Читать книгу Kennedy’s Ghost - Gordon Stevens - Страница 10

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.

CONCERN OVER PAOLO	Is he alive?Is he being treated well?
MONEY	Can’t even think about money until I know he’s alive.
IF PRESSED	Too much.Don’t have that sort of cash.Prove he’s alive.

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.

‘I would be more than happy to fulfil that role.’ Umberto Benini.

Negotiator.

Myself again – it was in the way Umberto sat back, the way he shrugged.

It might be advisable to separate the positions, Haslam told him carefully. The negotiator’s job was communication and the chairman’s was decision-making, and sometimes the two were incompatible.

‘In that case, Signore Rossi,’ Umberto suggested.

‘In some ways a good choice,’ Haslam agreed, ‘but in other ways not. In a way it depends whether we wish to reveal the fact that the bank is involved.’

‘Why shouldn’t we?’

‘If the bank is seen to be involved then the ransom the kidnappers will hold out for will be much higher.’

‘So Francesca.’

‘Yes. But before she decides she should know what it involves.’

Marco, the brother, hadn’t spoken at all, and Francesca only occasionally.

‘What does it involve?’ Umberto gave neither of them the chance to contribute.

The man was on auto-pilot because his son had been kidnapped, Haslam reminded himself. Therefore give him a chance, give them all a chance. Because these people were all in hell, and he was their only way out.

‘The kidnapper’s negotiator will switch tactics, one moment he’ll be reasonable and the next he’ll be swearing and screaming. Then he’ll be the only friend Francesca has in the world. And all the time she’ll not only have to control herself, but try to manipulate the other side.’

‘I understand,’ the wife said simply.

Courier.

‘Tell us what the courier does.’ Umberto Benini peered down the hawk nose. To avoid confusion Haslam already mentally referred to the father as Umberto and the kidnap victim as Paolo.

‘The courier collects messages and packages the kidnappers leave for us. The courier will also be responsible for dropping the ransom money when that moment comes.’

Therefore Rossi the bank representative or Marco the brother. But Marco was only in the room because he was family, Haslam suspected. Umberto hadn’t even decided whether or not Marco should even be involved.

He turned to Rossi. ‘It might be that you feel you should play this role. You might also feel, however, that the same problems about the bank’s involvement arise.’

‘We’ll discuss it.’ Umberto broke the meeting and called for fresh coffee.

Haslam waited till the housekeeper had served them, then continued.

‘In kidnap negotiations there are guidelines, almost procedures. All the signs are that the kidnappers are professionals, which means they’ll know them and stick by them. They’ll also try to control the situation through them, but those procedures give us the chance to do the same thing back.’

‘For example?’ Umberto Benini asked.

‘The negotiator will tell you to get a clean phone. That’s a number somewhere else in case the police find out about the kidnapping and start tapping this one. We can begin to control the situation by telling the kidnappers we want to use a clean phone before they tell us.’

They went through the alternatives: the properties or offices owned or controlled by Umberto, and the facilities which the bank could provide.

‘We have another apartment, an investment.’ It was Francesca.

‘Whose name is it in, because if it’s in your name it’s no good.’

‘A company name.’

‘Empty?’

‘At the moment.’

‘Fine.’

He wrote the number on the sheet of paper in front of him.

‘One more thing our negotiator has to get across.’ There were several more things, but at a first meeting he preferred to keep instructions to a minimum. ‘The time Francesca, assuming it will be Francesca, will be waiting at the clean phone. The kidnappers will try to leave it open, so that she’d be waiting at the phone twenty-four hours a day. You can imagine the effect that would have. So we specify a time, but that time must be in keeping with Francesca’s normal schedule, therefore it should probably be in the evening.’

‘Why?’ Umberto asked.

‘Because however difficult it will be at first, you must continue to lead your normal lives – business appointments, personal matters. One reason, as I’ve already suggested, is that it maintains a structure to your lives.’

Because otherwise you’ll go insane.

But I’m already going insane, he knew the wife was thinking.

So how was she going to stand up to it, he wondered, how was she going to take whatever the kidnappers threw at her. How was she going to take the pressure Umberto would bring to bear on her. Because that was the way it was already going.

‘There’s another reason for not disrupting your normal schedule. If you do there’s a chance the police might spot it, and if they do it wouldn’t be long before they worked out that someone’s been kidnapped.’

And the first thing they’d do after that would be to freeze the family funds and even try to intervene in the affairs of the bank.

‘Agreed,’ Rossi said on behalf of the bank and the family.

Haslam took the holding script and rewrote it.

CONCERN OVER PAOLO	Is he alive?
TELEPHONE NUMBER AND TIME	Keep saying it.
MONEY	Can’t even think about money until I know he’s alive.
IF PRESSED	Just prove he’s alive.
AND CLEAN PHONE AND TIME.

‘You’ll want some time to yourselves, to talk through what I’ve told you today. I suggest we arrange a meeting for tomorrow. There are other things to discuss, but I think Francesca has enough to handle until then.’

Why not deal with them now? It was in the way Umberto turned.

‘Not today.’ Francesca’s voice was suddenly tired. I’ve had enough for one day, more than I can cope with. Just give me twenty-four hours to take on board what he’s already told me, then I’ll be able to face the rest. She called for the housekeeper to telephone for a cab. ‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Remember what I told you,’ Haslam reminded her. ‘That we should build our meetings into your normal routines. Unless, of course, something happens.’ He knew she was having difficulty accepting what he was telling them. ‘If it’s in the evening it shouldn’t be over dinner. It should be a business meeting like any other.’

‘Six-thirty,’ Francesca suggested.

‘If the kidnappers make contact what time will you tell them to ring the clean phone?’

‘Seven in the evening.’

‘Good. I’ll be at the hotel. If I leave it for any reason I’ll be carrying a pager.’ He gave them the details. ‘One last thing. In case the kidnappers call, are you happy to be here by yourself or do you want someone with you?’

‘The housekeeper will stay when I need her. I’m fine.’

The cab was waiting. He shook each of their hands and left.

The evening was warm and the three cars he had seen when he arrived were still there: the Saab, the BMW and the Mercedes, the driver and minder sitting in it like a calling card. Perhaps he should have said something about it at the meeting, except that then he hadn’t been sure that the Mercedes was the banker’s.

By the time he reached the Marino it was dusk.

His room was large and well-furnished and faced on to the inner courtyard, so that the sound of the Milan traffic was deadened. The bathroom was well-equipped, the wallpaper was flowered but relaxing, and an ornate fan was suspended from the ceiling, circling slowly. The two armchairs were low but comfortable, and the escritoire set against one of the windows was large enough to work at. The television was in a walnut cabinet in one corner, the minibar beside it.

After the meeting his clothes smelt of cigarette smoke. He stretched the stiffness from his back, unpacked, and took a shower. Then he dressed – casual clothes and shoes – arranged for a dry cleaning service every day, and began the case log. Kidnap and kidnappers; victim and family, in which he included the banker Rossi; security and other problems, plus the bank itself.

KIDNAP	From hotel room. Bodyguards present at all other times.
	Switzerland overnight after return from London.
	Police not informed.
	Genuine?

Because sometimes people, even bankers, faked their own disappearances. For money or fear or any number of reasons.

KIDNAPPERS	Professionals.
VICTIM	Bodyguard plus back-up.
	Why? Especially when no specific threat.

Paolo Benini had been carrying three bodyguards and one driver, effectively four minders, but at the time he had been out of Italy. So either he was special, or whatever he was working on was.

FAMILY	Father dominant.
	Wife strong.
	Brother would come through.
	Banker calculating.

So what about them; what about Francesca and Umberto and Marco? What about the banker Rossi?

Francesca was quiet and still in shock, but she already showed signs of strength, which was positive. Francesca was fighting back, trying to get into it. Yet there were also signs of friction in her relationship with her father-in-law, which might prove negative. Plus there was something intangible about her and Paolo.

Which wasn’t quite what he meant.

What he really meant was that there had been something about Francesca’s description of Paolo that reminded him of himself. We’ve been married sixteen years. He’s away a lot now, so the girls miss him. Which was what his own wife would say of him. He brushed the uneasiness aside and continued with the case log.

Francesca would be strong, but Francesca had given him nothing about Paolo. So what about Francesca? Did she have a lover or did Paolo have a mistress? Or was Paolo gay? It had happened before on a kidnap.

Marco would get the courier’s job. Umberto would treat him like shit, but Marco would do what was needed.

Which left Umberto and Rossi.

Umberto Benini appeared to be the central figure, yet Umberto wasn’t the power-broker. Umberto would puff and blow, but in the end Umberto would snap his fingers for Francesca to pour them each another cognac and then he would do whatever the bank suggested.

SECURITY	Check cars outside, especially Mercedes.
PROBLEMS	Bank involvement might upset negotiations if kidnappers find out.Family might not accept recommendations.

The bank might be seen to be involved either by the cars outside, or by the way the management team decided to conduct the negotiations. Which led to the second problem, the feeling he’d had the moment he’d introduced himself and Umberto Benini had intervened, the sense, almost a foreboding, that this one was going to be difficult. Of course they were all difficult, of course the families or companies he advised sometimes found it hard to accept what he was telling them. But all through the meeting that afternoon and evening he’d been increasingly aware of the unease growing in him.

It was as if the dawn mist was hanging over them, he had thought at one stage; yet it was late morning, the sun was up, and the mist should have vanished with the day.

It was as if he was dug into an OP, an observation post, he had thought at another point of the meeting; the target in front of him but the eerie feeling that he was facing the wrong way.

He was tired, he told himself now as he had told himself earlier. Kidnap negotiations took it out of you, drained the life and body and soul from you. Because for one or two months, sometimes three, you ate and slept and breathed it; thought of nothing but the kidnapper and his victim and how you could get that victim back safely.

So he was drained, he admitted, especially after the last job. He should have taken that break after Lima, should have gone home and spent time with Meg and the boys. But he hadn’t. So he should stop assigning blame, grab a good night’s sleep, and get on with it.

He moved to the last item of the case log.

BANK	Logical they should be represented.Anything else?

Why should there be anything else?

Now that the others had left the apartment seemed empty. Francesca opened the windows to clear the cigarette smoke, then phoned the girls, showered, went to bed, and tried to remember what had been agreed at the meeting with the Englishman and the discussion after he had left.

Some of the things he had said were reasonable, Umberto had conceded, except that they were logical and precisely what they themselves would have done. Then Umberto had downed the cognac and waved to her to pour him and Rossi another.

The family and the bank were behind her, though. She knew she had the full backing of the bank, Rossi had told her as they left. And that was what mattered. Even though she didn’t always like the way Umberto tried to dominate his sons, her, her children. Even if she didn’t totally trust Rossi.

And what about you Paolo? Why hadn’t she told the Englishman the truth? Okay, she hadn’t told the Englishman about the other properties they owned and the investments in Italy and overseas, most of them hidden from the authorities. But that wasn’t what she meant. Why hadn’t she told the Englishman about what her relationship with Paolo was really like? Not in front of the others, perhaps; especially not in front of Umberto.

So what about the Englishman and the things the Englishman had told her? Her mind was too confused and her body too cold to answer. She pulled the bedclothes tight around her and waited for the phone call in the dark. When she checked the time less than an hour had passed; when she checked again only another thirty minutes. The fear engulfed her, gnawed at her, till she was almost physically sick. When first light came she was unsure whether or not she had slept; when the housekeeper brought her coffee she was still shivering.

She wouldn’t go to the office today, she decided; today she would sit and wait by the telephone, as she had every day since the first terrible news. She changed her mind. Today she would go to the office, because that was what the man called Haslam had told her to do, and all she wanted, in the grey swirling panic that was her brain, was for someone to tell her what to do and when and where to do it.

Ninety minutes later she drove to the building in one of the streets off Piazza Cadorna. It was good to be out of the house, she thought as she parked the car; good to be in the sun and see people. It was good to have something other than the kidnap to think about, good to check with the secretary and the other designers and artists and craftsmen she employed, good to hear from a client about how pleased they were, even good to sort out a problem.

‘How’s Paolo?’ someone asked, and the clouds gathered again as if they had never cleared.

‘Away on business,’ she forced herself to say, forced herself to smile, almost decided to return to the apartment. Instead she took a tram to Porta Ticinese and walked along the canal at Alzaia Naviglio Grande. The sky was blue and the sun was hot, but most of the tourists who came to Milan didn’t come here. At weekends, when the antique dealers and the bric à brac sellers put up their stalls, the streets along the canal were crowded, but today they were quiet. Halfway along a fashion photographer was taking shots of a male model. The photographer was short and energetic, and the model was tall and beautiful, aquiline features and striking eyes. She sat on the stone wall of the canal and watched.

So what about the Englishman?

May I call you Francesca? he had asked.

Paolo’s away a lot now, so the girls miss him, she had said. And for a moment she had sensed that Haslam understood what she meant.

Thank you for allowing me to make decisions for myself, she had thought when Umberto had decreed she should be the negotiator and Haslam had replied that before she decided she should know what the task involved. Thank you for treating me like an individual.

And Haslam had told her what to say on the phone and given her a script to follow, even though Umberto had changed it after the Englishman had left.

So Haslam was her friend. Her guide and her protector. But not always.

Because Haslam had said there was a second reason why she should maintain a normal routine, because if she didn’t the police might spot it and freeze the family funds. So Haslam was not only treating it like a business, he had even used the word itself. The meeting this evening should be a business meeting like any other, he had said.

Therefore tonight he would be hard on her, tonight he would tell her she had to treat Paolo like a business item, because that was how the kidnappers would consider him. Tonight he would even say that she shouldn’t think of Paolo as her husband but as an item in the profit and loss account.

Rossi’s meeting with the chairman was at ten.

‘We’re sure Paolo Benini’s been kidnapped?’ Negretti came to the point immediately.

He hasn’t done a bunk, hasn’t got another woman and run off with some of the bank’s funds?

‘Positive.’

It was a sign of the future that the chairman had personally chosen him to represent BCI in the Benini kidnapping, Rossi was aware. Yet that future would also be determined by a successful outcome. For that reason his brief to Negretti had been carefully prepared; for that reason he had already decided to emphasize the positive elements of the first meeting with the consultant.

‘But the kidnappers haven’t yet been in touch?’ Negretti had a way of staring at you as he spoke.

‘Not yet.’ Perhaps Rossi’s next statement was factual, perhaps he was already covering himself. ‘The consultant says it’s normal. He expects them to be in touch soon.’

How much will the ransom be, he assumed the chairman would ask next.

‘And once they do, how long will the negotiations take?’

Not long … the response was implied in the question, the way it was spoken, the way Negretti rolled the cigar between his fingers. Except that wasn’t what Haslam seemed to be suggesting. They hadn’t covered it yet, but Haslam seemed to be preparing them for a long and bumpy ride.

‘We should be able to wrap it up quickly.’

The chairman stared at him across the desk. ‘You’re confident about that?’

‘Absolutely.’

* * *

Francesca was kissing him, running her tongue against him. On the slopes behind the villa where the vines grew he could hear the girls playing, in the swimming pool in front the water shimmered in the mid-morning sun. Paolo laughed as Francesca nibbled him again and thought about the telephone call he had to make and the fax he had to sort out, the check with the bank that everything was in order.

In an hour they’d call the girls and take lunch – bread and wine and cheese. In the winter, when the cold settled and the fire roared in the stone-walled kitchen, it would be a heavier wine, a casserole simmering on the stove.

Francesca’s kiss was slightly sharper. He’d make the phone call now, he decided, confirm the details on the fax that had been delivered last night, perhaps contact London and Zurich as well as head office in Milan. He reached for the mobile and felt the bite as he did so. Woke and realized.

The rat was on his leg, eyes staring at him and mouth twitching.

He screamed and tried to pull away. Cursed: cursed the rat, cursed the manacle round his ankle which stopped him moving, cursed Francesca.

The sound came from nowhere.

The routine was always the same: the first shuffle of feet in the darkness beyond the circle of the hurricane lamp, perhaps voices, then a second lamp held high and the two men at the iron bars of his cell.

He looked at them without moving.

The men were roughly dressed and wore hoods, holes cut in them for eyes, nose and mouth. One held the lamp and the other the plate. The man with the lamp unlocked the door of the cell and the second came in, placed the plate on the sand of the floor, took the two buckets from the corner, and stepped out. The first locked the door again, then the two disappeared in to the darkness.

Paolo Benini waited. His back was against the wall and his legs and body were pulled into a bundle, his legs up and his arms wrapped round himself. His shirt was stained with food and drink, and his trousers smelt of urine.

The sounds of feet came again from the darkness, the second lamp appeared again and the two men stood outside the bars of the cell. Not once had they spoken to him, or to each other in his immediate presence. The man with the lamp unlocked the door and the second placed the two buckets of fresh water on the floor.

It was the moment Paolo Benini already feared the most.

The doors of the cell clanged shut, the key rasped in the lock, the footsteps faded in the black, and he was alone again.

* * *

The weather had changed slightly, was more humid, more oppressive. Haslam felt the change as he left the hotel.

Maintain a timetable independent of the kidnapping, he had told Francesca, build a routine that will keep you sane. The same for himself. That morning, therefore, he had begun his own schedule: an hour’s run, breakfast, examination of the options, then the first of the museums – one in the morning and another that afternoon. Except he’d been there before, done it before: the last time he’d had a job in Milan and the time before that.

At three he took a cab to Via Ventura, even though the meeting was not till six-thirty.

Via Ventura sloped slightly east to west, the apartment block towards the lower end and set back on the left. At the top of the street, on the right, was a café, the Figaro; the waiters were smartly dressed and there was an awning over the tables and chairs on the pavement. Below it was a line of shops and boutiques, all expensive yet all busy, and all with apartments above them. The pavement was wide and lined with lime trees, an occasional bench beneath them. Down the right side of the road, though not the left, were parking spaces, cut into the pavement rather than on the road itself.

Sixteen bays – he divided the area into units and counted them. The apartment block and the parking area at its front visible from bays eight to thirteen, counting from the top; the line of vision from numbers one to eight obstructed by trees on the left side of the road, and from numbers fourteen to sixteen by trees on the right.

From just below the parking area a side road cut right, again lined with shops and apartments. On the opposite side of the road was a small garden, a fountain in the middle and an apartment block behind. Most of the accommodation seemed private, except for a small hotel overlooking the fountain and a block of service flats near the Beninis’ apartment, both expensive.

The Saab and BMW were parked in front of the apartment, and the same two men were sitting in the Mercedes. He gave his name at the security grille and took the lift to the fifth floor. The family, plus the banker, were already at their places round the table. He shook hands with each of them and accepted a coffee.

‘No contact from the kidnappers?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘What about the crisis management team?’

‘We’ve agreed.’ Umberto Benini told him. ‘Myself as chairman and Francesca as negotiator. I would have liked Signore Rossi to play a more prominent role, but the bank really should keep a low profile, so Marco’s the courier.’

Haslam nodded and took the meeting on.

‘There are certain things to discuss: how we ask the kidnappers to prove that Paolo is alive, the details of the ransom, and the ways of communicating with the kidnappers. Plus something else, something basic.’

It was better to confront them with it and make them confront it now.

‘Kidnapping is a business. They have something you want – Paolo. And you have something they want – money. You have to think of it like that, nothing more. It sounds harsh, but it’s the best way, perhaps the only way, of getting Paolo back.’

She knew what Haslam would tell her, Francesca thought, and now he had.

‘Their first demand will be a starting point; what they expect will be substantially below that. The amount they accept depends on a number of factors, things like how much the research and preparation has already cost, plus their other expenses, past and present. The longer the kidnap lasts the more the man controlling it is paying out. What the kidnappers ask, and what they will accept, also depends on the going rates.’

Francesca could not believe what he was telling her, how he was telling her.

‘The major kidnappings in Italy at the moment are breaking down into two distinct groups, depending on the size of the first demand. Where the first demand is ten miliardi, the amount agreed is averaging 500 million lire.’

Which, at an exchange rate of £400 to a million lire, was a start price of £4 million and a settlement of £200,000.

‘Where the first demand is in the region of five miliardi, the average final payment is 450 million.’

Thus a starting price of £2 million and a final figure of £180,000.

How can you put a price on my husband’s life? Francesca’s eyes bored into him. How can you say on average this, on average that?

‘When the starting demand is ten miliardi, the victim is being released after an average of one hundred days; when it’s five miliardi the victim is released after an average of sixty-six.’

Christ, thought Rossi. The chairman would kill him if it took half, even a quarter, that time.

‘The obvious temptation is to pay as much as you can as quickly as you can. This is wrong. The kidnapper starts high and we start low, so that we encourage him to lower his expectations. When we raise our offer we don’t add too much too quickly.’

‘Why not?’ Francesca heard her own voice.

Because the bank was insured, she thought; therefore the company paying the ransom would want to keep it to a minimum, therefore Haslam was on a bonus if he came in with a low settlement.

‘If we pay too much we run the risk of the kidnappers thinking there might be a lot more. If we pay too quickly he might say thanks for the deposit, now for the real money. He might even demand a second or even a third ransom.’

How do you know? She was still staring at him. How can you say such things?

Because I’ve been here before – he stared back at her. Because long after Paolo’s home I’ll be in a room like this with someone like you staring at me and accusing me the way you are now.

‘I’m not saying it will come to this,’ he told them. ‘All I’m doing is telling you the structure. Which is why I’m here.’

‘What else?’ The question was from both Umberto and Francesca, the disgust in his voice and the fear and the hate in hers.

‘We have to decide the proof question Francesca asks to make sure that Paolo is alive.’

‘Something to do with the bank.’ Rossi’s intervention was short and sharp. ‘That way I can verify it.’

That way I not only control the situation, but prove to the chairman that I do.

‘It’s normally personal.’ Haslam looked at the banker then at the others in turn. ‘Something only Paolo would know, nothing the kidnappers could find out from their research.’

‘We’ll think on it.’ Umberto again.

Haslam focused on Marco. ‘The last point is communication. After the first calls they might tell you to collect a letter or package, and specify the place. It’ll be close to the clean phone, probably two or three minutes away. That gives them time to place it after they’ve given Francesca the message, but it gives you time to get there in case the police are tapping the phone and try to get there before you. It will also be a place where they can keep you under observation.’

The younger son began to speak but Haslam stopped him.

‘There’s something else you should keep in mind. Just as they’ll try to put pressure on Francesca in the phone calls, so they’ll use the dead letter drops to apply a similar pressure on all of you.’

How … no one asked.

‘If it’s a letter, it might simply contain instructions, or it might contain a note from Paolo. What you have to remember is that whatever he writes will have been dictated to him.’

And if it’s a package … Francesca had heard the stories and read the newspaper articles.

‘If it’s a package it might contain an audio or video tape of Paolo. Either way he’ll probably sound or look bad. You don’t worry about that. They’ll have made him sound or look that way.’

‘What about other packages?’ Francesca allowed the fear to grow.

‘The key thing to remember is that packages are also part of the bargaining process,’ Haslam told them all, but talked to her in particular. ‘Packages are one of the ways the kidnappers will put pressure on you. Therefore they might contain something which is blood-stained, they might even contain a part of a body. In ninety-nine per cent of cases the blood is fake and the body part didn’t come from the victim.’

How can you tell me this? Francesca stared at him. How can you do this to me? Yesterday you helped me, protected me, gave me strength. But today you’re taking it all from me, today you’re treating me worse than Umberto treats me.

‘The other part of the communication is you to them.’ Haslam took them to the next stage. ‘You obviously can’t phone them, so you tell them you want to speak with them by placing adverts in newspapers. You put a specified advert in and they then know you’re waiting at the telephone at the appointed time. It’s also a way of you telling them to get in touch with you after a prolonged period of silence from them.’

‘Why silence?’ Umberto.

‘Because silence is another weapon; sometimes kidnaps go for weeks without contact.’

This wasn’t what the chairman would want to hear – Rossi glanced at Umberto then back at Haslam. So begin thinking it through now, begin to plan what he could use and how he could use it. Work out how he could hide behind Haslam and how he could use Haslam when the crunch came with the chairman.

‘Anything else?’ Umberto again.

‘The first is your personal security. Double or triple kidnappings are not common, but not unknown. Marco is an obvious target when he makes the pick-ups, but he also has a certain inbuilt protection as he’s part of their communication system with you.’

‘The next?’ Umberto stared at him, elbows on the table, chin resting on his hands and eyes unblinking.

‘We’ve said that the bank will keep as low a public profile as possible.’

‘So?’

‘If the Mercedes driver and bodyguard outside belong to BCI, it might not be the sort of profile the bank wants.’

‘We’ll sort it out.’ And meeting over. It was in the way Umberto Benini snapped shut the file. ‘If you would leave us so that we might consider what you have just told us.’

The family meeting which followed lasted little more than thirty minutes. As he and the Beninis left, Rossi took Francesca’s hand.

‘I know what Haslam said about not offering too much too quickly, but if it means getting Paolo out, the bank will pay whatever it takes.’

A good man to have by your side, Umberto Benini knew, the right man to rely on.

‘Thank you.’ Francesca tried to smile and went to the window, watched as the cars pulled away.

She had been right about Haslam. The bastard had told them to put a price on Paolo’s life, had almost gone further. Had only just stopped short of telling her to think about how much she was prepared to pay and of suggesting that there might be a moment when she should abandon Paolo to the vultures. At least Umberto was adamant that they wouldn’t give in, at least Rossi had said the bank would pay whatever it took.

The telephone rang.

Oh God no, she thought; please God no, she prayed. She turned and began to call for the housekeeper then remembered she hadn’t asked the woman to stay. Why hadn’t she listened to Haslam when he’d asked if she’d be all right by herself? Why hadn’t he asked her again tonight?

She made herself pick up the phone.

‘Hello, Mama, it’s me.’

She sank into the chair and fought back the tears as her younger daughter asked after her father, heard herself lying.

‘And where’s Gisella?’

‘Riding. Do you want her to phone you when she gets in?’

‘That would be nice.’

The evening was slipping away. She stared out of the window and told herself it was time for bed.

The telephone rang again. Francesca smiled and picked it up. ‘Gisella,’ she began to say. ‘Good to hear you. How was the ride … ?’

* * *

The Benini kidnap was going well, Vitali decided: the banker was safely concealed in the fortress which was Calabria, and the family had been waiting long enough to be feeling the strain.

It was eleven in the morning, the light playing through the window on to the large wooden desk in the centre of his office; the telephones on the left, fax and computer on the right, and the recording equipment and mobile phone in the drawer. The mobile rented and paid for through a false name and bank account to which he could not be linked, in case the carabinieri broke the organization’s security and tried to trace him. Plus the scrambler which he would use because mobiles were notoriously insecure.

He was alone, as he always was at this time of day. He opened the drawer, clipped on the scrambler and dialled the first number.

‘Angelo. This is Toni.’

Angelo Pascale was in his mid-thirties, thinly built so that his suits hung slightly off his shoulders, and lived in a two-room flat up a spiral staircase off a courtyard close to Piazza Napoli, in the west of the city. He had never met the man he knew as Toni, but Toni paid well and on time, and as long as Toni was in the kidnap business then there was always work for people like himself.

He clipped on the scrambler and keyed in the code Toni told him.

‘Tonight, nine o’clock.’ Vitali gave him the address. ‘I’ll phone again at ten.’ He ended the call and sat back in the chair.

So how much?

The going rate was between 450 and 500 million lire and the first demand was around either five or ten miliardi, so that was what they would be expecting. Nobody would pay that much, of course, but after deducting his expenses even 450 million would still show a good profit.

He leaned forward again and dialled the number of the negotiator, again using the scrambler. In the old days it had been anonymous calls to faceless people waiting at public telephones. Some organizations still used the old techniques, he supposed, but a man had to move with the times.

‘Musso, it’s Toni.’ Mussolini was good, not as good as Vitali himself had been, but still one of the best. Mussolini was not his real name, but it was what the man called Toni called him, and what the negotiator called himself when he spoke to the families of Toni’s victims. ‘Tonight, nine o’clock.’ He gave him the telephone number.

So how much? He was still rolling the figures in his head. The fact that the bank carried a kidnap insurance meant that a consultant would already be involved. And if a consultant was involved he would already have told the family about the going rates and the opening demands, so that was what the family would be expecting, would have forgotten that the consultant would have told them the figures were only guidelines.

‘Open at seven.’

Miliardi, Mussolini understood. Interesting figure.

‘The victim is called Paolo Benini, the number is his town apartment. Wife Francesca, who’ll probably take the call. Otherwise father Umberto or younger brother Marco. I’ll call again at nine-thirty.’

Angelo Pascale left the flat at one, collected the Alfa, checked the tuttocittà, the city map which came with the telephone directory, and drove to Via Ventura.

The street was busy and the shops and pavements crowded, mostly with young people and all of them apparently with money. The address was towards the bottom on the left, a number of parking places just visible when he stood outside the address. He drove up and down the street for twenty minutes till one of those he required came vacant, and went for a cappuccino in the Figaro. At five he noted the cars parked outside the block, again an hour later. From six he logged the movements of every car leaving or arriving at the address, paying special attention to those left at the front.

Mussolini was in position by eight-thirty. He would use a public telephone, because if the carabinieri were trying to trace the call it would get them nowhere. And he would switch locations: Central Station tonight, perhaps the airport the night after. Places a businessman would pass unnoticed.

The recording equipment was in his briefcase. At eight fifty-five he went to one of the kiosks in the marble mausoleum which was the ground floor of Central Station, confirmed that the phone was working, placed the suction cup of the cassette recorder on to the mouthpiece, and checked the time. Punctuality was not only a virtue, he had long understood, it was also a tool.

It was nine o’clock.

He inserted the phone card and punched the number.

‘Gisella. Good to hear you.’ It was as if the woman had been expecting someone else, as if she was talking to a child. ‘How was the ride?’

‘Signora Benini.’

Francesca almost froze. ‘Yes.’

‘We have him. If you want to see him again we want seven miliardi.’

Her mind was numb, refusing to function, the thoughts suddenly spinning and the brain struggling to navigate through the shock. Oh Christ what should she say, dear God what should she do? The script – it was as if she could hear Haslam’s voice – just read the script. We’ll re-write the script slightly, Umberto was telling her, just to make it right, just to make it proper; don’t tell Haslam though, just keep it to ourselves. We’ll pay anything to get Paolo home with you and the girls, the banker Rossi was telling her, let’s just make sure we get him back.

‘Seven miliardi, Francesca,’ Mussolini told her again. ‘Otherwise you never get him back.’

Don’t even think, Haslam’s voice was telling her, calming her, just read the script. A clean phone – it was as if she could hear him – make sure you get across the number and the time. She was shouting the number, almost screaming the number. Seven-thirty in the evening, she was telling him. ‘Is Paolo alive, tell me how he is. Let me speak to him.’ She was scrabbling for the script, still saying the number and the time.

‘Seven miliardi, Francesca.’ Mussolini’s voice was calm but assertive. ‘That’s what you pay if you want to see him again.’

Now that she had started saying the number she couldn’t stop. How much, her mind was still asking. Seven miliardi. Oh my God. Not even the bank could pay that, she began to say. She was still saying the number, telling the man on the phone that she’d try but the bank wouldn’t go that high. Realized that the kidnapper had put the phone down.

Her entire body was shaking. She stood for two full minutes, the telephone in her right hand, the fingers of her left holding the cradle down, and her entire body convulsed. Then she told herself to breathe deeply and keyed the number of her father-in-law.

‘They’ve called,’ was all she managed to say.

Haslam was crossing the Piazza Duomo when the pager sounded. He used the telephones on the edge of the square and called the control, then Umberto Benini.

‘Meeting in an hour at Signora Benini’s apartment,’ Benini told him, and rang off.

No explanation, Haslam thought; there was only one reason for Umberto to call him mid-evening, though. Not Francesca’s apartment, not even my son’s or my daughter-in-law’s apartment. The man’s son has been kidnapped, he reminded himself; therefore give him time to come to terms with that fact and with what he has to do. At least Umberto hadn’t given anything away on an open phone.

When he arrived the cars were parked outside and the others were seated round the table. Francesca white-faced and fingers wrapped tight round a cognac; Umberto Benini at the head of the table, Marco saying nothing; Rossi apparently summoned from a function and wearing an immaculate evening suit, the white silk scarf still round his neck.

The cassette recorder was in the centre of the table, and the script which he had written for Francesca was in front of Umberto Benini. He took his place opposite the father.

‘Signora Benini received the call at nine o’clock.’ Benini led the discussion. ‘The kidnappers want seven miliardi.’ Not the five or ten you said – the stare conveyed the message. ‘The signora managed to pass on the number of the clean phone, plus the time.’

‘Good.’ Haslam nodded then looked at Francesca. ‘The first call is always the worst. You were here by yourself?’

She nodded.

‘Then you’ve done better than anyone could expect.’

He turned back to Umberto.

‘You’ve listened to the tape?’

Of course you’ve listened to it, the tape was the first thing you checked after you’d talked to Francesca, though you might not have told me because you’ve rewound it. Because you called the others before you called me, made sure they got here first.

The father pressed the play button.

‘Gisella. Good to hear you. How was the ride?’

‘Signora Benini.’

Haslam heard the change in Francesca’s voice as she realized and saw the tightening of her face as she listened now, saw her age Christ knew how many hundreds of years.

‘Yes.’

They listened in silence. When the conversation was finished they listened again, then Haslam turned to her. ‘You really did do well, much better than we could have expected.’

You really didn’t do that badly, he wanted to tell, but you’d have done better if you hadn’t received conflicting instructions.

‘Francesca managed to get over the number of the clean phone, and the time she’ll be there. The first thing we have to decide now is who goes with her. Marco is the courier, therefore if anything is to be collected at any time it makes sense that he’s there to take the message.’

And …

‘If the kidnappers have done their research properly, which they seem to have, they’ll already know that he’s Paolo’s brother and might even have chosen him to be the go-between.’

Marco, they agreed.

‘When they phone tomorrow, the key thing is that Francesca insists on proof that Paolo is alive. We want this anyway, but it also gives her a way of not replying to the kidnapper’s ransom demand. We’ll work on the script later. In the meantime Francesca needs the question that the kidnappers will put to Paolo.’

‘Anything else?’ Umberto Benini asked.

‘Only one. The cars. I appreciate that tonight was an emergency, but the Mercedes is outside again.’

Vitali’s call to Mussolini was at nine-thirty precisely, the call scrambled and Vitali recording it.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Well. She was expecting another call, possibly from one of her daughters, and was therefore disoriented. You want to hear it?’

Of course he wanted to hear, Vitali thought. ‘Why not.’

The woman was frightened and confused, which was normal, yet she had been controlled enough to pass on the number of a clean phone and the time she would be there. Which suggested that a consultant was already involved.

‘Sounds good. Make the call tomorrow. I’ll phone at eight.’

Thirty minutes later he placed the call to Angelo Pascale, noting the car models and numbers the stake-out read to him.

The Saab belonged to Benini’s father and the BMW to his brother – the details had been part of his research. The Mercedes hadn’t been seen before, but the fact that there was a bodyguard in it, and that the man it had taken away had left the flat with Umberto Benini, suggested that it was someone from BCI. It was interesting that the bank was so open about its involvement.

The dark wrapped round her, suffocating her. Francesca lay still with fear and tried to see the light, saw only the tallow yellow of the lamp and the shadows flickering against the wall of a cave. Thank God I didn’t panic on the phone, she thought; thank God Haslam told me I did all right; thank God I didn’t let Paolo down. Paolo’s face was looking at her, his eyes searching for her and his voice calling out her name. Hold on, she tried to tell him, we haven’t forgotten you, soon you’ll be free again. The cave was cool but the night was hot and oppressive around her. She tried to fight it off, to pull the layer of fear from her face. It was two in the morning, the clock ticking by the bedside. She sat up and reached for a glass of water, sipped it slowly, then lay down again.

The sounds came from the darkness, the glow of the lamp, then the silence of the warders bringing him his food. Paolo Benini waited till they had gone then began to eat, not minding if the liquid of the soup splashed down the front of his shirt or if the remnants of the bread fell on to the floor. When he had finished eating he sniffed at the buckets, tried to remember which he had urinated in, then drank from what he hoped was the other.

Some time it would come to an end, of course. The bank carried kidnap insurance, and the bank would have paid anyway.

Every client wanted an efficient service, every client wished to avoid the red tape which might hinder their activities, and everyone bent over backwards to satisfy them. That was what banking was all about. Arab money, Jewish money, it made no difference. Money from the Middle or Far East, from Russia or America, it didn’t matter. Except sometimes someone wanted a little more, which brought the bank an extra commission. But to get that commission the bank needed someone like Paolo Benini to set everything up, someone like Paolo Benini to make sure it was all in order and to sort out any problems which might arise. And the more clients who were happy the more custom came to the bank and the happier the bank was. Especially with the extras they were able to charge and the clients were prepared to pay.

You’re clutching at clouds in the sky, the voice tried to tell him. You’re thinking of things you did in the past, rather than what you have to do to survive the present.

Part of the groundwork had already been done before, of course, but it had been he, Paolo Benini, who had structured and developed it. Especially in the United States. He who had suggested they look for one of the small regional banks in danger of collapse in the eighties, buy it up but conceal the ownership, then make it profitable and use it as a front for BCI’s black operations. He who had faced up to the conventional thinkers on the board and rejected the various banks which they had suggested, especially those with connections in Florida because those were the sort of places investigators from organizations like the US Federal Bank and the Justice Department and the Drug Enforcement Administration automatically looked to, because those were the sort of places already being used to launder money. He who had suggested they go west, look for a nice little bank in a nice little town where no one would suspect. A bank which no one knew was in trouble and with a president who could be persuaded to bend the rules to maintain the financial standing of the bank in general and himself in particular. He, Paolo Benini, who had personally chosen First Commercial of Santa Fe, and he, Paolo Benini, who had made the arrangements.

Forget all that, the voice told him, forget what’s gone before. Just work out where you are and who you are. What you should be thinking about are Francesca and the girls, because they are the ones who will save you, who will provide the anchor which will moor your mind to some kind of sanity.

And just after he had arranged the takeover of First Commercial of Santa Fe, he and Myerscough had met – it was as if his brain was flicking between television channels.

Why was he thinking of Myerscough, the voice asked him.

Because Myerscough ran Nebulus, because Nebulus was the last account he had checked in London, and because he had therefore thought that Nebulus might be the subject of the fax he had received at the hotel. Except, of course, that the fax hadn’t been genuine.

If any of his clients found out, however … If ever it became public knowledge, even within the limited public of that corner of the banking world, even within BCI itself, that he had been kidnapped … Therefore the bank would do everything in its power not just to secure his release, but to achieve it quickly.

You’re still deluding yourself – the voice was fainter now, almost gone. Look at yourself, at the mess you’re in. Food spilled on the floor and down your clothes and urine on your trousers. You don’t even know which bucket you’re urinating and defecating in and which you’re drinking from. No wonder the rat came feeding.

The feet shuffled from the black, the lamp appeared, the guards removed the remnants of his food, and he was alone again.