Almost the Truth: A Novel of the Forties and the Sixties

By Rjuggero J. Aldisert

The setting is New York City in 1963 where the protagonist, Victor Mancuso, is a prominent lawyer. His good friend and client, Alex Reinmann has been kidnapped in Italy. In Rome, during the Nazi occupation in June of 1944, the kidnappers served as freedom fighters with Alex, who had been a secret operative with the OSS, a United States intelligence agency.

On the day of Romes liberation, Alex confiscated from the fleeing fascists a supply of diamonds and other jewels, and buried them in the countryside outside of Rome. He reported this incident to his fellow partisans who would become his kidnappers years later.

The kidnappers believed that Alex could lead them to the buried fortune. But after questioning Alex at length about the location of the fortune, the kidnappers finally decided he truthfully did not know its whereabouts. Fearing prosecution for kidnapping if they released Alex, they decided to kill him.

The plot was foiled when Alex was rescued by a combination of the Italian Military PoliceCthe Carabinieri, headed by the beautiful Sergeant Regina GraziellaCand a group of American private detectives led by Victor.

After the rescue, a congressional committee in the United States, as well as certain indignant members of the Carabinieri, alleged that Alex was lying under oath when he denied ever recovering the jewels. A resulting indictment of Alex for perjury took place in New York. Victor volunteered to represent Alex at trial to clear the name of his client and close friend.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 8, 2014
• ISBN: 9781491843482

Book preview

PART ONE

MAY 1963

Chapter One

Law Offices

Mancuso & Johnson

Madison Avenue

New York City

May 20, 1963

1000 hours

I heard some shouts, many voices and then the line went dead, Pat said. He was on the phone with Victor Mancuso, his lawyer.

That was the last thing you heard? Victor asked.

That’s it, I’m devastated. They’ve kidnapped him, Pat said, his voice cracking. He had told Victor that Alex Reinmann, Pat’s business partner, had gone to Italy on a business trip a week ago and Pat had no word from him until the cryptic phone call.

Now tell me again. Try to remember every word, Victor said. He was putting on his calm, courtroom voice, not to reveal that he, too, was disturbed.

Well, Alex went to Italy on a business trip—

No, no. I want to hear only about the telephone call, give me the other matters later.

Okay, when Alex called he said something like ‘they’ve got me in Rome at some hotel, don’t know the name, but it ends with ‘ay-ah.’ These guys drugged me, have me under lock and key. The guy who’s guarding me is in the head.’ That’s all he said.

And then came the shouts from different voices and the line went dead?

That’s it. I’m scared witless.

That’s all you know? Victor asked, his mind racing through many scenarios, none of which was good.

Well, Alex flew to Italy last week to close a deal, Pat said. A company over there wants to license our photocopy technique for the European market. They want this year’s model, the 1963 high-speed special. Alex promised to phone or cable as soon as he got there. I hadn’t heard a word from him until this morning. I was a little worried until I got this call today. Now I’m a nervous wreck.

* * * * *

Patrick S. Gleason was president of Gyrene Laboratories, Inc., the Massachusetts-based research and development company widely known for inventing and licensing photocopy equipment, as well as electronic and computer components. Gyrene employed almost 100 scientists and laboratory technicians. Alexander M. Reinmann was its director of research. Without him, this company would be like a symphony orchestra without its violins.

Fresh out of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology with Ph.D. degrees in 1950, having completed their courses under the G.I. bill, Pat and Alex were World War II Marine Corps veterans. They had come to see Victor Mancuso in New York. We don’t have one nickel to rub against another, Alex had said. We know you by reputation. You help fellow Marines, and we’re not looking for a handout. Sir, all we’re asking is a few minutes of your time to hear what we have to say. Okay?

To Victor, Once a Marine, Always a Marine, was more than a slogan for those who had worn the globe and anchor. He lit a Lozano Cuban cigar, Churchill size, and told his secretary to hold all calls. Victor said that he had a busy schedule, but would allocate ten minutes for them. Hell, I’ll always find time for guys who served with the Corps out in the islands, he said.

* * * * *

Stand easy, Pat, Victor said. I’ll call Joe and we’ll get cracking right away. In the meantime, put together all the information on the Italian company, names of people, paperwork, whatever. I’ll call back in a half hour. Victor dialed the private line of Joseph Napoleone, head of the Park Avenue investigating agency that bore his name. His personal secretary answered. This is Vic. I need Joe right away. Tell him to drop everything he’s doing. It’s an emergency.

Pat did not wait for Victor’s call. He telephoned with more bad news. All we have is the name and address of the company. Alex took the entire file with him.

Give me all you got, Victor said.

Tritone Sciénza Compagnia, S.P.A., Piazza Barberini, 122. No names of people. No telephone numbers. It’s all in the file that Alex has. No one else handled it. The Italian principals didn’t speak English, and Alex’s the only person here who speaks Italian. That’s why he handled it personally, instead of our marketing department.

I didn’t know Alex spoke Italian. I knew he was fluent in German, Victor said. He was breathing heavily now. He liked things to be neat and tidy, both in the law and in business. Meticulous in preparation, Victor did not like surprises, and Pat’s phone calls today were dishing out one surprise after another.

His family was trilingual, Pat said. Father born in Germany, mother in Italy. Both dead now, but they were language professors at a college somewhere in the Midwest. Alex can move from English to German to Italian without missing a beat.

I’ll get back to you as soon as I make some calls. As a Marine officer and lawyer, Victor never acted from desperation. Keep calm and think straight. These were his watchwords, but at this moment, he found it impossible to be unperturbed. Not only was Alex missing under strange circumstances, but Victor had now been exposed to a new dimension of a man he had known so long and intimately. Alex had been a Marine, too, in World War II, but what in the hell was a Marine who speaks both German and Italian doing out with the Fleet Marine Force in the Pacific? And what was the real reason for traipsing off to Italy? Was he really a kidnap victim? Was there some dark side to Alex’s character?

Victor flipped through his Rolodex for the number of Giorgio Lucca, longtime manager of the Rome office of Ringoletti, Europe’s leading office machine manufacturer. It was eleven in the morning in New York, but five in the afternoon in Rome when Victor reached him. They spoke in Italian. Victor’s parents were born in Italy and at an early age he had become proficient in the language. My dear, Vittorio. It has been a long time. Are you coming over again? We have much to talk about. Giorgio said. Victor had met Giorgio years ago on business with Ringoletti for a client, and over the years they had become very close. Through Giorgio’s recommendation, the Mancuso & Johnson law firm had become North American counsel for the vast Ringoletti office machine company. In this capacity, Victor often traveled to Italy on business and made it a point to spend time with Giorgio as much as possible.

"Right now it’s business, amico, Victor said. I need to know as much as I can about a certain company." He gave him the name and address and explained Alex’s disappearance.

I never heard of them, Giorgio said. The address you give is directly across the piazza from my office. I’m very surprised that I don’t know them at all.

Please find out for me as soon as you can. We’re in trouble over here.

I have the connections. Will call you back. Wait for me.

Victor was now thinking that, obviously, Tritone was a brand new company, otherwise Giorgio would have been familiar with it. Corporate executive and sophisticated Roman, a true insider, he knew all the activity and gossip in the Via Veneto-Piazza Barberini section of Rome. Victor’s thoughts were interrupted by his secretary: Mr. Napoleone’s on the line.

Joe, where in the hell are you? I need you, ole buddy. I have a five-bell emergency. Red ball your ass over here.

Hell, I was going to the gym for a workout. I’m in the car about eight blocks from your office, but coming right over. Joe said.

* * * * *

Alex Reinmann was not only Victor’s friend, but it was his inventive genius that had catapulted Gyrene Labs to its extraordinary professional and financial success. Alex, Pat and Victor made a great team. Alex was the innovator. Pat was the engineer who transformed Alex’s ideas into functioning models that could be licensed to the industry. Victor was more than their lawyer, having raised the original capital for Gyrene Labs, and going on to organize the corporate infrastructure for the two scientists and recruit marketing specialists. He was the company’s first chairman of the board of directors and still served in that capacity.

* * * * *

Joe appeared in the doorway and stopped, hands on hips, head erect, a wide grin on his face. So, the officers are in trouble and gotta call in the NCOs, he said. Victor and Joe were best friends and went back to the Solomon Islands in the South Pacific, to August 1942, when Victor was a second lieutenant, commanding a Marine Corps weapons platoon and Joe, his gunnery sergeant. Slightly under six feet, lean and muscular, Joe still walked with a trace of a limp, courtesy of Japanese mortar fragments. He was past his mid-forties and weather had etched his face after many years of working the streets for the NYPD, but he was in prime physical shape. He always walked on the balls of his feet, like a major-league shortstop.

Get a load off and sit down, Joe. I got a sack full of trouble. You know Alex Reinmann, of course?

Sure, boss. One of the big brains at Gyrene Labs. As close as Joe and Victor had become, Joe never addressed him by his first name. A genuine product of the military, he always addressed Victor as boss or colonel.

We think Alex’s the victim of a snatch in Italy, Victor said, and we’ve got to do something about it. He brought him up to date on the day’s telephone calls.

Joe noticed that his friend was not himself, was too serious, too subdued. Boss, you and I have been through a lot together and we’re not gonna let this thing get us down, Joe said. What the hell, no Japs are shooting at us. Before we do anything, we go to the gym. Get a little steam, a rub down, then you’ll feel better and be ready for action. Hey, you putting on a little weight? Joe let out a laugh and feigned a boxer’s stance.

Victor wasn’t putting on any weight and Joe knew it. Mancuso was a bird colonel in the active Marine Corps Reserve, had not an ounce of fat on his six-foot-three frame, and he kept it that way by constantly working out at the gym, punching the big body bag, sometimes going a few rounds with a sparring partner, and going for a run through Central Park at daybreak every morning. He looked much younger than his forty-five years. Handsome and well-to-do, one of the most eligible bachelors in New York, The New Yorker had described him in a lengthy profile of the World War II war hero, who had been awarded the Medal of Honor at Guadalcanal and had become a successful litigator with one of Wall Street’s largest law firms when he decided to shuck the big firm practice to start his own firm. At first, there were only five lawyers in Mancuso & Johnson, but it had expanded to twenty, considered small by Wall Street standards, but the magazine referred to Victor as, The quintessential lawyer’s lawyer, the man the corporations turn to when they need a trial lawyer in an important case and can afford to pay for the best. When you’re in trouble, Vic Mancuso is the man to see.

The men were interrupted by Victor’s secretary. Giorgio was calling. I have bad news for you, he said. There’s no such company named Tritone Sciénza on the Piazza Barberini or listed in the Rome city directory. I called my cousin at the Guardia di Finanza. He made a thorough search in the central office of all taxpayers in Italy. No such company exists. Victor made no comment. There was total silence over the Transatlantic phone line. My friend, you’re not saying anything. Talk to me, Giorgio said. What do you want me to do?

Victor said nothing, looked down at his desk as seconds ticked away, and then raised his eyes to Joe and held the gaze. Joe nodded slightly. Vittorio, are you still there? Are we disconnected? Giorgio asked.

Victor let out a deep breath and said, "Thank you, amico, I have now decided what has to be done. Goodbye and thank you, Giorgio." He re-placed the phone on its cradle.

Do you want me to get in touch with the Italian police? Joe asked. Victor shook his head and looked at his fingers, drumming on the desk. After a few moments, he looked up at Joe who raised his eyebrows and nodded again. The two men continued to look at each other and Joe nodded still again, this time more deliberately. Victor closed his eyes and returned the nod.

Chapter Two

Law Offices

Mancuso & Johnson

Madison Avenue

New York City

May 20, 1963

1200 hours

Y eah, we gotta go over there, Joe said, folding his arms across his chest. Victor pursed his lips and telephoned Giorgio to tell him to expect them.

They were in Victor’s corner office on the top floor, high enough to be insulated from Madison Avenue traffic noise. Victor shoved a fresh yellow pad over to him and they began to brainstorm the problem.

We’re back in the boonies, Colonel, Joe said. We gotta mount an operation to rescue Alex. This won’t mean drafting papers and legal briefs and all that crap and running down to a judge to get immediate relief.

I’m afraid you’re right, Victor said. He realized that they had to go back to what they had done in the South Pacific. It would be a military operation, like sending out a patrol to accomplish an objective.

I’ve been thinking about Operation Idaho, Victor said.

So have I, Joe said. Two years before, an important client of Victor’s had been kidnapped while on an Idaho fishing trip. Although the FBI was handling the case, it was going nowhere. Retained by the company’s board of directors to do something, no questions asked, no matter the expense, Victor called in Joe and they mounted a para-military operation in the wilds of Idaho. Within ten days, they rescued the victim, and all four kidnappers ended up with .30 caliber rifle shots in their heads. Neither the FBI nor the sheriff’s office was able to discover who did it. The kidnap victim reported simply that a band of masked men rescued him and dropped him off at the town nearest to the mountain shack where he had been held. In a week, the sensational story left the front pages and no major efforts to investigate the killing of the kidnappers were made, especially when the word went out that all four kidnappers were escapees from a Texas maximum security prison. They all had long felony convictions and two of them had been serving life sentences for murder.

But that was in the past. They now talked for about an hour, bandying about strategy on how to rescue Alex Reinmann from kidnappers in a foreign country.

I’m going to lay this one on you again, Joe. Maybe it isn’t a snatch. Maybe, friend Alex had something on the side, Victor said. Not a woman, mind you, but something else. What kinda vibes are in that policeman’s noggin of yours?

We deal with realities on what facts we have. We haven’t got much. All I’m prepared to say, in the language you lawyers use, it’s more probable than not he’s been kidnapped. To talk like a gambler, I’m just slightly over fifty percent sure. They debated whether a kidnapping had actually taken place, and if not, how to explain Alex’s garbled and truncated call to Pat Gleason.

Joe then ticked off the key people he wanted to bring. Certainly, Mike. He’s former CIA. Has connections with Rome. We need Red, a whiz on electronics and radio gear. He’s tough as nails, former Army Ranger, veteran of Omaha Beach. Ten years with the NYPD. Depends on what cooperation we’ll get with the police people over there.

How about Larry? Can you spare him? Victor asked. Larry Barnes was a former FBI agent who was the number two man in Joseph Napoleone Associates. We can’t cut corners here. Money’s no object. We need the best you got.

Okay, boss. My number three man can run the office back here. He’ll stand by to send over more troops and supplies if that becomes necessary. When do we shove off?

Tomorrow.

Jesus Christ, tomorrow! Joe scowled and looked straight at Victor. Ah shoot, you’re right. We gotta get cracking now. One thing, Colonel, you gotta call Adrienne and explain how fast this is breaking. Victor smiled. Adrienne was Joe’s wife, so close to Victor that he referred to her as the sister he never had.

You got it. Now I’ve got to clear the decks. Victor said. He summoned his secretary, Prepare a check for $100,000 payable to Joe’s agency. Cut another for $100,000 cash and charge both to the Gyrene Labs account. He turned to Joe. At the bank, get it all in $100 bills. We don’t know what to expect over there.

I understand, boss. We’ll be carrying a lot of dough.

I want it that way. I know how the Italian banks work. They’re slow as hell with letters of credit and receiving wired assets. Tell Mike and Larry that we don’t want to declare this money when we leave the U.S. and, particularly, when we enter over there. There are Italian laws about how much cash you can bring in or out. Your people will know the drill. Have them solve it.

As Joe got up to leave, Victor said, I know we’ve kicked this around a lot. I want you to know that the bottom line is that I really feel we’re facing a kidnap. I’m just uneasy, that’s all.

I understand, Joe said.

I know Gyrene Labs like I know the back of my hand. I just think it’s strange as hell that Alex, who really doesn’t give a darn about marketing, or any business transaction, decides to fly off to Italy. He’s Mr. Scientist in the company, yet he suddenly picks up the entire file to go to Rome to sell some photocopy machines.

Boss, I read you five and five. Our marching orders are to proceed as if it’s a snatch, but keep an open mind that there may be something else goin’ on, Joe said. With the feeblest of all possible smiles on his face, Victor waved him out.

Excelsior Hotel

Via Veneto,

Rome, Italy

May 22, 1963

1930 hours

They had booked seats on the new TWA DC-8 jet to Rome, and after they landed, Mike’s CIA connections whizzed them through passport control and customs at Rome’s Leonardo da Vinci airport at Fiumicino, and they settled in the largest suite in the posh Hotel Excelsior on the Via Veneto. Superb luxury—two sitting rooms, dining room, kitchen, four bedrooms, phones in every room. This was turn-of-the century opulence. No post-war, mass-produced Hilton Hotel standard eight-foot ceilings here, but large, tall rooms with oil paintings and sculptured cornices and molded festoons. Dark woods framed window casements, archways and doorways. Fabric on immense upholstered sofas, club chairs and ottomans was bright tapestry. The dining room table could accommodate eighteen. In each room was a panel of buttons to summon a chambermaid, valet or waiter. Hearkening to an era when milady needed someone to soap her back while bathing or to reach for a towel, over each bathtub was a cord, which, when pulled, would summon a cameriera, who would announce the ritual, "permesso," as she entered the suite with her key and headed for a particular bathroom indicated in the panel of response lights located at the maid’s station on the floor.

When checking into the hotel, Victor had approached the head concierge and handed him ten one-hundred dollar bills. We are pleased to thank you in advance for the gracious services you will render my people, and there will be more when we leave, he said. In formal morning wear, with crossed keys on his lapels, the concierge bowed slightly, shook his hand, looking always at his eyes, and never his hands, and assured him that twenty-four hours a day any wish was his command.

Victor telephoned Giorgio Lucca. Telling him that they had arrived, he said in fluent Italian, I’m depending on you, because you are my friend and only real contact in Italy.

* * * * *

My dear friend, I am at your service. Giorgio said as he entered the suite. "Madonna mia, I thought only the Arabs took this suite for their harems." He was a big man, six foot four with a huge frame generously filled out with daily jousts with mammoth dishes of pasta. Ruddy, with heavy cheeks, a fine Roman nose, black pomaded hair, combed straight back, now starting to show grey, Giorgio spoke with a basso profondo, incapable of being tuned down to a whisper. He was one of those rare metropolitan types who seem to be on a first-name basis with everyone who’s anyone. He embraced Victor and kissed him on both cheeks.

We’re here to find Alexander Reinmann, Giorgio, and this will be our headquarters. We need the space, Victor said and introduced members of his party. When Joe spoke to him in Italian, Giorgio effusively told him that he was impressed.

"I was born around the corner on Via Ludovisi. In the same condominium apartment home was born my friend, Cesare Falcone, with whom I went to elementary school and liceo. Instead of the university, Cesare went to the national military academy and became an officer, pezzo grosso, big man now. Giorgio ran his thumb under his right eye and pulled down on his face, an Italian gesture meaning someone special. He’s now a colonel in the Carabinieri, commanding all this area around Rome. You know what that means?" Victor frowned and turned to Joe for assistance.

Gotcha there, boss, he said. This is something I know. There are two national police forces in Italy. One’s the state police, the other’s quasi-military, called the Carabinieri. It’s an elite police force but, technically, it’s part of the army. Giorgio smiled. And apparently, Mr. Lucca’s friend is the chief of police of Rome.

More than Rome, Signor Napoleone, he’s in charge of all Central Italy, Giorgio said. His command usually rates a brigadier, and Cesare will soon be promoted. He then told them that he had briefed Colonel Falcone on what he knew and that his friend had agreed to meet with them the next day.

Hotel Excelsior

Rome, Italy

May 23, 1963

1100 hours

Colonel Falcone arrived at the hotel the next morning, and Victor escorted him to the dining room where an espresso machine had been installed on a buffet next to gleaming silver trays of fruit. With him were a lieutenant and several noncommissioned officers, including a woman sergeant. Victor was startled. He recognized her. A striking young woman, whose navy blue police uniform did not completely disguise an exquisite figure. She had very light skin, dark brown eyes, black curly hair which poked from under her officer’s cap, a cap decorated with the Carabinieri silver symbol—a bursting bomb against a red background. Victor especially remembered her striking eyes, and bachelor that he was, as he did whenever he met an attractive woman, he looked at her left hand. He saw no wedding ring. As she began to speak, he recalled the smile that crinkled her face around those eyes.

Gentlemen, I am Sergeant Regina Graziella, she said. Attorney Mancuso and I met many years ago before I entered the service.

Victor debated giving her a hug, thought better of it, and instead took her hand and gave it a squeeze, Gina, I’m so very happy to see you again after all these years.

She responded in accented English, It’s so good to see you again, Vittorio.

And Regina is my goddaughter, Giorgio said.

Colonel Falcone had a handsome Roman profile, a face that revealed a lifetime in the outdoors, a grey moustache, trimmed military-style. Tall for an Italian, in a sharply pressed uniform that bore gold epaulets, his chest decorated with a splash of commendation ribbons, he wasted no time. He did not wait for elaborate introductions and spoke Italian with the certainty of one accustomed to command. "My life-long friend, Dott. Giorgio Lucca, has briefed me completely on this problem. Because it is so sensitive, I thought it best that we meet here, rather than at Carabinieri headquarters. An American corporate executive has been lured to Italy by a nonexistent company and at least for a time he was held hostage in a hotel here in Rome. No claim for ransom has been made as yet. We may have an abduction that is either for money or for some political motive. D’accordo, agreed?"

"D’accordo," Victor said.

"At the same time, because no ransom demand or political claim has been made, we may not have an abduction. D’accordo?"

"D’accordo."

"You should know, avvocato, that Dott. Lucca has spoken of you with much respect and affection. He tells me that you hold the rank of colonel in the Marine Corps and were awarded your country’s highest decoration for valor in World War II. You should know that in the military academy we have studied the amphibious war tactics of your magnificent corps. My compliments, sir."

I thank the colonel, Victor said as he shook his hand. You should know that Signor Napoleone and I are also equivocal on what actually has happened. May I respectfully inquire what approach you intend to take?

Because this may have political overtones, I have assigned our antiterrorism expert, Sergeant Graziella, to this case, the colonel said.

"Gesú, Giuseppe, Maria," Victor muttered to himself, a habit since childhood when the Mancuso family recited this whenever they were surprised. Victor was more than surprised, he was flabbergasted at Regina’s role in the Carabinieri. At first, he thought that she was either a driver or a messenger for the colonel; now he looked at her not only for her charms, which he knew quite well, but with a profound admiration of a professional.

Do not be under any misapprehensions, gentlemen, the colonel continued. Do not denigrate her competence because she is a woman, and a young one at that. She is one of Italy’s foremost experts in this field. Victor attempted to put on a poker face. My God, he thought, the last time we were together she was a light-hearted persona di vendite behind the counter at Doney’s pasticceria dishing out cornetti and cannoli; now she reappears a ranking Carabinieri officer fighting terrorists. He could not resist a smile and a nod of respect. Regina was standing stiffly, almost at attention. I suggest that we keep this out of the newspapers and proceed quietly, the colonel said. "I have already discussed this with the Polizia di Stato, our state police, and we have agreed that the Carabinieri will have exclusive jurisdiction."

Victor faced the colonel and said, "Joe is the head of a distinguished investigative agency bearing his name—Joseph Napoleone Investigation Associates and he has brought experienced agents with him to Italy. These men and women have extensive experience in both civil and criminal cases. I ask the colonel’s permission for them to participate in the investigation. Joe had extensive background as a New York City detective and rose to the rank of lieutenant. In New York City, the lieutenant’s group has an outstanding reputation.

A vigorous discussion followed, but the colonel was adamant. With all respect, this is for the police, not for civilians. I respect Avv. Mancuso, and Dott. Lucca has told me about the fine reputation of the Napoleone Agency, but I am sorry. No civilians. The Americans did not disguise their disappointment. Giorgio took the colonel into another room.

Soon after Colonel Falcone left the room, the Carabinieri lieutenant took the floor: Slightly built, deep olive complexion, with a thin face with eyes that seemed too close together, he had a high-pitched voice and announced in Italian: I am Lieutenant PierLuigi Fassino. You must understand that I will be in charge of this investigation and I do not speak English. I tell you now. I will not tolerate any discussion in English behind my back. I know how you Americans act.

Sergeant Graziella rolled her eyes. Meanwhile Fassino constantly shifted his eyes left and right as he continued to speak rapidly. You come to Italy with all your money and stay at the most expensive hotel in the largest suite. I know how you Americans act, with your gangsters, your loud and rude behavior. You look down your nose upon us Italians, especially you rich Italian Americans. You make your money by breaking the law. PierLuigi Fassino was not only a Carabinieri lieutenant, but was also secretary-general of the Rome unit of the Partito Communista Italiano. I have my own agenda and have decided to let you people here know how I feel, okay?

Victor rose from his chair. What did you say? Who are you calling a crook? And who’s talking behind your back? he said as he walked to Fassino. Victor was a foot taller and fifty pounds heavier than Fassino. He stopped only a few inches from him. Fassino’s eyes were still shifting. Do you understand my questions? Victor asked.

I have nothing more to say, Fassino spoke in Italian. I am a commissioned Carabinieri officer and I don’t have to answer your questions. Fassino was not a brave man. He feared physical violence and was not comfortable in the presence of taller, stronger men. Notwithstanding his rank and verbalizations, Fassino could not keep a quiver out of his voice. I understand you people and how you Americans act. As he spoke he was unable to prevent beads of perspiration from glistening his forehead. He had risen in the ranks of the Italian Communist Party, and there were those who said that his promotion to lieutenant was throwing a sop to their arch political foes by the ruling Democrazia Cristiano party.

Victor approached Sergeant Graziella and whispered to her in English: Is it true that he doesn’t understand English?

She smiled and whispered back, Absolutely. He insists that it is a capitalistic language. That was good enough for Victor.

Looking at Fassino and smiling, he spoke in English as if he were complimenting him, voice modulated and conversational. Gentlemen, we have a real piece of work here. He’s a little turd. I want all of you to watch this prick night and day. If this jackass does anything to interfere with our mission here, we give him a real Idaho treatment, Victor smiled and bowed to Fassino who returned the bow with a cold face. Victor turned to his companions, and continuing the same conversational tone. I meant every word I said, this guy can be dangerous and we have to watch him like a hawk before he screws up our whole operation. I’ve never been more serious in my life. Understand? They all nodded. Now smile pretty for this little jackass.

They smiled and the room became still. It remained quiet for several long minutes until Giorgio and the colonel returned. Giorgio shrugged, Victor, I’m sorry that I could not change the colonel’s mind.

Col. Falcone announced, I have assigned Lieutenant Fassino and two sergeants to the case in its initial stage. Sergeant Graziella would liaison with the Americans. All police officers must keep me constantly informed. Ladies and gentlemen, I regret very much that I must leave you for I have other appointments.

After Colonel Falcone left, Joe opened the discussion, speaking in Italian, but in an old Neapolitan dialect he had learned from his parents in Little Italy. Let’s dispense with the name-calling and get to work. We’re all friends here. With all due respect and solely to open the subject, I suggest that we try to locate a hotel that ends with the syllables, ‘ay-ah.’

I agree with Signor Napoleone, said Fassino very graciously, as if he had not precipitated the tension in the room. Sergeant Graziella has done some preliminary work there.

I’ve gone through a list, she said. "There are two small hotels—Igea and Sitea—that are right on target. The Igea name sounds close, but I suggest that we start at the Sitea because of the Italian ‘e’ sound in the penultimate syllable. Igea has the same sound, but it is a very small pensione and I doubt that it has telephones in its rooms."

"Va bene," said Fassino. That’s fine. He looked around the room, his eyes still darting.

Victor said to himself, Those shifty eyes are driving me nuts.

I know Signor Spina who owns the Sitea. I’ll come along, Giorgio said, but the lieutenant demurred, politely but firmly he said, I am proceeding on the basis of encountering possible kidnappers and the victim. It would not be appropriate for civilians to accompany the heavily armed detachment he was assembling for immediate action. Although replying to Giorgio’s statement, he phrased his remarks for the benefit of the entire group. Sergeant Graziella will remain here at the Excelsior with Dott. Lucca and the American contingent to await a report from us, he said. He ordered the other sergeants to prepare their detachments for what he described as the raid at the Sitea" and they left.

* * * * *

Victor poured two cups of coffee and invited Regina to sit with him while Joe and his agents were on the phones in other rooms. It was a time for serious business but Victor could not help focusing on how attractive she was. As Victor was having coffee with Regina, his mind wandered. His hobby was the study of logic, the study of deductive and inductive reasoning, formal and informal fallacies, and how it affected consequences in the law. Bar groups often invited him to conduct workshops and soon he became much in demand to speak on the subject at service clubs and larger groups. His theme: life is but a series of acts and the consequences attached thereto. He was fond of Roscoe Pound, longtime dean at the Harvard Law School, who defined a legal rule as a detailed legal consequence attached to a detailed set of facts.

In his lectures, he always took Roscoe Pound as a starting point and then moved to his main topic that changes in a person’s life, changes in one’s career, can be reduced to a series of extraordinary events and the consequences attached thereto. A legal rule is but the rule of life, he would often say. Be aware that any unusual event that you experience, unerringly will have a consequence—minor or major, good or bad, pleasant or unpleasant—attached to it. Behind his back, his law firm colleagues and friends, referred to him as Mr. Consequence. Upon first hearing this, he resented it, but the more he thought about it, he smiled in satisfaction.

What are the consequences of Alex’s disappearance? A desperate, unpleasant situation, to be sure. This was the thought that ran through Victor’s mind. He was sitting close to Regina. Her mind wandered as well. My God, he thought, she’s even more striking after the passage of years. What he was saying to himself was: another consequence has been his reunion with this very lovely person. This was a real plus, he thought. He stopped the reveries. This was no social call. He was in Rome on a critical mission, and he was in this room with Gina Graziella because she is an expert in terrorism.

I’m sorry that Colonel Falcone will not permit us to participate in the investigation, he said to her. Joe Napoleone, Mike, Red and Larry have been some of America’s top police investigators and I tried to tell him that. They could have helped you considerably.

"Oh, Vittorio, you are thinking like an American. You’re in Italy. What’s the saying, ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’ The colonel knows all about you and your men. Compare Giorgio had coffee and rolls with him this morning at Doney’s. I met them there."

What does that mean? I’m sorry. I don’t follow you.

Carabinieri rules forbid civilians to participate in an investigation. For the record, you are forbidden. That is all, understand that. But the colonel is serious about this case. Totally committed to it. But you will not be ignored. He said that I was to liaison with you. That was a message, I believe; not much, but something.

She’s talking in circles, Victor thought, but out loud he said, I have a lot to learn about Italy and Italians. As Regina came to her feet, she smiled at him and said that she had telephone calls to make. Victor watched her as she walked into another room. He liked the way she walked and started to read something into the smile she had flashed, when a little voice inside him whispered, Don’t even think about it.

Chapter Three

Rome

Hotel Excelsior

May 23, 1963

1330 hours

V ictor and Joe were standing side by side at the large window in Victor’s bedroom, their eyes focused on the frenetic traffic