Kidnapped and a Daring Escape (44 page)

    
She muses whether Gallizio’s remark about why her sister and her
mother are constantly on a war footing with each other could be true. She
remembers that already as a small child Gabriela always defied her
mother. She often protected her sister; sometimes she even hid her in her
room when her mother wanted to punish her.

    
Gabriela drives up and parks her car illegally in front of Bocelli’s. She
joins her. "What’s the news?"

    
"Not good," Bianca replies, shaking her head, and then tells her what
Gallizio said.

    
"Come, sister. You have to keep your spirits up, think positive. From
what you told me about André, he might spring a surprise on everybody.
Didn’t you say he always does the unexpected?"

    
Bianca nods, smiling in spite of herself.

    
"You cannot imagine the atmosphere at home. Minus fifty degrees.
Mamma is hysterical to the third degree. She and papà get into a shouting
match the moment they see each other. They are digging up things from
the past that have nothing to do with you or what just happened."

    
"Papà was in on Franco’s
denuncia
, I’m pretty certain."

    
"No, he wouldn’t," exclaims Gabriela and then looks around guiltily.

    
"Yes, he gave himself away and didn’t deny it when I accused him of
it."

    
"Sister, you dared accuse him? I take my hat off. I also heard that you
threw your credit card at him."

    
"Not at him, just on his desk."

    
"Then let me pay here, since you will now have to count your cents."

    
"Thanks, Gabriela. I’ll cope."

    
"You know, you’ve really changed. André has been good for you. So
what are your plans now?"

    
"Wait and wait some more. What else can I do?"

    
"There must be things you can do. For instance, you can talk to your
fellow students and find out who remembers Franco coming late to that
dinner the night before the kidnapping."

    
Yes and give Gallizio their names, she muses, and there is also Angela
who came out into the corridor to check when I knocked so hard on
Franco’s door before dinner. "No, Gallizio should do that; otherwise I
might be accused of trying to influence potential witnesses. But thanks
for reminding me."

    
"Maybe you should write down all these things as they come to your
mind."

    
"Yes, good idea."

    
"And what are you doing now?"

    
"Eat lunch at a place I can afford."

    
"Sister, no worry. Let’s eat here. I’ll pay. My credit card still works."

* * *

Midmorning on Tuesday, a guard calls André, handcuffs him, and leads
him into the basement. He is put into a windowless prison transport
vehicle with two other men already waiting. After what he guesses is
some twenty minutes, the vehicle stops. They are let out into a high-walled courtyard. The two-storey concrete building with its small barred
windows looks bleak and forbidding. Their handcuffs are removed and
they go through another processing, this time to change into prison
uniforms, including plastic slippers. He is handed a towel, a cake of soap
and toothbrush. It looks like they intend to keep me here on remand for
a while, he reckons.

    
He is assigned the upper bunk in a cell that he shares with a man in his
forties. The cell is barely large enough for the bunk bed, two chairs, a
small metal table firmly bolted to the wall and the cover less, stainless
steel toilet bowl. The door slams shut with a loud click. He observes the
guard quickly look through the little barred spy hole in the door.

    
"I’m André Villier," he introduces himself to the man who has risen
from the bed.

    
The fellow looks at him displeased and grunts. No welcoming
reception this time, muses André. He shrugs his shoulders and inspects
the cell. Another towel hangs on a short railing, with toiletries on a
narrow shelf above. André adds his own stuff. Then he sits on a chair in
reverse, facing the man slouched on the lower bunk. The little hair he has
left is unkempt and greasy. His face is puffed up, and he badly needs a
shave. He looks like somebody who could do with exercise. His potbelly
bulges over his thighs. Not the kind of man with whom André would
choose to share a room.

    
"Since we have the pleasure of sharing this room, we might as well get
acquainted, and you may even give me some useful hints on how to
survive here, right? I’m a journalist and they accuse me of kidnapping a
rich, pretty girl. So what may I call you?"

    
"Pietro … Pietro Macalli," the man grunts.

    
"All right, Pietro. What are you accused of?"

    
"Theft."

    
"And did you do it?"

    
"You’re inside for the first time or you wouldn’t ask a stupid question
like this."

    
"Right. I get the idea. Rather dumb of me, I admit. Yes, this is my first
time behind bars and it’s quite an education. But you know this place and
how to survive here, don’t you?"

    
"Yes."

    
"Willing to teach me some tricks?"

    
"You’ll get the hang pretty quick or you’ll have your nose broken."

    
"Oh, that would be a shame. I like its current shape."

    
"You’ll soon stop joking here, I can vouch for that."

    
"So are you going to tell me or let me get my nose rearranged?"

    
"Just watch out for the two tall fellows. They’ll want protection
money. You better give it to them. They don’t fool around."

    
"The guards are no help."

    
He sneers: "They get their cut."

    
"And how much is it?"

    
"That depends on what they think they can squeeze out of you. It’s a
euro a day for me, could be ten for you. You’ll find out before tonight."

    
"I see. And what do you do all day?"

    
"Nothing."

    
"No books? No exercise?"

    
"No, I only look at pictures in magazines and I’ve seen them all. The
two guys keep them in their room and you have to pay to see them."

    
"These guys seem to have set up quite a lucrative business. They may
never wish to leave here."

    
"Just go on joking. They’ll soon beat it out of you."

    
With that he turns and lies down on his bunk again. André stretches
and does warm-up exercises, followed by a strenuous workout of half-an-hour.

    
The door is unlocked at eleven thirty. Pietro rises and shuffles out the
door and down the metal lattice corridor. André follows. Men come out
of other cells, forming a column on each corridor on both sides of the
open prison core, moving along and down the central metal staircase.
Prison wardens with batons drawn stand guard on the ground floor,
keeping a watch on the flow of prisoners. Somebody pushes him on the
stairs, but he manages to balance himself and ignores it. Only at the
bottom, as he turns down the hallway, does he get a glimpse of the
fellow. It is indeed a tall man who stares at him menacingly.

    
André joins the queue forming in front of the counter where three
prisoners serve food. Following the lead of the guys ahead of him, he
takes a metal plate and a spoon and presents it to the first man behind the
counter. A blob of sticky rice is dumped on his plate, the next man adds
some overcooked vegetables, the third pours gravy with a couple of small
chunks of meat over the rice.

    
As André starts to follow the man in front to one of the tables, he gets
a violent push into the right shoulder. Unprepared, he stumbles. Most of
the food on his plate spills to the floor.

    
"Clumsy fellow," the prisoner behind him shouts. "Look what you
made me do?" The man has indeed one foot in the spilled food. "That
will cost you!" he hisses.

    
André’s instinctive reaction is to floor the fellow who, he figures,
deliberately pushed him, but holds himself back in time. It would be
stupid to get in trouble over some spilled food. At that point, a guard
approaches, berates André and orders him to clean up the mess, pointing
to a bucket nearby. The ready availability of a bucket is a telltale sign that
harassment of this type occurs rather frequently. André is convinced that
the guard must have seen who pushed him. Without a word, he puts
down his almost empty plate and takes the rag that hangs over the bucket.
It is gray from use and lack of proper washing. He collects the food and
dumps it into the bucket. Then he wipes the floor as best is he can. When
he gets up with his empty plate, the guard beckons him to deposit the
plate on a trolley and orders him to follow. At the door to the mess hall,
he tells another guard to take the prisoner back to his cell.

    
"Next time, be more careful," he admonishes André.

    
So that’s my first meal, he muses, as he climbs on his bunk to lie
down.

    
Ten minutes later his cell mate returns, grunting: "I warned you to
watch out for the tall fellows. You can expect their visit shortly."

    
"Don’t they lock us in again?"

    
"No, the doors are open for the next hour. Exercise time. We are
supposed to walk around."

    
It takes only a few minutes and the tall fellow enters the cell, while
another one blocks the door. He only wags his head and Pietro scurries
out.

    
"Man, that was real dumb of you to aggravate me like this, making me
step into your mess." He is standing close to the bunk. "And when I talk
to you, you show me some respect." He grabs André’s foot, trying to pull
him down.

    
"Look man, just take it easy," André answers, climbing down from the
bunk. "What do you want?"

    
"Ah, that’s better," the guy sneers, looking him up and down
threateningly. Turning to the one at the door, he asks with a grin:
"Fausto, what do you think he’s worth?"

    
"Twenty?"

    
"That may be on the steep side. Let’s be more charitable." He
appraises André again from top to bottom. "Say ten a day. We’re letting
you off real easy, man."

    
"I’m sorry, but I don’t understand what you want."

    
"Slow, isn’t he?" The fellow sneers to Fausto. "We want that you pay
us ten euros a day protection money. Nobody’ll touch you then." He
accentuates his words with repeated stabs into André’s chest.

    
"And if I don’t have that kind of money?"

    
"Then we aren’t responsible for what’ll happen to you."

    
André decides to gain time. "Look, I’ve just arrived. I’ve not seen my
lawyer yet. I can’t give you anything until I manage to arrange it with
him."

    
"Sure, man, we understand. I’ll give you until tomorrow noon. Then
I want payment for the first three days. You get that real good?" He grins.
"Call me Massimo, man." With that both leave with another menacing
look and amble down the corridor.

    
André hopes that he will see the lawyer before noon tomorrow and ask
him to take steps to protect him. He doesn’t want to think yet of what he
will need to do otherwise.

    
Pietro soon returns to the cell and lies down again.