Kennedy’s Ghost

‘Why?’ Umberto asked.

‘Because however difficult it will be at first, you must continue to lead your normal lives – business appointments, personal matters. One reason, as I’ve already suggested, is that it maintains a structure to your lives.’

Because otherwise you’ll go insane.

But I’m already going insane, he knew the wife was thinking.

So how was she going to stand up to it, he wondered, how was she going to take whatever the kidnappers threw at her. How was she going to take the pressure Umberto would bring to bear on her. Because that was the way it was already going.

‘There’s another reason for not disrupting your normal schedule. If you do there’s a chance the police might spot it, and if they do it wouldn’t be long before they worked out that someone’s been kidnapped.’

And the first thing they’d do after that would be to freeze the family funds and even try to intervene in the affairs of the bank.

‘Agreed,’ Rossi said on behalf of the bank and the family.

Haslam took the holding script and rewrote it.

CONCERN OVER PAOLO Is he alive? TELEPHONE NUMBER AND TIME Keep saying it. MONEY Can’t even think about money until I know he’s alive. IF PRESSED Just prove he’s alive. AND CLEAN PHONE AND TIME.

‘You’ll want some time to yourselves, to talk through what I’ve told you today. I suggest we arrange a meeting for tomorrow. There are other things to discuss, but I think Francesca has enough to handle until then.’

Why not deal with them now? It was in the way Umberto turned.

‘Not today.’ Francesca’s voice was suddenly tired. I’ve had enough for one day, more than I can cope with. Just give me twenty-four hours to take on board what he’s already told me, then I’ll be able to face the rest. She called for the housekeeper to telephone for a cab. ‘What time tomorrow?’

‘Remember what I told you,’ Haslam reminded her. ‘That we should build our meetings into your normal routines. Unless, of course, something happens.’ He knew she was having difficulty accepting what he was telling them. ‘If it’s in the evening it shouldn’t be over dinner. It should be a business meeting like any other.’

‘Six-thirty,’ Francesca suggested.

‘If the kidnappers make contact what time will you tell them to ring the clean phone?’

‘Seven in the evening.’

‘Good. I’ll be at the hotel. If I leave it for any reason I’ll be carrying a pager.’ He gave them the details. ‘One last thing. In case the kidnappers call, are you happy to be here by yourself or do you want someone with you?’

‘The housekeeper will stay when I need her. I’m fine.’

The cab was waiting. He shook each of their hands and left.

The evening was warm and the three cars he had seen when he arrived were still there: the Saab, the BMW and the Mercedes, the driver and minder sitting in it like a calling card. Perhaps he should have said something about it at the meeting, except that then he hadn’t been sure that the Mercedes was the banker’s.

By the time he reached the Marino it was dusk.

His room was large and well-furnished and faced on to the inner courtyard, so that the sound of the Milan traffic was deadened. The bathroom was well-equipped, the wallpaper was flowered but relaxing, and an ornate fan was suspended from the ceiling, circling slowly. The two armchairs were low but comfortable, and the escritoire set against one of the windows was large enough to work at. The television was in a walnut cabinet in one corner, the minibar beside it.

After the meeting his clothes smelt of cigarette smoke. He stretched the stiffness from his back, unpacked, and took a shower. Then he dressed – casual clothes and shoes – arranged for a dry cleaning service every day, and began the case log. Kidnap and kidnappers; victim and family, in which he included the banker Rossi; security and other problems, plus the bank itself.

KIDNAP From hotel room. Bodyguards present at all other times. Switzerland overnight after return from London. Police not informed. Genuine?

Because sometimes people, even bankers, faked their own disappearances. For money or fear or any number of reasons.

KIDNAPPERS Professionals. VICTIM Bodyguard plus back-up. Why? Especially when no specific threat.

Paolo Benini had been carrying three bodyguards and one driver, effectively four minders, but at the time he had been out of Italy. So either he was special, or whatever he was working on was.

FAMILY Father dominant. Wife strong. Brother would come through. Banker calculating.

So what about them; what about Francesca and Umberto and Marco? What about the banker Rossi?

Francesca was quiet and still in shock, but she already showed signs of strength, which was positive. Francesca was fighting back, trying to get into it. Yet there were also signs of friction in her relationship with her father-in-law, which might prove negative. Plus there was something intangible about her and Paolo.

Which wasn’t quite what he meant.

What he really meant was that there had been something about Francesca’s description of Paolo that reminded him of himself. We’ve been married sixteen years. He’s away a lot now, so the girls miss him. Which was what his own wife would say of him. He brushed the uneasiness aside and continued with the case log.

Francesca would be strong, but Francesca had given him nothing about Paolo. So what about Francesca? Did she have a lover or did Paolo have a mistress? Or was Paolo gay? It had happened before on a kidnap.

Marco would get the courier’s job. Umberto would treat him like shit, but Marco would do what was needed.

Which left Umberto and Rossi.

Umberto Benini appeared to be the central figure, yet Umberto wasn’t the power-broker. Umberto would puff and blow, but in the end Umberto would snap his fingers for Francesca to pour them each another cognac and then he would do whatever the bank suggested.

SECURITY Check cars outside, especially Mercedes. PROBLEMS Bank involvement might upset negotiations if kidnappers find out.Family might not accept recommendations.

The bank might be seen to be involved either by the cars outside, or by the way the management team decided to conduct the negotiations. Which led to the second problem, the feeling he’d had the moment he’d introduced himself and Umberto Benini had intervened, the sense, almost a foreboding, that this one was going to be difficult. Of course they were all difficult, of course the families or companies he advised sometimes found it hard to accept what he was telling them. But all through the meeting that afternoon and evening he’d been increasingly aware of the unease growing in him.

It was as if the dawn mist was hanging over them, he had thought at one stage; yet it was late morning, the sun was up, and the mist should have vanished with the day.

It was as if he was dug into an OP, an observation post, he had thought at another point of the meeting; the target in front of him but the eerie feeling that he was facing the wrong way.

He was tired, he told himself now as he had told himself earlier. Kidnap negotiations took it out of you, drained the life and body and soul from you. Because for one or two months, sometimes three, you ate and slept and breathed it; thought of nothing but the kidnapper and his victim and how you could get that victim back safely.

So he was drained, he admitted, especially after the last job. He should have taken that break after Lima, should have gone home and spent time with Meg and the boys. But he hadn’t. So he should stop assigning blame, grab a good night’s sleep, and get on with it.

He moved to the last item of the case log.

BANK Logical they should be represented.Anything else?

Why should there be anything else?

Now that the others had left the apartment seemed empty. Francesca opened the windows to clear the cigarette smoke, then phoned the girls, showered, went to bed, and tried to remember what had been agreed at the meeting with the Englishman and the discussion after he had left.

Some of the things he had said were reasonable, Umberto had conceded, except that they were logical and precisely what they themselves would have done. Then Umberto had downed the cognac and waved to her to pour him and Rossi another.

The family and the bank were behind her, though. She knew she had the full backing of the bank, Rossi had told her as they left. And that was what mattered. Even though she didn’t always like the way Umberto tried to dominate his sons, her, her children. Even if she didn’t totally trust Rossi.

And what about you Paolo? Why hadn’t she told the Englishman the truth? Okay, she hadn’t told the Englishman about the other properties they owned and the investments in Italy and overseas, most of them hidden from the authorities. But that wasn’t what she meant. Why hadn’t she told the Englishman about what her relationship with Paolo was really like? Not in front of the others, perhaps; especially not in front of Umberto.

So 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 of the museums – one in the morning and another that afternoon. Except he’d been there before, done it before: the last time he’d had a job in Milan and the time before that.

At three he took a cab to Via Ventura, even though the meeting was not till six-thirty.

Via Ventura sloped slightly east to west, the apartment block towards the lower end and set back on the left. At the top of the street, on the right, was a café, the Figaro; the waiters were smartly dressed and there was an awning over the tables and chairs on the pavement. Below it was a line of shops and boutiques, all expensive yet all busy, and all with apartments above them. The pavement was wide and lined with lime trees, an occasional bench beneath them. Down the right side of the road, though not the left, were parking spaces, cut into the pavement rather than on the road itself.

Sixteen bays – he divided the area into units and counted them. The apartment block and the parking area at its front visible from bays eight to thirteen, counting from the top; the line of vision from numbers one to eight obstructed by trees on the left side of the road, and from numbers fourteen to sixteen by trees on the right.

From just below the parking area a side road cut right, again lined with shops and apartments. On the opposite side of the road was a small garden, a fountain in the middle and an apartment block behind. Most of the accommodation seemed private, except for a small hotel overlooking the fountain and a block of service flats near the Beninis’ apartment, both expensive.

The Saab and BMW were parked in front of the apartment, and the same two men were sitting in the Mercedes. He gave his name at the security grille and took the lift to the fifth floor. The family, plus the banker, were already at their places round the table. He shook hands with each of them and accepted a coffee.

‘No contact from the kidnappers?’ he asked.

‘No.’

‘What about the crisis management team?’

‘We’ve agreed.’ Umberto Benini told him. ‘Myself as chairman and Francesca as negotiator. I would have liked Signore Rossi to play a more prominent role, but the bank really should keep a low profile, so Marco’s the courier.’

Haslam nodded and took the meeting on.

‘There are certain things to discuss: how we ask the kidnappers to prove that Paolo is alive, the details of the ransom, and the ways of communicating with the kidnappers. Plus something else, something basic.’

It was better to confront them with it and make them confront it now.

‘Kidnapping is a business. They have something you want – Paolo. And you have something they want – money. You have to think of it like that, nothing more. It sounds harsh, but it’s the best way, perhaps the only way, of getting Paolo back.’

She knew what Haslam would tell her, Francesca thought, and now he had.

‘Their first demand will be a starting point; what they expect will be substantially below that. The amount they accept depends on a number of factors, things like how much the research and preparation has already cost, plus their other expenses, past and present. The longer the kidnap lasts the more the man controlling it is paying out. What the kidnappers ask, and what they will accept, also depends on the going rates.’

Francesca could not believe what he was telling her, how he was telling her.

‘The major kidnappings in Italy at the moment are breaking down into two distinct groups, depending on the size of the first demand. Where the first demand is ten miliardi, the amount agreed is averaging 500 million lire.’

Which, at an exchange rate of £400 to a million lire, was a start price of £4 million and a settlement of £200,000.

‘Where the first demand is in the region of five miliardi, the average final payment is 450 million.’

Thus a starting price of £2 million and a final figure of £180,000.

How can you put a price on my husband’s life? Francesca’s eyes bored into him. How can you say on average this, on average that?

‘When the starting demand is ten miliardi, the victim is being released after an average of one hundred days; when it’s five miliardi the victim is released after an average of sixty-six.’

Christ, thought Rossi. The chairman would kill him if it took half, even a quarter, that time.

‘The obvious temptation is to pay as much as you can as quickly as you can. This is wrong. The kidnapper starts high and we start low, so that we encourage him to lower his expectations. When we raise our offer we don’t add too much too quickly.’

‘Why not?’ Francesca heard her own voice.

Because the bank was insured, she thought; therefore the company paying the ransom would want to keep it to a minimum, therefore Haslam was on a bonus if he came in with a low settlement.

‘If we pay too much we run the risk of the kidnappers thinking there might be a lot more. If we pay too quickly he might say thanks for the deposit, now for the real money. He might even demand a second or even a third ransom.’

How do you know? She was still staring at him. How can you say such things?

Because I’ve been here before – he stared back at her. Because long after Paolo’s home I’ll be in a room like this with someone like you staring at me and accusing me the way you are now.

‘I’m not saying it will come to this,’ he told them. ‘All I’m doing is telling you the structure. Which is why I’m here.’

‘What else?’ The question was from both Umberto and Francesca, the disgust in his voice and the fear and the hate in hers.

‘We have to decide the proof question Francesca asks to make sure that Paolo is alive.’

‘Something to do with the bank.’ Rossi’s intervention was short and sharp. ‘That way I can verify it.’

That way I not only control the situation, but prove to the chairman that I do.

‘It’s normally personal.’ Haslam looked at the banker then at the others in turn. ‘Something only Paolo would know, nothing the kidnappers could find out from their research.’

‘We’ll think on it.’ Umberto again.

Haslam focused on Marco. ‘The last point is communication. After the first calls they might tell you to collect a letter or package, and specify the place. It’ll be close to the clean phone, probably two or three minutes away. That gives them time to place it after they’ve given Francesca the message, but it gives you time to get there in case the police are tapping the phone and try to get there before you. It will also be a place where they can keep you under observation.’

The younger son began to speak but Haslam stopped him.

‘There’s something else you should keep in mind. Just as they’ll try to put pressure on Francesca in the phone calls, so they’ll use the dead letter drops to apply a similar pressure on all of you.’

How … no one asked.