Foreign Affairs (14 page)

L
eo Casselli sat back in his reclining chair and watched CNN. His lap was full of work papers, and the sound was turned down fairly low, but then he heard his name mentioned. He turned up the volume.

“Let's go to our Rome correspondent, Jeff Palmer, for more on this very interesting story,” the young female anchor said. The scene cut to a shot of a middle-aged man standing outside the Colosseum.

“Kalie, Leo Casselli, or Leonardo, as he prefers to be called, made headlines in the United States nearly twenty years ago, when a member of the Mafia family he ran in New York ratted him out to a congressional committee. Before the Justice Department could indict him, Casselli vanished and has not been seen in the United States since that time. He has, however, been seen in fashionable hot spots around Italy and France, schmoozing with the glitterati and having his picture taken with scantily
clad young women, usually in restaurants. Casselli maintains that he is a retired businessman, but he is rumored to have a finger in the pies of a dozen Italian industries, and his name appears on many building sites around the country.” They cut to a shot of a Casselli Costruzione sign outside some under-construction condos.

“But now, the Italian police department that concentrates on the Mafia—the DIA—has taken a sudden, overt interest in speaking to Signor Casselli, and two multimillionaire businessmen, one an American, the other French, have posted flyers around Rome and Naples, offering a cash reward of five million euros, a new passport, and resettlement to anyone who can produce evidence that will put Casselli in prison, preferably forever.”

Casselli smiled and leaned back in his recliner; he was enjoying this.

“Trouble is,” the reporter continued, “that suddenly, Leo Casselli has vanished from sight, and the police, in spite of an intensive effort, have been unable to locate him. He has not been seen at his two homes, one in Naples and one on the Amalfi Coast, nor has he been dining at any of his favorite restaurants. He was last seen at lunch in a Paris brasserie that he managed to leave, in spite of the fact that it was surrounded by police. And since that time, two of his ostensibly right-hand men have been murdered, some say because Casselli feared their collecting the big reward.

“The Italian police, in spite of several inquiries on my part,
have refused to so much as mention Casselli's name, and it seems that his continued absence from the scene has become something of an embarrassment for them. The Rome and Naples newspapers have become interested, though, and they have begun running daily photographs from their files, in an effort to spread the word that the police would like to have a chat with Leo Casselli. The search continues. We'll get back to you with any news.”

Casselli turned the volume back down and returned to the papers in his lap. “What's doing with the fucking chocolate?” he asked a man sitting in a smaller chair next to him.

“Don Leonardo, we continue to try and find a buyer for the stuff.”

“Where is it?”

“About fifty meters from here, in a refrigerated trailer.”

“And how much is that costing me?”

“Only the gasoline, Don Leonardo; the trailer, we stole and repainted.”

“I'm sick of that fucking chocolate,” Casselli grumbled. “We're going to end up dumping it into the sea.”

“That is a possibility, Don Leonardo.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Tell them to get this thing moving.”

The man got out of his chair, walked to a wall telephone, and spoke into it. From outside, there came the faint sound of an engine starting, and Casselli's living room began to move. His minion staggered back to his chair.

—

I
n Rome, Stone had watched the CNN report, too, and Jim Lugano had come into the room while it was running and had taken a seat.

“Good morning, Stone.”

“Good morning, Jim.”

“As I explained yesterday, two of Casselli's building projects had permits for construction elevators on-site. One of them you've already visited, in Naples, and the other is in Ravello.” He laid a stack of photos on the table. “These are of the Ravello site.”

Stone picked them up and leafed through them. “I don't see a construction elevator,” he said.

“That's because there isn't one. If you'll look at the aerial shot—the one with the sea far below, in the background, you'll see that the only visible access to the building is on the outskirts of Ravello, a narrow stairway cut out of the rock of the mountain, leading down to a broad deck, at what appears to be the rear of the building.”

“What sort of building is it?” Stone asked. “It appears to be cut into the mountainside.”

“Honestly, I don't know. The building permit says it's a storage facility, but for the life of me I can't see why anyone would store anything there. The seaward side would have an impressive view, though, so it could be a residence.”

“So how would they get construction materials in there? Certainly not down that narrow stairway.”

“First, on the construction elevator, which would be removed when an interior elevator is available.” Jim produced more photographs. “Then like this,” he said. “A large flatbed truck pulls up as close as it can get to the rear of the house, and a crane lifts pallets of boxes or pieces of furniture and sets them down on the rear deck, from where they are taken inside by workmen. It appears that someone or some business is moving into the building now.”

“This has got to be the place,” Stone said, “by a process of elimination, if nothing else.”

“Except we're missing the feature we've been searching for: the outside elevator.”

“You said they're moving into the place—maybe they were finished with the elevator. Had to happen sometime.”

“I expect you're right.”

“Maybe there's a more permanent elevator on the other side.”

Jim showed him another photo. “The other side is a sheer rock face, nearly three hundred feet above the coastal highway.”

Stone looked at the photo. “This is impossible.”

“More like impossibly expensive.”

“How's that?”

“The only place they could have an elevator would be
inside
the face of the cliff.”

“You mean, a vertical shaft cut out of the rock?”

“It's the only thing I can think of.”

“Who could afford to do that?”

“Maybe somebody who owns his own construction company,” Jim said.

“Can we get plans for the building?”

“They're on the way.”

A
fter sunset, the articulated truck and trailer bearing Leo Casselli pulled to a stop at a wide place in the Amalfi coastal road. This led to a sort of canyon large enough to hold a couple of dozen cars.

The rear doors were opened and a set of steps set in place, and Casselli walked down them.

“This way, Don Leonardo,” his minion said. He led the way toward a tall, recently planted hedge that shielded the entrance to the house from sight.

“Very nice,” Casselli said, stroking the hedge like a pet.

“This way, Don Leonardo.” The man opened a heavy steel door, then another of smoked glass. A couple of steps, and they were in the new elevator. “Very good,” Casselli said. “I told the architect I wanted it big enough for a grand piano.”

“The piano is already in place, Don Leonardo. The house is ninety-nine percent ready for use, should you wish to spend the night.”

Casselli pressed the top button, and the elevator rose swiftly.

“First, the lower floor for staff, technical equipment, and kitchens, which are connected to the other floors by a dumbwaiter, then the main-floor living quarters, built to your specifications.”

The elevator came to rest on the main floor, and the doors slid open, directly into a very large living room, which was beautifully furnished with soft furniture and good art.

“It is like the architect's drawings,” Casselli said. “It is very pleasing to me.”

“Would you like to see the bedrooms?”

“Yes.”

The man led him up a spiral staircase from room to room; each bedroom had a large en suite bath and a sitting room, as well. “And now the master suite,” the man said.

Casselli emerged into a large suite with two bathrooms, two dressing rooms, and a large sitting room with a spectacular view of the sea below. Still more art hung there.

“Your clothes have already been placed in your dressing room, Don Leonardo, as per your instructions.”

“Is there a cook present?”

“The house is fully staffed as of this moment.”

“Then I will have dinner served here,” he said, taking a seat in a reclining chair and switching on a six-foot television screen. “Where is the girl?” Casselli asked.

“In a maid's room, on the lower level, awaiting your pleasure.”

“I need no pleasure from her, and I have no wish to see her. I merely want to know she is here. When is Sophia due?”

“She is being driven down from Rome, sir, and should be here within the hour.”

“Ah, good. Tell the cook to delay dinner until her arrival, and bring us a bottle of the Masi Amerone, the oldest we have.”

“Of course, Don Leonardo. You have only to lift the phone and press the upper-right-hand button to page anyone in the house.” He left his master to his news show.

—

S
tone leafed through the plans that Jim Lugano had brought; Dante, the policeman, had joined them. “This is spectacular,” Stone said. There was a profile elevation showing the elevator shaft, plans of each floor, plus drawings of electrical and plumbing installations. There were renderings of each room, showing furniture placement.

“Look,” Stone said, pointing, “he even has a grand piano, and it's a nine-footer, if this scale is correct. I wonder how he got it into the house.”

Jim applied a scaled ruler to the plans. “The elevator is three by three meters, big enough for the piano and large artwork, too. You only see elevators like that in museums. And there's a security room on the lower level. He's got cameras everywhere.”

“If we want to get in there, we're going to need a power failure,” Stone said.

“That won't work—he has a fifty-kilowatt generator on the lower level, enough to power the whole place.” Lugano looked at him funny. “Stone, you're not thinking about going in there, are you?”

“I don't see how we're going to get Hedy out, unless we do.”

“That would not be a quiet operation,” Jim replied. “We'd need fifty people, at least. We've got three stories to deal with, plus that elevator.”

Stone pointed to the plans. “There are four staff rooms here, on the lower level. That's where Hedy has got to be.”

“Yeah? In which one?”

“I'll have to let you know about that,” Stone said.

A
squad of Italian police arrived bright and early at a freight yard connected to Leo Casselli. The commanding officer marched into the office and found two people working there. He handed them a search warrant. “I want the registration and insurance documentation for every vehicle and trailer on this lot,” he said to the man in charge, “and be quick about it.”

“Do you know who owns this place?” the manager whispered to him.

“Yes, I do,” the cop whispered back. “It's Leo Casselli's place.”

The man blanched. “I will get into big trouble.”

“You're already in big trouble,” the cop said. “And if I have to tell you again to get moving, I'll put you in handcuffs and tear this place apart.”

The man got moving. He went to a filing cabinet and removed
a stack of folders. “Here,” he said. “This is the file on every piece of equipment in the yard. The serial number for each is written on the outside of the folder.”

The cops went to work. Two hours later, the lead cop called his men together. “Have you finished?”

“Yes, sir,” one of them said. “Except for that trailer, the refrigerated one—there is no record of it.”

“Get me the bolt cutters,” he said.

He walked over to the trailer and cut the padlock. “Open it!”

Two men swung open the doors; the trailer was filled to the ceiling with cardboard boxes.

“What is it?” the cop asked.

A man pulled down a box and cut it open. “Candy,” he said.

“Bring me those two people from the office.”

The two workers were marched out.

“Where is the paperwork for this trailer?”

“Um, there is no paperwork,” one of them said. “We arrived for work a couple of days ago, and it was sitting here. We have to refill the tank for the refrigeration unit every day.”

“You are both under arrest for the receiving of stolen goods,” the cop said, “and every vehicle and trailer on this lot is now confiscated. Bring me the keys for all of them.”

“Confiscated?” the man said. “I will be shot.”

“It is now all the property of the Italian government,” the cop said, “and so are you.”

—

S
tone, Dino, and Viv were at lunch, with Jim and Dante as their guests, when Dante's phone rang.
“Pronto.”
He listened for a moment.
“Eccellente.”
He hung up. “You will all be delighted to know that we have found the missing shipment of chocolate, and that the trailer is parked on a lot owned by Leo Casselli. We have confiscated half a dozen trucks and two dozen trailers and arrested the workers there. It will be interesting to see who makes bail for them.”

“Baron Klaucke will be thrilled,” Stone said, “but only if this leads to Casselli's arrest and conviction.”

“Now we have two provable charges against Casselli,” Dante said. “The kidnapping of the baron and the larceny of the chocolate and its trailer. That's progress.”

—

C
asselli was having a light lunch when his phone rang.
“Pronto.”

“Don Leonardo,” a voice said, “the police have raided your lot in Naples and have discovered the load of chocolate.”

Casselli laughed. “They are welcome to it,” he said.

“It is worse,” the voice said. “They have arrested your two employees on the lot and they have confiscated every vehicle there.”

“Confiscated?” Casselli asked, disbelieving. “Call our captain of police in Naples and have this order canceled at once.”

“I have already called him,” the man said, “and he hung up on me.”

“Hung up on you? I don't believe it!”

“He must believe his telephone is tapped.”

“What phone are you calling from?”

“My cell phone, Don Leonardo.”

“Bail those people out of jail before they start talking!” He hung up.

“Something wrong, darling?” the lovely Sophia asked.

“You might say that,” Casselli said, and he was sweating.

—

C
asselli isn't going to like this,” Lugano said, smiling.

“Wait until he tries to get his people out of jail,” Dante said. “We have moved them south, to Salerno. He is not going to like that a lot!”

“It's about time he started to get nervous,” Jim said. “He's not accustomed to being nervous, and when people are nervous, they make mistakes.”