Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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