Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

      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