second telephone call from your boyfriend. He tells you . . .”
“He says he doesn’t know exactly where he is. He knows only that he’s been taken prisoner by some special unit of the Cambodian army, one of their militias. . . . They’re moving him around from one village to another, and he says they’ve taken all the money he had with him—”
“Seventy thousand dollars, right?”
“That’s the amount he said. Then he told me, ‘These guys want more money. That’s the only reason they’re letting me call you. If you don’t pay, they’ll kill me.’”
“And he also asked you to inform the Italian authorities.”
“That’s why we’re here. We were advised to . . . we thought it might be a good idea to engage a lawyer to represent the family. What we’re talking about here is plainly a case of kidnapping.”
Barbara nods and leans against the back of her big leather chair. She looks at the older lady. She’s serious and stiff in her dark blue dress and hasn’t stopped scrutinizing Barbara since she arrived.
Turning back to the young woman, Barbara says, “You’ve told me that your friend is an ex-Carabiniere and an ex-pilot for Alitalia. You said he’s a businessman in Phnom Penh, and he has also founded a branch of a Catholic philanthropic organization, the Union of Faith Brothers. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Based on the story you’ve told me, we’re not dealing here with a kidnapping carried out by common criminals. It sounds more like something political. You say he mentioned soldiers. . . .”
“I’ve been there with him,” the young woman says. “I came back from my last visit several weeks ago. Cambodia has a regular army, and then there are these paramilitary groups. . . . Actually, there’s everything you can imagine down there.” She shakes her head again. “But none of them has the power to kidnap Westerners without the approval of the government. Do you understand what I’m saying, Signora Belli?”
“I think so,” Barbara reassures her. “Now for a question that you may find unpleasant, but I must ask it—”
“My son isn’t telling tall tales,” the elderly lady interrupts her. “Don’t even think that.”
“Look, Signora, I just—”
“If he says he’s a prisoner, then he’s a prisoner. If he says they want money, then they—”
“Want money,” Barbara says, humoring her. “But how can you be so sure? I understand, you’re his mother, but—”
“Forget mothers,” the woman snaps, cutting her short. A characteristically Tuscan grimace of intolerance creases her mouth. “The situation is what he says it is because whenever he’s been locked up, he’s always told the truth.”
“Locked up . . .”
“In jail. In prison. Locked up.”
The old woman casts a knowing glance at the young one.
She takes a deep breath, as though preparing herself for an underwater dive. “You see, Signora Belli, it’s not the first time he’s been in trouble. He’s had problems in Italy because of his work.”
“What work?”
“As a former officer in the Carabinieri, he did consultation work . . . went on some missions. We don’t know much about it.”
“We don’t know anything about it.” The mother’s admonitory tone evokes the stern teacher she once was.
“In fact, we don’t,” says the young woman, nodding in agreement. “He’s spent months locked up, and only very rarely has he ever asked his family for help. But the times when he did . . .”
“He was really in trouble,” Barbara finishes for her.
“Exactly.”
“All right. May I ask you why you came to my office? Why me?”
“A friend recommended you.”
“A friend . . .”
“Manuela Sanchez.”
Some names aren’t just names. They’re gusts of wind. They blow doors open and slam them against the wall a few times. For the attorney Barbara Belli, the name Manuela Sanchez is a particularly strong gust.
“Is everything all right, Signora Belli?” asks the former teacher.
“Yes, yes . . . everything’s fine,” Barbara says softly. “And how is Manuela?”
“She’s pretty well, I think,” says the younger woman, handing her a card. “That’s her new phone number. If you can find the time to give her a call, I know she’ll be glad to hear from you.”
Barbara murmurs, “Thank you,” and clears her throat. “I’m going to plot out a strategy and get back in touch with you soon. Very soon. Sometime in the next few hours.”
5
Russian Roulette
A fishing village, 90 kilometers southwest of Phnom Penh, CambodiaMay 2008
The sound of approaching cars breaks the silence of the fishing village. It’s easy to figure out who’s coming. Kasper can read it on the faces of the people around him. His Cambodian guards always wear the same expressions, at any hour of the day or night, except when Lieutenant Darrha’s about to arrive.
Then their false smiles become scowls, their eyes become even narrower, and their voices lose force. They submit to someone who has the power to decide, in a second, whether their lives and the lives of their families still mean anything.
Kasper too owes his life to Darrha, who decided to violate the orders the Americans gave when they commissioned Kasper’s detention a month previously. He decided not to kill Kasper.
He made him disappear, no question about that, but in his own way.
He got Kasper out of Phnom Penh and has been moving him around continually. He holds him prisoner in small villages, closely guarded by “co-workers” he trusts. More or less. And along the way he has loaned Kasper his telephone to call his family in Italy. Just a few words to Patty to say what must be said: “Talk to my mother. I’ll let you know how to send the money.”
Darrha explains to Kasper what has to be done. His money will go through the same channels that immigrants use to send money to their families: Western Union and other money-transfer companies. If Kasper’s family wants him to stay alive, they have to start paying. Darrha gives him the names of the people who will be receiving the wire transfers. All the payees work for him. They’re part of Darrha’s network.
Kasper’s alive because Darrha decided that killing him would be an unnecessary luxury. A typical example of Western wastefulness. The lieutenant pays his collaborators on the ground and pays those in the CID as well. Double wages for all this time. Thanks to Kasper. It doesn’t often happen that someone like him comes along.
From his time in Phnom Penh, Kasper knows Darrha is quite unusual, the product of a very successful union between his French father and his Cambodian mother, the daughter of a high-ranking official in the former Khmer Rouge. When he was little more than twenty years old, Darrha signed up for five years with the Foreign Legion, which while perhaps not providing the equivalent of a top-drawer college education nonetheless offers a decidedly formative environment. He speaks English and French; he’s now the direct CID liaison with those Americans in the Phnom Penh embassy who work on security matters. He’s never without the Smith & Wesson revolver he wears on his belt. And he often brandishes his AK-47, with which he has an almost physical relationship.
To recognize his approach and to reflect on the brevity of life is a single, instantaneous thought.
—