Kennedy’s Ghost. Gordon Stevens

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      ‘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 was hot and oppressive around her. She tried to fight it off, to pull the layer of fear from her face. It was two in the morning, the clock ticking by the bedside. She sat up and reached for a glass of water, sipped it slowly, then lay down again.

      The sounds came from the darkness, the glow of the lamp, then the silence of the warders bringing him his food. Paolo Benini waited till they had gone then began to eat, not minding if the liquid of the soup splashed down the front of his shirt or if the remnants of the bread fell on to the floor. When he had finished eating he sniffed at the buckets, tried to remember which he had urinated in, then drank from what he hoped was the other.

      Some time it would come to an end, of course. The bank carried kidnap insurance, and the bank would have paid anyway.

      Every client wanted an efficient service, every client wished to avoid the red tape which might hinder their activities, and everyone bent over backwards to satisfy them. That was what banking was all about. Arab money, Jewish money, it made no difference. Money from the Middle or Far East, from Russia or America, it didn’t matter. Except sometimes someone wanted a little more, which brought the bank an extra commission. But to get that commission the bank needed someone like Paolo Benini to set everything up, someone like Paolo Benini to make sure it was all in order and to sort out any problems which might arise. And the more clients who were happy the more custom came to the bank and the happier the bank was. Especially with the extras they were able to charge and the clients were prepared to pay.

      You’re clutching at clouds in the sky, the voice tried to tell him. You’re thinking of things you did in the past, rather than what you have to do to survive the present.

      Part of the groundwork had already been done before, of course, but it had been he, Paolo Benini, who had structured and developed it. Especially in the United States. He who had suggested they look for one of the small regional banks in danger of collapse in the eighties, buy it up but conceal the ownership, then make it profitable and use it as a front for BCI’s black operations. He who had faced up to the conventional thinkers on the board and rejected the various banks which they had suggested, especially those with connections in Florida because those were the sort of places investigators from organizations like the US Federal Bank and the Justice Department and the Drug Enforcement Administration automatically looked to, because those were the sort of places already being used to launder money. He who had suggested they go west, look for a nice little bank in a nice little town where no one would suspect. A bank which no one knew was in trouble and with a president who could be persuaded to bend the rules to maintain the financial standing of the bank in general and himself in particular. He, Paolo Benini, who had personally chosen First Commercial of Santa Fe, and he, Paolo Benini, who had made the arrangements.

      Forget all that, the voice told him, forget what’s gone before. Just work out where you are and who you are. What you should be thinking about are Francesca and the girls, because they are the ones who will save you, who will provide the anchor which will moor your mind to some kind of sanity.

      And just after he had arranged the takeover of First Commercial of Santa Fe, he and Myerscough had met – it was as if his brain was flicking between television channels.

      Why was he thinking of Myerscough, the voice asked him.

      Because Myerscough ran Nebulus, because Nebulus was the last account he had checked in London, and because he had therefore thought that Nebulus might be the subject of the fax he had received at the hotel. Except, of course, that the fax hadn’t been genuine.

      If any of his clients found out, however … If ever it became public knowledge, even within the limited public of that corner of the banking world, even within BCI itself, that he had been kidnapped … Therefore the bank would do everything in its power not just to secure his release, but to achieve it quickly.

      You’re still deluding yourself – the voice was fainter now, almost gone. Look at yourself, at the mess you’re in. Food spilled on the floor and down your clothes and urine on your trousers. You don’t even know which bucket you’re urinating and defecating in and which you’re drinking from. No wonder the rat came feeding.

      The feet shuffled from the black, the lamp appeared, the guards removed the remnants of his food, and he was alone again.

4

      Cath was curled beside him.

      It was a long time since they’d met at Harvard, since they’d got to know each other in their final year. Then they’d gone their separate ways, she to law school and he, when his number had been drawn, to Vietnam. And that would have been the end of it. Except that once, during R and R, he’d written her; when he finally came home he’d found her number and called, and she’d visited him in hospital. Halfway through his own spell at law school they’d married; the night he’d got his first job she’d cooked him a candlelit dinner. Two years later she’d stood at his side when he’d run for his first public office.

      Donaghue swung out of the bed, switched off the alarm before it woke her, and went to the bathroom. When he returned the bed was empty and the smell of breakfast was drifting up from the kitchen.

      It was five-thirty. He started the Lincoln, waved back as she watched him from the front door, and drove to National airport. Twenty minutes later he was on the shuttle to La Guardia.

      Pearson woke at six-thirty, showered, shaved and dressed. Evie was still asleep, her legs sticking out from under the duvet and her hair across the pillow.

      The house was on 6th SE, half a block from СКАЧАТЬ