Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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