April Smith - White Shotgun

“What did they get in return?”

She smiled grimly. “Freedom?”

Now I know that she had been talking about the awful contradictions of her life: a rich, attractive husband who has other women; a murderous organization to which she is forced to pay money for the privilege of saving lives. The air in the empty ancient ward was still and smelled of polished wood. Quiet voices of tour guides speaking other languages could be heard from the galleries.

“Children were left here with notes that told their names, and who their parents were,” Cecilia said. “So when times were better, they could be reunited with their families. They weren’t just abandoned.”

We stood together in front of the painting.

“When Papa used to talk about my relative, Ana, in America, I pictured you wearing a ruffled dress and patent leather shoes. I don’t know where I got that, probably from a movie.”

“I hated dresses until I was sixteen,” I told her. “That was me, in shorts and flip-flops. I had to hose off the sand before they let me in the house.”

“ ‘California’ always sounded magical,” Cecilia said. “When I was in medical school, I tried to do my residency in California. The best facilities. The most exciting cities. It was an impossible dream. We are put in our lives and that’s it.”

When we could find no more messages in the mauve and ochre pigments, we were drawn to a tall grated window at the end of the hall, where a breeze coming in from the mountains brought with it the sound of birdsong and church bells, stirring the pigeon feathers caught outside in the terra-cotta brick.

“We used to have a beautiful bronze statue here, Risen Christ by Lorenzo Vecchietta, a Renaissance masterpiece, one of the great treasures of Siena. It looked so contemporary and alive. The expression of suffering was so aching, and the hand reaching out so soft and real — but it was stolen right out of the chapel of this hospital. Why do we agree to live like this?” Cecilia exclaimed in frustration.

Through the grated window was the city, colorless in the pressing heat of noon.

When I awake in the chair, something is scrabbling around the edges of the tower. A blackbird has flown through an open window. We catch it in a wastebasket and let it go.

Powered by multiple shots of Nicosa Family espresso, we are at our stations by first light, but the next call doesn’t come until three long hours later, at 9:10 a.m.

“Do you have the money?” asks the voice.

“I told you. Yes.”

“Okay.”

Silence.

“Okay what?” Our fearless leader cannot hide his impatience. “Do you realize you are speaking with Nicoli Nicosa?”

“Yes.”

I pass a note. Ask his name .

“What is your name, signore ?”

No answer.

“I need to know who I am talking to. It’s only polite, wouldn’t you agree?”

The man hangs up.

“Sounds nervous,” Sterling says.

“Is that good?” asks Sofri.

In truth it’s neither good nor bad, but worth noting on the timeline, which now shows two pieces of intel from the kidnappers in the last twenty-four hours. I am not surprised the night has passed unbroken by a call. Often the lowlifes are too drunk or stoned during those hours to do business.

We eat. We read the news online. Sterling, wearing just the camos, does his wake-up routine: one hundred crunches, one hundred push-ups, three minutes of shadow boxing. The next call comes within the hour.

“Imagine yourself in my position,” Nicosa tells the kidnapper. “I am her husband. I want to know how my wife is. I want to hear her voice. Can’t you put her on for just a minute?”

He is not used to commoners slamming the phone down.

“What the hell is going on? What kind of game do they think they are trying to play?”

“They don’t even know,” I tell him. “They’re flying by the seat of their pants.”

In the afternoon, because I am the girl, I go back to the main house for supplies. After the constant breezes through the tower, the courtyard feels like a suffocating sauna. I’m thinking we are in for a siege, and some food prep in the tower kitchen might be required. Stepping back out of the elevator, arms full of towels and toilet paper and carrying a bag of fruit, cans of tuna in olive oil, instant bean soup, and cold leftover pasta, I find the team in the middle of another call. Slipping on the headphones, I hear a different voice. This one is older, with nothing to prove.

“I have instructions,” says the new voice.

Nicosa answers, “Tell me, please.”

“We will return Signora Nicosa to you after you give us the money.”

The mention of her name makes me hopeful. Not “the crazy bitch,” not even “your wife.” She is still a person to them.

“No police.”

Nicosa agrees. “Absolutely not. You have my word.”

There is the sound of whispered conversations on the kidnapper’s side.

“The cash must be in euros.”

“Agreed. Where do we meet?”

“We will tell you shortly. Take the Ferrari. Drive with Signorina Grey.”

“Cecilia’s sister?”

“Yes, her sister.”

I bite my thumb.

You’re doing great, Nicoli. Please don’t blow it; just agree .

“Why Signorina Grey?”

“The American sister will bring the money. If not, no agreement.”

I nod vigorously.

“Okay.”

“You will listen on the cell phone for instructions where to meet. If we see that you are followed, we will kill Signora Nicosa immediately.”

Nicosa swallows. “Understood. And we will meet my wife there? Where we bring the money?”

“She will be in another place. She will be unharmed. When we have the money, we will tell you where she is. We will call you in the car in five minutes.”

“Now, please, can I hear her voice?”

Scuffling, soft breathing.

“Cecilia?”

“It’s me.”

The voice is timid and weak. But it is Cecilia.

The line goes dead, but I am fired up. We’re closer than we’ve ever been. Sterling joins Nicosa where he’s standing at a window, looking completely drained.

“I know you know that dude on the phone,” Sterling says. “You were using the Italian informal form of address. Who is he?”

“Cosimo Umberto.”

“The Puppet?”

Nicosa turns from the window and raises an ironic eyebrow. “You know him, too?”

“He is known to the Bureau,” I say. “He’s a powerful man, the head of a district of mafia families. Can we trust his promises?”

Sofri and Nicosa exchange glances. Sofri, stroking his mustache uneasily, finally gives the nod.

“Yes.”

“He wants the money. And to prove to me he is the big guy, the capomandamento ,” explains Nicosa.

“You two have a history. We saw him outside Giovanni’s hospital room.”

Nicosa goes tight. “I told you before. He was paying his respects.”

“And threatening you?”

“That’s not important now.”

Sterling pulls on the gulf-blue Oakleys and picks up the sniper bag. I’m opening the duffel and checking the cash.

Sterling’s face bends close, and his voice is quiet. “Sure you want to do this?”

“Absolutely.”

“You understand that you are possibly the target.”

“I know. We should have a tac team, but there’s no time to involve Rizzio.”

“They figured out they’ve got your sister, but they still want you. They want it both ways — the money and you. Feels like a setup.” Sterling shakes his head. “I don’t like it.”

“It depends on the drop,” I tell him. “If it’s a public place, and we think it’s secure, we’ll go with it. If not, we abort.”