"I gave it to Franco," Chip said. "Thursday through Sunday — Messina, Sicily."
"We have no record of it," Rady said.
There was no record because Chip forgot to do it. His word against Franco's. Who were they going to believe?
"We tried your cell phone," his dad said.
"I misplaced it," Chip said.
"You misplaced it, or lost it? What's that, the third one this year?"
There was his dad on his case, giving him a hard time as usual. He decided not to tell him he dove off a cliff into the Mediterranean and the phone was in his pocket and he didn't realize it. That would've sounded even dumber.
Now Captain Ferrara, who hadn't spoken, said, "If they did not kidnap young Signor Tallenger, who do they have?" He stared at Chip when he said it.
"I don't know," Chip said.
"Maybe they didn't kidnap anyone," his dad said. "They tell us they've got Chip and we don't know where he is, can't reach him so we believe it."
'I was just thinking," Chip said. "It could be McCabe."
His dad looked at him now, waiting for an explanation.
"He was supposed to go with us," Chip said, "and never showed."
"Find out if McCabe's here," his dad said to Rady. "That shouldn't be too difficult, should it?"
Rady got up and walked out the room. "What do you think?" his dad said to Captain Ferrara. "They have someone. They are not bluffing. But if the school did not know your son's travel plan, how would the kidnappers?"
Fifteen minutes later Frank Rady came back in the room and said McCabe had missed his Italian class Thursday evening. He hadn't checked out and hadn't picked up his mail since Wednesday. No one working the front desk could remember seeing him for a few days.
It wasn't conclusive, but it didn't look good, either. "Captain, what do you suggest we do?" "There is nothing we can do. We wait and see."
Chapter Twelve
McCabe thought they were going to kill him. He had seen all their faces, could identify them. Why take a chance? But if that was their intention, they'd have done it at the farmhouse, out in the country where no one was around.
He was in the back of the blue van, blindfolded, hands cuffed behind his back, sitting on the metal floor against the side wall, trying to keep his balance. There were two of them in front, talking about what they were going to do with their share of the money. McCabe recognized the big man's voice, the big man saying he was going to buy a car, a Toyota.
The one he was talking to said, "How are you going to fit in it?"
The big man said, " Vaffanculo."
McCabe was trying to figure out how long they'd been on the road — thirty, forty minutes — when the van slowed down and stopped. He heard the rear doors open and he was lifted out and dropped on concrete. The van doors closed. The handcuffs were unlocked and removed. He heard a pistol shot, body tightening, bracing for impact, and realized it was the van backfiring as it drove off. He untied the blindfold. He was lying on the sidewalk in front of Victor Emmanuel.
It was dark and quiet, the streets deserted. McCabe didn't have any money for a bus or a taxi, or even a phone call, so he walked through the city and up Monte Mario, one of the seven hills, to Loyola, had to be six miles.
He went in the lobby expecting to see Franco behind the front desk, but no one was there. He went upstairs to the second floor and down to 217, the room he shared with Chip. It was 4:05 a.m., Monday morning. He sat on his bed, too tired to take his clothes off, and laid back, head on the pillow, body aching and let out a breath. The side of his face was swollen where the big man had hit him, paying him back, but he felt lucky, fortunate to be there. He still couldn't figure out why they let him go. But he wasn't complaining.
Chip was in his bed ten feet across the room from him. Chip sat up, leaned over and turned on his desk light.
McCabe said, "Turn that goddamn thing off."
Chip got up and crossed the room, standing over him in his underwear.
"What'd they do to you, Spartacus?"
McCabe said, "What's it look like?"
"You got your ass kicked," Chip said.
"That sounds about right," McCabe said.
"They thought you were me, didn't they?"
Chip moved back and sat on his bed, legs over the side, feet on the floor.
McCabe said, "How much was the ransom?"
"Half a million euros."
"Who paid it?"
"The senator."
McCabe closed his eyes. That was the last thing he heard him say.
The next morning there was a note on the floor, pushed under the door, telling McCabe to contact Mr Frank Rady immediately He took a shower and went to Rady's office. The door was open. Rady was sitting at his desk and looked up when he walked in.
"What I don't understand, McCabe, is why you didn't come and see me when you got back."
He couldn't win with this guy. He'd been kidnapped and beat up and Frank Rady acted like it was his fault. "It was the middle of the night. I was tired. There was nothing you could've done till morning."
"That's up to me," Rady said. "Not you. How'd you get past the front desk without Franco seeing you?"
"He wasn't there. What difference does it make?"
"You let me worry about that," Rady said, staring at him. "Looks like you pissed off the wrong people." He seemed pleased all of a sudden, flashed a grin. "Somebody tagged you good, huh?"
McCabe didn't say anything.
"Change your clothes, put on a nice shirt. We're going to go downtown, talk to Captain Ferrara with the carabinieri. I think you know him."
McCabe looked around the room. It was the same one he and Chip had been taken to the night they were arrested. He remembered the light-green walls, and the clock that made time creep by, and the line gouged in the tabletop that looked like it was made by a key or a belt buckle. McCabe could relate. Being in this room put you on edge.
"Tell me what happen," Captain Ferrara said, taking the pipe out of his mouth.
McCabe liked the sweet smell of the tobacco. The captain sat next to Frank Rady, across the long table from him. "I was walking through Villa Borghese and four guys jumped me."
Captain Ferrara said, "You were alone?"
"Yes," McCabe said.
Ferrara said, "What were you doing in Villa Borghese?"
"Looking at the Bernini sculpture in the gallery." McCabe paused. "And four guys came through the trees and took me down."
"When this was happening," Captain Ferrara said, "what were you thinking? Why did they come after you?"
McCabe said, "I had no idea at the time. But later, I figured they’d seen the article in the newspaper and thought I was Chip."
Captain Ferrara said, "What did they say to you?"
"Nothing. They kept me chained in the cellar of a farmhouse somewhere outside Rome."
"And you told them you are not Chip Tallenger," Ferrara said. "I did."
"Why not prove it, show them your ID," Rady said.
McCabe said, "I left my wallet at school."
"Nice going," Rady said. "That wasn't very smart, was it?"
"It wouldn't have mattered," McCabe said. "They were going to demand the ransom no matter who they had."
"You can identify the kidnappers?" Ferrara said.
"They wore bandanas over their faces," McCabe said, "like western bandits, and I was blindfolded part of the time, but I saw two of them. They thought I was sleeping and came down to the cellar to check on me."
Frank Rady, with his big white freckled arms on the table, said, "Were they Eye-talian?"
McCabe frowned. "Yeah, they were Italian." What did he think they were?
"Don't get smart, McCabe," he said. "We're trying to help you here."