Fatal Error, page 20
Vanelli shrugged. “Then you’re in on that, too.”
Morris breathed out. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”
The elevator bumped to a halt. Vanelli pressed the hold button, and kept it in. The doors stayed closed. He looked at Morris. “Has your ambassador closed your office?”
Morris frowned. “In the embassy?”
“In the alley.”
Morris gave a blank stare.
Vanelli rolled his eyes. “Your so-called business office.”
Morris sighed, and glanced down. “He’s closing it. Yes.”
“Everyone is being shipped back to the U.S.?”
“We will have a small staff. Liaison. Press releases, requests for information, stuff like that.”
“A pity.” Vanelli took his finger from the hold button. “We were hoping to set up joint operations.”
The doors slid open.
“Joint operations?” Morris said.
“Your anonymous tip offs have been very useful.” Vanelli stepped out of the elevator. “A little more information, a little earlier, and we might have stopped the Ficarras before all this started.”
Morris nodded his agreement, and followed Vanelli down the corridor.
A man in a well-cut blue pinstripe suit stood outside the Colonnello’s office. He held a briefcase in one hand, and thrust the other out to Vanelli. “Jeremy Henderson.”
Vanelli shook his hand.
Henderson talked fast in Italian. Morris only caught the word “ambasciatore.”
Vanelli grunted, and gestured toward his office.
Luca Russo, the fresh-faced telephone operator was ready at his stack of electronics. He glanced in their direction as they came in, and returned to his keyboard.
Vanelli sat at his desk. Morris took the chair directly opposite. Henderson remained standing.
“Special Agent Morris, it is my understanding that Ambassador Bell informed you that you are to take instructions from me, correct?” Henderson’s tone brooked no argument.
Morris shrugged. “He might have mentioned it.”
“I believe he did mention it. I am taking over this case.”
Morris looked up at him. “The kidnapper referred to me in his notes. He requested to speak to me. Personally. So, I’m part of this case whether you like it or not.”
“The ambassador—”
“The ambassador doesn’t have a clue what is required to negotiate for someone’s life. Nor does he have any idea what will be required if the negotiations do not succeed.”
“I, however, am well aware of what is required for a successful negotiation.”
“Well, you’ll know that the last thing you want to do is change the kidnapper’s point of contact.”
“It has been done before.”
“It’s a blatantly unnecessary risk.”
Henderson shrugged, as if Morris’s view was worthless. “Your opinions are no longer relevant to this case. He gave me clear—”
“I refuse. I will not abandon Miss Kimball. Do you understand?”
Henderson huffed. “You are letting your personal feelings interfere with your work. Not a good method for a positive outcome to a difficult situation, in my experience.”
Morris frowned. “And exactly what is your experience?”
“Many and varied, Agent Morris.”
“You’re not FBI?”
“This is Italy. The Italian authorities deal with the enforcement of the law in their own sovereign territory.”
“So, what service are you with?”
Henderson scowled. “As I said, we do not need to concern ourselves with law enforcement—”
“You’re not part of any investigative unit?”
The man glowered. “I am attached to the legal arm of the embassy staff.”
“Attached?”
Henderson blinked.
“Attached?” Morris stood up and paced the room. “You’re a paid contractor? That’s it?”
“We provide—”
He scowled. “A beltway bandit?”
“I work hand-in-hand with the embassy, an extension of—”
“You mean, hand-in-pocket.” Morris blew a long stream of hot air between his lips and ran both hands over his head.
“This is getting us nowhere. I have received the ambassador’s instructions, and—”
“And I told you, we’re close. But Miss Kimball’s life still hangs in the balance. We don’t dare screw with the kidnapper now.” He stopped pacing. He stood inches from Henderson and stared straight into his face. “I’m not having a pompous jerk turn up now simply so the ambassador can claim some kind of victory at embassy cocktail parties.”
Henderson folded his arms. “This isn’t about claiming victory.”
“Damn straight, it’s not.” Morris poked at Henderson with his finger. “Unlike you and your boss, I will accept nothing less than total victory. Miss Kimball back. Safe. Sound. Breathing. In one piece. And I want Ficarra facing life.”
“Or the end of his life?”
He poked Henderson one more time, hard. “If that’s what it takes.”
“Agent Morris, you cannot—”
Vanelli held up his hand. “Signori. Agent Morris is assisting us with our negotiations.”
Henderson put his hand on Vanelli’s desk. “That—”
Vanelli leaned forward, his arms crossed, and met his eyes directly. “Negotiations that will begin in eight minutes. Sit down.”
“We—”
“You have heard my last word on the subject, signori. Sit down, or leave. It’s your choice.”
Henderson scowled. He pressed his lips so thin they turned white. He glowered at Vanelli before sitting heavily in a chair.
“Are we ready?” Vanelli said to the telephone operator.
Rosso nodded.
“Good.” He looked at the ambassador’s negotiator. “When the kidnapper calls, you will be absolutely silent.”
Henderson gave the barest of nods. Morris didn’t trust him an inch. But he had tougher things to deal with at the moment. As long as he stayed out of the way, the beltway bandit could wait.
Vanelli angled his computer screen so Morris could see a map showing the houses. Small blue dots marked the locations of the teams Vanelli had dispatched.
The room went silent.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Morris cross-checked the time on the computer.
Vanelli shrugged. “He’ll call. He wants his money.”
More minutes ticked by. One of the teams messaged Vanelli to report they had reached their destination. Ten minutes later, Vanelli received another message confirming that both the houses were clear. On the map, the blue dot headed toward its next destination. One down, ten to go.
The phone on Vanelli’s desk rang.
The fresh-faced Rosso slipped on a giant set of headphones, pressed several buttons, and gave a thumbs up.
Morris picked up the receiver. “Morris.”
A distorted metallic voice crackled. “You have the money?”
“Is Miss Kimball okay?”
“You heard her.”
“Yesterday. I want to hear her today.”
“Tough.”
“I need to hear her.”
“You’ll be able to talk to her all you like, once I have the money.”
“I need—”
“Do you have the money? Yes, or no?”
Morris licked his lips. “Yes.”
“Used bills?”
“As you said.”
“No tracers, no trackers, no powder?”
“Yes.”
“I will scan the package before I let her go.”
“We understand.”
“You found my device? The telephone?”
“We did.”
“Then you know that I am capable of detecting a tracker.”
“Yes.”
“If I find anything, I will retaliate.”
“We understand.”
“Against her.”
“We understand.”
“You’d better. This is a one-time offer. Screw with me, and I’ll do more than screw with your precious reporter.”
“We understand you. We have the money. We want this to go smoothly. Where do we meet?”
“You’ll be told.”
“I have to move five million. I need to know in advance.”
“You’ll be told when appropriate.”
“I have to arrange transport.”
“Then arrange it. I will call again in five hours. The handover will be an hour after that.”
“That’s not—”
The phone clicked off.
Henderson flashed a smarmy grin. “That went well.”
It took every ounce of Morris’s self-control not to punch him hard in the face.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Morris gritted his teeth. His breath hissed in and out through the gaps. Vanelli drummed his fingers on his desk. Rosso worked on his computers. The blue dots on the map inched along winding roads.
“What assets do you have?” Henderson said.
“Twenty-one men, all weapons trained. I can call on three helicopters. We have boats at several ports along the coast, and no shortage of Polizia.” Vanelli straightened his back. “Believe me, I have no intention of failing to recover Miss Kimball.”
“How many groups do you have investigating the hypothetical hostage locations?” Henderson asked.
Vanelli cocked his head. “Hypothetical hostage locations?”
“The houses.” Henderson poked the map with his knuckle.
Vanelli grunted. “Three.” He gestured to the map. “As you can see.”
“How long will they take?” Henderson said.
“To do what?”
Henderson waved at the screen. “To look at all the houses. Interview people. Make sure she’s not at any of these places.”
“You understand this is very dangerous work?” Vanelli frowned. His eyes narrowed. “They could encounter the kidnapper at any moment.”
“They’re armed, aren’t they?”
“Hostage situations can get very complex, very fast,” Morris said.
Henderson grunted. “But can you search all the places in, say, four hours?”
Vanelli looked at the map. “Probably.”
“Then Miss Kimball will be found before Ficarra calls back.”
“That’s not a certainty,” Vanelli said.
Henderson stood up straight and buttoned his jacket. “A methodical search is all that is required.”
“What do you mean, all that is required?”
“To rescue the hostage before the exchange is due.” Henderson collected his briefcase.
Morris’s fists clenched at his side. He knew what was coming. Knew it. “You’re not getting the ransom money, are you?”
Henderson barely glanced at Morris. “I don’t believe you are any longer in a position to ask that question. Or to require an answer.”
Vanelli leaned forward. “But I am.”
Henderson seemed unfazed.
Vanelli raised his eyebrows. “And?”
Henderson sniffed. “The U.S. government will do all that it can to enable the—”
Morris thumped the desk with his fist. “Bullshit!”
“The U.S. government is—”
“You heard him. He will retaliate against her.” Morris waved at the phone. “Do you remember that?”
“I am not in a position to provide—”
“Get.” Morris slammed his palm onto Vanelli’s desk. “The.” Slam. “Money.” Slam.
Henderson did not flinch. “A properly conducted search will—”
Morris grabbed the lapels of Henderson’s jacket, wrenching him forward. “Get. The. Money.”
Henderson pushed against Morris’s arm. Morris tightened his grip, crushing the jacket and raising it off his shoulders.
“Morris,” Vanelli said.
“Understand.” Morris shook Henderson’s pinstripe suit away as if it were rotten. “If anything, I repeat, anything happens to her. I will be holding you personally responsible.”
Rosso slapped a plastic ruler on Vanelli’s desk. “I have some locations.”
“Stay out of the way.” Morris flung Henderson aside. Henderson tripped over his own feet and barely managed to avoid falling. Morris almost grinned. Too bad he didn’t land on his ass.
Beside Rosso was a large sheet of graph paper covered with lines and tiny numbers. He gestured to the lines. “Tracks for shortwave radio activity in the last few minutes.”
Morris studied the graph paper.
Rosso pointed to two lines that crossed. “Where there’s an intersection, we have a position, otherwise we only have a direction.”
Morris counted five intersections and twelve lonely lines. “How reliable is this?”
Russo shrugged. “It came from reports.”
“The Internet?”
“Enthusiasts.”
Morris’s face crunched into a pained expression. “People still do amateur radio?”
Russo raised his eyebrows, nodded, and offered an I-told-you-so smile.
Vanelli copied the lines to the map on his wall. Morris’s skin tingled as one of the lines ran close by one of the house locations, but by the time all the lines were on the map, all the suspect houses had lines nearby. He sighed. “It could be any of them.”
Vanelli glanced at his computer. “My men are approaching the second location.”
Twelve minutes later his phone rang. He listened for a moment before hanging up. “One house was empty. The other had one occupant, an old man.”
Morris examined the lines on the map. “Jess wouldn’t have taken such a risk for nothing. She was telling us something she thought we could figure out.”
“Agreed.” Vanelli nodded. “But what? The names don’t match exactly.”
“Gotta be the house names. The anagrams don’t match anything else.” Morris blew a stream of air. “So, she gave us two names. Anagrams. Most likely house names. What is she trying to tell us?”
“She could be in a house between the named ones?” said Rosso.
Vanelli shook his head. “My men checked the first location. No signs.”
Morris walked to the map. The locations of the house name pairs were marked with a blue pushpin. He worked from one to another, counting the properties between the suspect houses. “Three, one, none, two, four…”
Vanelli watched him. “The houses either side of where she’s being held, maybe?”
“Maybe.” The tingle came back to Morris’s skin. “No! She gave us the names. That means she saw them, right? The house signs. Little plaques. On walls or gates.”
“So?”
“She was in the trunk of the car. We know that from the hotel surveillance video.”
Vanelli frowned.
“She had to see through a small gap, or a hole. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t have been easy to see out of.” He tapped the map. “And she saw two house names. So they must have been close together. Maybe even side-by-side. And it’s difficult to see much from a small hole in a car trunk while it’s bouncing around.”
“They were stopped,” Rosso said.
Morris nodded. “Uh-huh.”
“They could have stopped anywhere,” Vanelli said.
“She took a big risk telling us. So, they’re important names. And she was in the trunk. So she could only see out of the rear.” Morris shook his head and spoke slowly as he worked out the problem. “That means the rear of the car was pointing at the houses while they were heading away. We’re not looking for the houses. We’re looking for somewhere opposite the houses.”
Rosso clicked his fingers. “The houses with no space in-between.”
Morris tapped the one pushpin with no properties separating them. “Bingo.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Enzo Ficarra closed the kitchen curtains in his rental cottage, and turned on the light. He pulled a new pair of latex gloves from a box, and snapped them on.
He secured a radio and a heavy-duty battery into a large plastic storage box. He hooked two thin wires from the radio and two thick wires from the battery to a white cube. From the white cube he ran two more thick wires that ended in thin, two-inch-long cylinders. Detonators.
From another box, he lifted five thick slabs of a soft waxy off-white material. He unwrapped two of the slabs, pressed them around one of the cylinders, and taped them to the inside of the plastic box. He repeated the process with two more slabs, and checked that the connections were tight.
He took the loose end of a hundred-foot coil of wire, attached it to the back of the radio, and left the coil outside the box. A hundred feet would be a long enough antenna for what he had in mind.
He taped the lid to the box, and placed the box in the back seat of the white Ford.
In the kitchen, he took out his last slab of the waxy material, and divided it in two with a kitchen knife. He pressed a detonator into each slab, attached a small radio, and wrapped the whole arrangement in a towel, sealing it with layers of tape. He placed the second bomb in the car next to the first.
He drove north for twenty minutes to an ancient market town and parked in the main square beside a glass and stainless steel phone box. As he made note of the number, he wondered how much more difficult the kidnapper’s job would become as mobile phones eliminated the last public phone boxes.
He took the road east from the village. It ran alongside a sheer rock face that climbed twenty meters above him. After two miles, he reached a tunnel. It wasn’t long. Two hundred meters. Mere seconds at sixty miles an hour. It was old, carved through soft rock in the early days of the motorcar. A direct path for farmers in the country to an ancient market town.
He grinned. Long ago, he had decided that tunnels were a seriously underused weapon in criminal endeavors.
Despite the tunnel’s comparatively short length, the designers had the forethought to add a ventilation shaft. They had not been satisfied with a simple chimney, rising to the surface. They had installed an elaborate arrangement of steps and a storage building at the top of the shaft. The building adjoined a main road that led directly to the autostrada, Florence, and beyond.
Enzo slowed in the tunnel. The car behind him honked, then passed him. Enzo veered off into a small parking space beside the entrance to the ventilation shaft.
