Supernotes (3 page)

Attorney Barbara Belli's Office, Quartiere Prati, Rome

Friday, May 9, 2008

Barbara stretches out her legs under the desk. She'd like to take a goddamned cigarette break, like in the good old days when she was a law student and spent nights poring over legal textbooks. A thousand pages in her head, and in her lungs a nicotine level that the Institute for Health and Preventive Care would have assessed as “interesting.” She dutifully reminds herself that she quit smoking ten years ago, when she got pregnant with the first of her two sons.

She's quit doing a lot of things over the past ten years. And her passion for her work is also becoming a thing of the past.

She examines the two women in front of her. They dropped in unannounced, no call, no appointment of any kind. “An urgent matter,” they explained.

She made them sit in the waiting room for a good half hour before having them shown in.

Then she listened to them. She didn't interrupt them with many questions, and the ones she asked were those strictly necessary to her understanding of the situation. But she hasn't yet figured out whether the case that's just landed on her desk sounds like something of great significance, something vastly more important than what she usually gets, or an enormous pain in the ass.

She's leaning toward the latter assessment.

The two women study her in silence, clearly tired but still combative. In the brief introductions that preceded getting down to business, they—the elderly Florentine lady and the young woman with the Roman accent—identified themselves as a retired mathematics teacher and a working veterinarian. Two normal women, involved against their will in something not even remotely normal. They're the mother and girlfriend of a man who's gone missing, who disappeared about a month ago. In Cambodia.

The prisoner, they say.

Her cell phone rings. Barbara looks at the screen and snorts: Marta again. The babysitter. Her third call, and it's not yet noon. Barbara murmurs, “Excuse me,” and answers the phone. “No, they're not allowed to watch television in the morning. I said no. Play a game with them, help them draw. Invent something, for Christ's sake!”

The elderly Florentine lady doesn't bat an eye; the younger woman shows a slight smile of measured sympathy. She clears her throat and says, “Signora Belli, we'd like to know if you think you can do anything.”

“But of course!” Barbara replies automatically, obeying the first commandment of such enterprises as hers: a client is a client; don't send anyone away. “Of course we must do something,” she says to clarify. “It's just that I have to have a good understanding of the case. I have to get into it a little more. I'll need some further details….”

“I don't think there's much else,” the young woman murmurs, shaking her head.

“We've told you all we know,” says the older lady, summing up.

“Let's go over it again.” Barbara's gaze settles on the younger woman's black eyes. Two wells of authentic trepidation. They can't lie. “A little more than a month ago, you receive a telephone call from your boyfriend. He's in Phnom Penh, right?”

“Right.” The young woman nods and sweeps her dark hair from her forehead. “Cambodia.”

“And he tells you…can you repeat it to me?”

“He tells me he's leaving the city because there might be some problems.”

“Problems. What kind of problems?”

“He didn't give details. He said he'd call again as soon as he could and told me not to worry.”

“That's it?”

“Yes. He's never been much for talking on the phone.”

“Your boyfriend owns a place in Phnom Penh, a bar called Sharky's, right? His co-owners are two American friends, one of whom—a certain Clancy—supposedly left the city with him. Do you know this Clancy? Is that his real name?”

“Clancy's his nickname, but everybody has called him that forever,” the young woman says, nodding. “They're like brothers; they've been close friends for many years. I believe…” She pauses and lowers her eyes slightly. “I believe they're prisoners together.”

“All right, now we come to the essential point. Yesterday, out of the blue, the 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 Island of Brotherly Love. 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.”

A fishing village, 90 kilometers southwest of Phnom Penh, Cambodia

May 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.

Every time Darrha comes back from a meeting with the Americans, he brings the consequences with him. He carries them around inside him like burning ulcers, and he has to find some way of soothing them. He's nasty and irascible and more violent than usual. Once Kasper even told him so and advised him to review some of his friendships: “Those people will lead you astray—look what's happened to me.”

But Darrha doesn't have much of a sense of humor. There's too great a difference between the enormous power he wields among his fellow Cambodians and the docile submissiveness he must observe when faced with the Americans' pointed sneers. Anyone who points this out runs the risk of regretting his words.

Which is exactly what happened with Kasper a few days previously. His bruises are still fresh.

Therefore it's best not to joke. Best not to speak. If Darrha's coming back from a meeting with the Americans, Kasper will know at once.

The SUVs stop a short distance away. He recognizes the voices.

A few seconds later, his usual guards are “invited” to leave the stilt house where they've been holding him prisoner. It's a family with guns, one of many in this village of former Khmer Rouge who have moved from guerrilla warfare to the laborious routine of daily survival.

The family goes out and the CID men come in.

Darrha doesn't speak. He gives his troops free rein. They pass around bottles of Mekhong Whiskey and Jack Daniel's. And they laugh. They're laughing the way they did the day he was detained at the border, itching for some violent entertainment.

Darrha sits on one of the mats in front of Kasper. The oil lamp illuminates the lieutenant's sharp features. Stinking of alcohol and resentment, he stares at Kasper and shakes his head. “Italian, Italian…” he mutters. “They say you're a pilot.”

Kasper barely nods.

“You piloted airliners? Is that true?”

“Among other planes, yes.”

“And you like flying airplanes?”

Kasper shrugs.

Darrha calls for the Mekhong and swallows a mouthful. He throws the bottle to Kasper, who takes a drink too.

“The Americans are mad at you, pilot,” Darrha says sardonically.

Kasper would like to reply, but he restrains himself. No smart remarks. No bright ideas.

“He's making our American friends mad,” Darrha says to his men. Then, as though remembering that they don't speak English, he repeats the remark in Khmer. They laugh like crazy.

Darrha pulls his revolver out of his belt and empties the cylinder. He picks up one of the six cartridges and reloads a chamber, as fast as a croupier at a green felt table. With a forceful gesture, he spins the cylinder, snaps it closed, raises the pistol, and hands it to Kasper. “Russian roulette,” Darrha says, stressing each syllable.

“What the fuck are you saying?” Kasper asks.

“Russian roulette. You play, we bet.” He adds something in Khmer, and money begins to circulate around him. Dollars, of course. “Russian roulette, or I shoot you,” he clarifies, pointing the Kalashnikov's black eye at Kasper.

Kasper tries to buy time. “Are you going to play too?” he asks the lieutenant.

Darrha makes a face, as if to say, “Thanks, maybe another time.” Then he laughs and, glancing at his rifle, says, “He and I will shoot you if you try anything smart.”

Kasper picks up the pistol. It can't be possible that they really want me to do this, he thinks. Only it's not a joke. Darrha's face tells him so, and the bets taking place all around Kasper confirm it. So does his body, which breaks out in a sweat.

How much time passes? Seconds. Interminable seconds. A lifetime.

One shot out of six.

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“I don't want to kill you,” Darrha says with a smile, displaying his rack of teeth. “It's your American friends who want you dead. I have to be able to tell them that fate was stronger than all of us. For us, for Asian people, fate is something very serious. If fate wants you to live, you'll live. But if it wants you to die, what's the difference whether it happens today or tomorrow?”

“I don't want to die.”

“Then you won't. Or maybe you will. Come on.”

“You're nuts.”

“Shoot, son of a bitch!”

“Fuck you, Darrha.”

“Shoot! The boys are waiting, and—”

But Darrha can't finish his sentence. Kasper's fast with a pistol, even when he has to aim it at his own temple. He squeezes the trigger; the empty click strikes everyone dumb. But soon they're all shouting again. Money changes hands. The majority of them have bet against Kasper, and now they want a chance to recoup their losses.

“It's only fair,” says Darrha succinctly. He seizes the pistol and spins the cylinder again. Another go-round.

Darrha hands Kasper the gun.

There's a mingled odor of sweat and alcohol, of animal temperatures approaching the boiling point.

To die in this place, the fucking armpit of the world, Kasper thinks. To die for a handful of desperados blitzed on drugs and alcohol, for a bunch of punks steeped in violence and formed by a subculture that gives human life no value. One bullet, six possibilities; one chance out of six that you're fucked.

Darrha's grinning like Charon. The ferryman on the last ferry.

Kasper thinks if he sticks that pistol in Darrha's face, he's got some probability of blowing him away. For a little more certainty, he'd like to have at least three live rounds in the gun. A crazy idea, sure, but one way or the other, he's a dead man….

Darrha levels his AK-47. “Come on, Italian. Be brave.”

Kasper points the pistol at his temple.
Click.
An empty chamber, once again.

He flings the pistol at Darrha, who receives it in the chest. He laughs like the school bully who plays you a dirty trick and then yells in your face, “You fell for it! Couldn't you tell it was all an act?”

And, in fact, Kasper thinks maybe it was just a prank. Maybe there never were any bullets in that revolver. Maybe it was all a show they put on to make him shit his pants.

So Kasper laughs too. And has another swig of this Mekhong Whiskey hooch, which it turns out is not all that bad. Darrha raises the pistol toward the ceiling and squeezes the trigger. Another empty click, and then a shot. Surprised silence reigns for a moment before they all go back to laughing, drinking, and settling their bets. Then, finally, they leave him and his prison, climb into their somber SUVs, and drive off into the night toward Phnom Penh.

They leave him with his jailers, the Cambodian family with guns, who return to their habitual silence.

The wife of the head of the family looks at him and says nothing. But she puts a hand on his shoulder, sighs, and at dinner serves him a double portion. Rice and dried fish. A lot of it, for a change.