Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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СКАЧАТЬ a somewhat colourful tie, and saw Haslam the moment he emerged through the double doors from Customs.

      Santori was good: excellent sources and unrivalled access, but because of this he was known not only to those who lived in fear of kidnap, but also to the police units dealing with it. For these reasons, and in case he had been observed, he did not acknowledge Haslam; instead he turned away, paused momentarily for Haslam to spot any tails he might have picked up, then left the terminal. Only in the relative security of the carpark did they shake hands.

      ‘Thanks for getting here so quickly.’ Santori’s English was good, only a little accented. ‘You’re booked in at the Marino.’ The hotel was in a side street near Central Station and Haslam had stayed there before. Santori gave him a telephone pager and the case file, and swung the Porsche out of the airport and on to the autostrada.

      ‘Any problems?’ Haslam asked.

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Schedule?’

      ‘You’re seeing the family at twelve. I thought you’d like time to change and shower first.’

      ‘Thanks.’

      He settled in the passenger seat and skimmed the two closely typed sheets of the briefing document: the victim’s name and background, family and friends, approximate details of the kidnapping, going rates and time scales for kidnappings in Italy over the past two years in general and the past six months in particular.

      ‘Have the family heard from the kidnappers yet?’

      ‘Not when I spoke with them this morning.’

      ‘But all telephone calls are being recorded?’

      A modified Craig 109 VOX on to the main phone in the wife’s flat. VOX – voice activated switch.

      ‘Yes. I set it up myself.’

      The traffic was heavy; by the time Haslam checked in at the Marino it was gone eleven, when they turned in to the Via Ventura it was almost twelve.

      The street was attractive and expensive, the pavements wide and lined with boutiques and cafés, apartments above them. The block in which the Beninis had their town apartment was modern and, unlike many buildings in the city, it looked out rather than being built round a central courtyard. It was some fifty metres from the shops and set back from the road, with parking space for visitors in front. A striped canopy protected those arriving by car at the front door, and a side road swung round to what Haslam assumed was an underground carpark. Security door on the garage, he also correctly assumed.

      There were three cars in the parking area opposite the front door: a top-of-the-range Saab 9000, a dark blue BMW soft-top, and a Mercedes with two men lounging near it, the air of driver and minder stamped upon them.

      Haslam pulled his briefcase from the rear seat and followed Santori to the entrance. The front door had a security lock and intercom system. Only after the lawyer had announced them and the porter had confirmed they were expected were they allowed inside. The entrance was marble, lined with busts and statuettes, and the lift which took them smoothly and swiftly to the fifth floor smelt of lavender. There was a moment’s delay after Santori had rung the bell on the door to the front right, then it opened and a housekeeper showed them inside.

      Even in the hallway, the paintings on the walls – oils, and mainly of flowers – were perfectly positioned and subtly lit. They followed the housekeeper through to the lounge. The room was on a split level and the walls were hung with landscapes, most of them Fattoris or Rosais. The wife, Francesca, was an interior designer, Haslam remembered the brief: if this was their town apartment wonder what the family home in Emilia was like.

      The oval mahogany table was in the centre of the lower floor level, three men and one woman seated round it. As Santori and Haslam entered they stood up.

      ‘Signore Benini, Mr Haslam.’ Santori began the introductions.

      Umberto Benini, the victim’s father, Haslam assumed: early sixties, tall and alert, slightly hooked nose and immaculate suit. Businessman with the usual political connections.

      The observations were in shorthand, and shorthand inevitably led to value judgements which might or might not be correct, Haslam reminded himself.

      Umberto Benini took over from Santori.

      ‘Signore Rossi, who is representing BCI.’ Early forties, sharp looker though dressed like a banker, and wearing tinted spectacles.

      ‘Marco, my son.’ Mid-thirties and less conservative suit. The victim’s brother.

      ‘Signora Benini.’ The victim’s wife. Late thirties, therefore younger than her husband, five feet four tall and holding her figure, despite the two daughters. Eyes red, had been crying shortly before his arrival but had covered the fact with make-up. Clothes expensive and beautifully cut.

      Santori confirmed there was nothing more the family wished to ask him, shook their hands – starting with Umberto Benini – and left.

      Interesting order of introductions, Haslam thought: banker, son, and only then the victim’s wife. How many times had he sat in this sort of room and looked at these sort of people and these frightened faces?

      The positions round the table had already been determined: the father at the head, the banker on his right and the son on his left, the wife two away from him on his left, and the empty chair for Haslam facing him at the other end. Only the father and the banker smoking, and the wife re-positioning the ashtray as if it didn’t belong.

      The housekeeper poured them coffee, left the cream and sugar on the silver tray in the centre of the table, and closed the door behind her.

      ‘Before we continue, perhaps I should introduce myself more fully and outline what my role is. The first thing to say is that everything said in this room, from you to me or me to you, is confidential.’ He waited to confirm they understood. ‘As you know, my name is David Haslam, I’m a crisis consultant, in this case the crisis is a kidnapping.’

      It was the way he began every first meeting, partly to establish a structure and partly because there were certain things to arrange in case the kidnappers telephoned while they were talking.

      ‘Before you begin, perhaps you would allow me to say a few words.’ Umberto Benini made sure his English, and his intonation, were perfect.

      Because I’m Paolo’s father, but more important than that I’m head of the family and the person in charge. Therefore I say who says what and when.

      ‘Paolo worked for the Banca del Commercio Internazionale. He was based in Milan but travelled extensively. Signore Rossi is a colleague.’ The wave of the hand indicated that Rossi should provide the details.

      ‘Paolo was in Zurich. We have a branch there.’ The banker looked at him through the cigarette smoke. ‘On the day in question he had returned from London, where we also have a branch, with more meetings in Zurich the following morning.’

      They were already playing it wrong, Haslam thought. If the kidnappers phoned now they wouldn’t be prepared. And once he’d arrived they should be, because his job was to make sure they were.

      ‘After work that afternoon he was driven to the hotel where he normally stays. He arrived at about seven, СКАЧАТЬ