44
Alessandro and Edoardo stepped through the glass doors and entered the largest bank in northern Italy. The main lobby held a palace’s grandeur. Alessandro paused for a moment’s admiration. “Look at the floor. Polished Carrara marble. Enough to cover a football field. You could comb your hair in the reflection. That is, if you had enough hair left to comb.”
Edoardo sniffed. “This is supposed to impress me?”
“And the ceiling. Those beams are covered in real gold leaf. That chandelier must weigh twenty tons.”
“This place just reminds me of all the crooks who got away. I want my bank to take my money and go out and make more money. Not spend it on building a bordello.”
“Your money. Ha.”
Edoardo said to the two uniformed officers who had followed them inside, “Plant yourselves by the door. Await my signal.” He turned back to Alessandro and said, “Remind me what we’re doing in this hovel.”
“We are about to frighten a very rich gentleman half to death. A man, I might add, who deserves to be frightened.”
“Oh, good.” Edoardo produced a rare smile. “This trip might be worthwhile after all.”
Alessandro had telephoned his friend the instant he had finished speaking with Charlie that morning. The prospect of what lay ahead was too exquisite not to share. “As I always say, a man should find pleasure in his work. Ah, this must be the bank’s director now.”
The man approaching them wore an expression that was appropriate for having two strangers enter his bank flanked by uniformed policemen. “What is going on here?”
Alessandro and Edoardo produced their badges. Alessandro gave the man a moment to sweat over what he and his clients might have been caught doing, then said, “Our reason for visiting your very fine establishment is not based upon you or your staff.”
Edoardo growled, “Not today, anyway.”
“Edoardo, please. This gentleman is going out of his way to be of service. Is that not so, good sir?”
The director said stiffly, “If my bank is not under suspicion, why are those policemen guarding my front door?”
Alessandro met the man’s glare with a very warm smile. “We have need of a conference room.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For a few moments only. A matter has arisen regarding a gentleman here on the premises.”
“I thought you just said—”
“You. Pay attention.” Edoardo required no additional volume to inject a note of menace. “We need a room for an hour.”
“Less,” Alessandro said.
“We’ll have our meeting and we’ll leave. That’s all you need to know.”
Alessandro sighed. “I apologize for my colleague. But we are dealing with a most critical matter. You are aware, of course, of the recent incident at the Bar Azzurra.”
“None of those people were our clients.”
“Naturally not. But one of their colleagues will shortly be arriving in your bank. We require a room. For a brief conference. To ensure that no illegality occurs here in the future.”
The bank director clearly did not like it. But one glance in Edoardo’s direction was enough for him to say, “I’ll see to it.”
“We are in your establishment’s debt.”
When the director scurried away, Edoardo demanded, “Our target is tied to the Azzurra mess?”
“Charlie thinks so. From what he told me this morning, I agree.”
“So why don’t we have this conversation back at headquarters?”
“Because it is possible that this gentleman is being used. Not that I am suggesting he is entirely innocent. He was definitely walking the wrong side of the street. He hid quite a large sum from the tax authorities by using numbered Swiss accounts. This has come to light. I am thinking perhaps some of our old foes may have forced him into aiding their plan to take out the scientists.”
“I hate him already.”
“It may help us if he happens to know that.”
Edoardo hesitated, then asked, “Forgive me, old friend. But are you certain you can trust these scientists and their guards?”
Alessandro’s mind flashed back to an image of earlier that morning, as his wife emerged from the Church of San Fedele. She had slipped the mantilla lace from her head and stowed it in her purse. Dipped her fingers in the holy water and crossed herself. Then paused at the doorway and turned back for one final moment of silence. Alessandro had stood and watched her in utter amazement. It was the first time Carla had accompanied him to weekday mass in nine and a half years.
He realized Edoardo was still waiting for a reply. Alessandro said simply, “With my life.”
“What—uh, yes?”
“How do you do? My name is Alessandro Gavi. Will you come with me, please?”
“I’m, uh, waiting for someone . . .”
“We are aware of all that, sir. Please, this way.”
“But it’s very important—”
“Dr. Gabriella Speciale has been unavoidably delayed. If you will just—”
“Now look here. Your bank stands to gain a great deal from my being here.”
“Actually, Mr. McLaren, I am with the police.”
His professional tan went waxy, like coloring applied to a corpse. “What?”
“We have a few questions.” Alessandro did not need to turn around to know Edoardo was presenting the American with his most menacing glare. “Either we can cover them here, or we can place you under arrest, cuff you, and take you to police headquarters. The choice, Mr. McLaren, is yours.”
When they entered the conference room, Alessandro shooed away the bank executive, shut the door, and made a process of settling Byron McLaren into a chair and then seating himself across the table. Edoardo took a leather case the size of his wallet from his pocket. He turned the miniature gadget on and swept the room. “This thing is often wrong.”
“It is probably not necessary. I doubt very much the bank would wish to have any record of our even being here.”
McLaren watched Edoardo slowly move about the room, waving his arm at the walls and the lights and the phone and the table. “What is he doing?”
“This is for your own safety, Mr. McLaren. We need to be certain that the bank is not monitoring our conversation.”
Alessandro’s calm tone did nothing to assuage the American’s tension. “I want my lawyer.”
“We would be most happy to accommodate you, Mr. McLaren. Although I must tell you, there is actually no requirement for us to grant you legal representation at this point.”
“But I’m an American.”
“And what a very fortunate man you are. But I regret to inform you that this is Italy, and your nationality changes nothing. If you wish to have your attorney present, we will need to take you to headquarters and arrange for a hearing before a magistrate, which will necessitate formally charging you with a criminal offense. We would then be required to fingerprint you and have you wait in custody until your representative can be contacted. Which we would happily do, if you insist. But the process could take days. Even weeks in some cases.”
“No, no, this is insane. All I want—”
“Is to see your ex-wife. Yes, we know all about that, sir. Now then, if you will just be so kind as to answer a few questions, hopefully—”
“Did Gabriella set this up?” He managed a bit of futile rage. “Oh, cute. I suppose this is her idea of revenge.”
Edoardo’s English was brutally awful, his grammar almost as bad as his accent. He shut off his monitor, flipped open his jacket far enough to reveal his weapon, pulled out his badge, and slammed it down so hard McLaren blanched. “You. Signor American. Read what says.”
“I-I don’t speak—”
“Read!”
The American squinted over the badge. “Guardia di Finanza.”
“Edoardo, please.” Alessandro pushed the badge away. “My associate is a detective with the national anti-Mafia police force. And I am the senior bailiff of Como. What my colleague is trying to tell you, Mr. McLaren, is that senior officials of Italy’s judiciary are not in the habit of playing roles for women, no matter how beautiful they might be.”
Edoardo slipped the badge back in his pocket. He growled in Italian, “She’s pretty, his ex?”
“Utterly stunning. According to Charlie, she filed for divorce after catching him with other women. Many times.”
Edoardo slapped his cuffs on the table. “Then the man should be locked up for stupidity.”
McLaren jerked away from the glinting metal braces. “No, wait. That’s not . . .”
“I completely agree.” Alessandro slid the cuffs farther away. “Perhaps you could tell us, Mr. McLaren, who is aware of your visit to Italy.”
“What? I’m here—”
“Because the terms of your prenup require a rather substantial payment. Did I say that correctly, ‘prenup’? We have already spoken with your ex-wife and are aware of these matters. But the timing, Mr. McLaren. This is what we find of such interest.”
Edoardo said, “Ask him about the plane.”
“My colleague is most interested in a flight that landed before dawn today at Malpensa Airport.”
“I-I flew into Lugano.”
“How nice for you. But you see, the plane that landed at Malpensa is what we call a ghost flight. It off-loaded ten people and a number of large crates and then departed. Yet no official record of this flight exists.”
“I-I don’t . . .”
“The airport’s log claims that no plane arrived, no people disembarked, no cargo was unloaded. But my associate has the airport under secret surveillance. We have photographs of all those who arrived. And they were met by a most unpleasant individual. A Ukrainian gentleman who handles much of this region’s illegal trade in prostitutes. This contact suggests a very high level of corruption. Not to mention what those crates might have contained.”
“Drugs,” Edoardo growled. “Guns.”
McLaren looked within nodding distance of a heart attack. “I just came to see my wife.”
“Your ex-wife,” Alessandro corrected. “As I said, sir, the timing of your visit is quite remarkable. You see, we know all about the attack on Dr. Speciale’s villa.”
“That has nothing to do with me!”
“He’s lying,” Edoardo said. “Arrest him. Now.”
“Let me be perfectly frank, Mr. McLaren. We could release you but keep your passport and issue strict instructions for you not to leave Como. Then let us say that in the next day or so your ex-wife is attacked a second time. The people who perpetuated the first assault were thugs associated with the gentleman who met the plane this morning.”
“Killers,” Edoardo said. “Assassins.”
“Indeed. Now let us say that this second attack results in the death or disappearance of your lovely ex-wife or her associates. Who, as far as we can tell, are doing nothing wrong.” Alessandro spread his hands. “You can see the situation we would be placed in. A woman who recently forced her husband through a humiliating divorce, being assaulted while you are in the area and on the loose.”
McLaren flushed. “This is insane.”
“Of course, sir. I quite agree. But you must see how this would look to us. A wealthy American makes contact with Italy’s underworld, which acts on his orders—”
“That is not what is happening here!”
Edoardo did a vulture’s loom over the poor man’s chair. “You know of these people! You are . . .” He snarled to Alessandro in Italian, “Give me the word.”
“My colleague is convinced you are colluding with organized crime in a distinctly illegal activity,” Alessandro said. “Which is a felony under Italian law.”
McLaren swiped at his face with both hands. And moaned.
“It would only be to your advantage, sir, to tell us everything you know.”
The words emerged from behind his hands. “I’m being framed.”
“If that proves to be the case, we will erase your name from our files. This meeting never happened. You can now understand why we wanted this conversation to take place outside of police headquarters.” Alessandro pulled the mini recorder from his pocket. “Which is where, I regret to tell you, we must now move this conversation. Unless, that is, you tell us everything.”
The telling took quite some time. When it was done, Edoardo spread out his photographs on the table. McLaren gave them a swift glance. “I only know one of them.”
“Look longer,” Edoardo demanded.
But not even the detective’s growl could raise the man from his gloom. “I’m telling you, the only person I’ve seen is this woman here.”
Alessandro asked, “Her name?”
“Reese Clawson.”
“And you are claiming that she somehow managed to make a withdrawal from your Swiss accounts.”
“She didn’t withdraw. She cleaned me out.”
“And the sum was?”
“We’ve been over and over this.”
“Only because it is so vital.”
“Eighty-seven million.”
“Francs.”
“Dollars.” The man looked like a wax doll held too close to the flame of avarice. “It’s gone. All of it.”
“You will please excuse me, Mr. McLaren. But for someone to access a private Swiss account suggests a level of power that is, well, rather hard to believe.”
“I checked. Believe me. I’ve checked and I’ve called and I’ve gotten nowhere. It’s just . . .”
“Yes? Please do tell us.”
“I’ve heard rumors for years about this group. They call themselves the Combine. They’re supposed to be the top guns from different industries. People who hire and fire presidents of countries. After this happened, I started asking around. And I got a call.”
“Who from?”
“A guy so far up the power ladder he breathes a different air. He told me to stop asking. He said if I didn’t, I’d be gone faster than my money.”
Alessandro leaned back in his chair and asked in Italian over McLaren’s bowed head, “What do you think?”
“You’ve wrung him dry.” Edoardo gave a grudging nod. “You have missed your calling. We could use you in the Guardia.”
“That is high praise, coming from you. Have you ever heard of this group?”
“I’ll check. But nothing comes to mind.”
“It couldn’t hurt to spread this around a little.” Alessandro switched back to English. “Very well, Mr. McLaren. There is just one small matter left to handle.”
“I’ve told you everything.”
“And we are indeed grateful for your cooperation. So now if you will just make the transfer, you are free to go.”
The American jerked upright. “What transfer?”
“Why, is that not clear? The one you came to Italy to make. The two million dollars you owe your wife. Please excuse me. Ex-wife.” Alessandro held out his hand. “If you will please be so kind as to give me your passport, this will be returned to you once she acknowledges the funds have been received.”