them clear to start again.
“Anything?” Morris called.
Vanelli shook his head without looking back.
Morris’s email dinged again.
The red-haired woman returned, several pieces of paper in her hands. Vanelli looked over her work, and they spoke in rapid Italian. Morris caught the words statues and parks.
His phone rang. He pressed talk without looking at the display. “Morris.”
The Texan came back on. “Not great matches, but maybe.”
He frowned. “Maybe what?”
“House names. Travis Madele is Vista del Mare.”
Morris’s skin tingled. “And Collin Vanesota?”
“Collina Ventosa.”
“That’s a house name?”
“Multiple times. They show up all over the place. Not only in Italy, but Spain and a few other places farther away. The words are pretty common.” She stopped to inhale. “Vista del Mare means Sea View. Collina Ventosa means Windy Hill.”
Vanelli had stopped writing on the white board. He was staring at Morris. Morris moved the phone from his mouth. “House names. Vista del Mare and Collina Ventosa.”
Morris want back to his phone. “I want a list of everywhere those two names are in close proximity.”
The Texan’s voice hardened. “What do you think I’ve been doing? It’s in your inbox.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
He brought up his email, and held out the list for Vanelli. Vanelli called an inspector into the room and set him to work marking the locations on the map behind his desk.
“Fourteen places where the two names are fairly close together,” Morris said.
“Three are in cities,” Vanelli said slowly, thinking things through. “We heard no city noises on the call. We can make them low priority, if not rule them out.”
“Leaving eleven. And oddly, most are by the coast.”
Vanelli’s eyebrows shot up. “Vista del Mare?”
Morris rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Obvious.”
Vanelli tapped the furthest pin. “Hundred miles. Winding roads. It’ll take some time to reach.”
He picked up his phone, and dispatched his men in three groups to survey the addresses. As soon as he placed the handset back on the hook, it rang again.
Morris watched Vanelli’s face go through a series of contortions before he hung up.
“Let’s go. When Ficarra calls again, it can be routed to my phone,” Morris said.
Vanelli shook his head. “Your Ambassador Bell is in discussion with the Comandante Generale.”
Morris shrugged and shook his head.
“The head of the carabinieri.”
“I know who he is, I just don’t know why our ambassador is here.”
Vanelli smirked. “We’re about to find out. They’ve requested our presence.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Morris followed Vanelli into an elevator. “We haven’t got time for this.”
Vanelli stabbed the button for the top floor. “I can’t ignore the Comandante.”
“Can’t you explain?”
“It’s not him that’s insisting.”
Morris frowned. “Ambassador Bell?”
Vanelli pursed his lips.
Morris blew out a long breath. “What about your men?”
“They have the locations.” He tapped his phone. “They will keep us informed.”
They left the elevator, and stepped out into plush carpeting and a hushed atmosphere. Vanelli opened a large oak door with Comandante Generale engraved on a brass plaque.
They walked into a reception area. An imposing oak double door was opposite the entrance. The walls were covered with photographs of a man shaking hands with various dignitaries. The Comandante, Morris presumed.
A row of filing cabinets filled one wall and a young woman wearing a dark suit worked at a small desk. She stopped typing, and stood up, straightening her pencil skirt. “He’s expecting you.”
She stepped close to Vanelli, and whispered.
Vanelli grimaced. “None of us are happy.”
The assistant opened one of the oak doors, and Morris followed Vanelli through.
The Comandante was a large man wearing a dark blue uniform. He sat at a broad, antique desk covered with papers, and an out-of-place flat screen monitor. On the wall behind him was a large painting of the carabinieri’s seal.
The antique style of the desk flowed to several well-stocked bookshelves, a bureau, and the chairs in front of the desk. Morris recognized the diminutive U.S. Ambassador, Leonard E. Bell, seated in one of the chairs. He didn’t rise or offer any greeting other than to glower over the top of his reading glasses at Morris.
Vanelli saluted. The Comandante said something unintelligible before gesturing to the empty chairs. “Sit.”
Vanelli sat, his back perfectly straight. Morris took the chair opposite Ambassador Bell, who continued to stare.
The Comandante leaned back. “What progress?”
Vanelli took a breath. “The kidnapper is due to make contact in thirty minutes. We do not yet have the location of the exchange. The names Miss Kimball relayed were fake, we are therefore presuming they are a clue to her whereabouts.”
“But you haven’t located her?”
Vanelli shook his head. “We have a partial match of the names she gave to the names of some houses. We were just leaving to investigate.”
“House names?”
“Locations where the two names are close together,” Morris said.
The Comandante glanced at him, nodded, and turned back to Vanelli. “How many locations?”
“Fourteen. Eleven are higher priority.”
“Too many,” said Ambassador Bell.
“I have divided my men between the—”
Ambassador Bell cleared his throat. “I’m sure.” He looked at the Comandante. “Miss Kimball is an American.”
Vanelli turned to Ambassador Bell. “With respect, her nationality has no bearing on my actions in this case.”
Ambassador Bell glanced at Vanelli. “An admirable sentiment.” He turned back to the Comandante. “I would, however, like an embassy representative involved with your operation.”
Vanelli frowned. “Representative?”
“Someone in country, who can assist.”
Vanelli cleared his throat. “This is Italian soil. I have more than two dozen carabinieri and the Polizia for backup on the matter already. Your men will not be able to add—”
“I am charged to ensure our citizens are afforded every assistance.”
Vanelli gestured to Morris. “You have your FBI agent already.”
“I want a trained hostage negotiator. A man called Henderson. He speaks Italian.” He glanced at Morris. “Fluently.”
Morris leaned forward. “We’ve had no problem so far.”
He took a deep breath. “Am I right in saying, you have never received any formal training in hostage negotiation?”
“I attended the course.”
“Which, I understand, you did not complete.”
“I had a case! A lead I couldn’t ignore.”
“And since then you have conducted two negotiations.”
Morris closed his mouth.
The ambassador put his hands together. “Only one of which was successful.”
There was a long silence.
Vanelli eased himself back in his chair.
The Comandante’s chair creaked as he shifted his weight. He breathed in loudly through his nose. “In the circumstances, I believe we can accommodate an additional agent.”
“Thank you,” said Ambassador Bell.
The Comandante frowned. “This once.”
The ambassador nodded. “There is one more thing. Since this case may well hinge entirely on the negotiations, Henderson will be in charge of our side of the operation.” He looked at Morris. “That means you will take orders from him.”
Morris ground his teeth.
Ambassador Bell looked away.
There was a long silence.
The Comandante grunted. “So, the other issue?”
Ambassador Bell raised his eyebrows. “You mean, the money?”
The Comandante nodded.
Ambassador Bell straightened his back. “We are working on it. We are not prepared to let anything happen to Miss Kimball.”
“So, we can offer him the money,” Vanelli said.
Ambassador Bell glanced at Vanelli. “As far as you are concerned.”
Morris leaned forward. “As far as we are concerned?”
Ambassador Bell glowered. “There is an administrative matter to be dealt with.”
“Then deal with it. When we talk to the kidnapper, we have to give a yes or no, not that we’re dealing with an administrative matter.”
Ambassador Bell leaned back. “I thought I made it clear, Agent Morris. Henderson is a trained hostage negotiator, and as of this moment, you report directly to him.” The ambassador put his hands together, and intertwined his fingers. “So, it is his opinions that are important, not yours.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Morris shoved his way into the elevator before the occupants had exited. They maneuvered around, staring.
Vanelli stepped in beside him, and pressed the button for his floor. “Walking out was not a good idea.”
“The ambassador is an asshole. A sniveling, slimy, good-for-nothing son-of-a-bitch.”
Vanelli grimaced.
“He thinks everything can be solved with the right paperwork.”
“And you?”
“I know we need to follow process,” Morris said. He jerked his thumb upwards. “I know it more than that bastard will ever know. And I know if we’re going to find Ficarra, and pin this on him, we’ll need to be absolutely squeaky clean. But Ficarra?” He shook a fist. “I know what we’re up against.”
Vanelli glanced at his watch. “What we’re up against is time. He’s due to call in fifteen minutes.”
Morris exhaled. “I have to be there. I know what Bell said, but if Ficarra hears I’ve been taken off—”
“I know.” Vanelli shook his head. “Despite your ambassador, this is Italian soil, and I am in charge. You’re in on his call.”
“And if he demands I’m the courier?”
