He repeated it three times before she allowed him to stop, and they stepped inside. "It's named in honor of Petronio, the patron saint of Bologna," she said softly. The central floor of the cathedral was big enough for a hockey match with large crowds on both sides. "Its huge," Marco said, in awe.
"Yes, and this is about one-fourth of the original design. Again, the pope got worried and applied some pressure. It cost a tremendous amount of public money, and eventually the people got tired of building."
"It's still very impressive." Marco was aware that they were chatting in English, which suited him fine.
"Would you like the long tour or the short one?" she asked. Though the inside was almost as cold as the outside, Signora Ferro seemed to be thawing just a bit.
"You're the teacher," he said.
They drifted to the left and waited for a small group of Japanese tourists to finish studying a large marble crypt. Other than the Japanese, the cathedral was empty. It was a Friday in February, not exactly peak tourist season. Later in the afternoon he would learn that Francesca's very seasonal tourist work was quite slow in the winter months. That confession was the only bit of personal data she divulged.
Because business was so slow, she felt no urge to race through the Basilica di San Petronio. They saw all twenty-two side chapels and looked at most of the paintings, sculptures, glasswork, and frescoes. The chapels were built over the centuries by wealthy Bolognese families who paid handsomely for commemorative art. Their construction was a history of the city, and Francesca knew every detail. She showed him the well-preserved skull of Saint Petronio himself sitting proudly on an altar, and an astrological clock created in 1655 by two scientists who relied directly on Galileo's studies at the university.
Though sometimes bored with the intricacies of paintings and sculptures, and inundated with names and dates, Marco gamely held on as the tour inched around the massive structure. Her voice captivated him, her rich slow delivery, her perfectly refined English.
Long after the Japanese had abandoned the cathedral, they made it back to the front door and she said, "Had enough?"
"Yes."
They stepped outside and she immediately lit a cigarette.
"How about some coffee?" he said.
"I know just the place."
He followed her across the street to Via Clavature; a few steps down and they ducked into Rosa Rose. "It's the best cappuccino around the square," she assured him as she ordered two at the bar. He started to ask her about the Italian prohibition of drinking cappuccino after ten-thirty in the morning, but let it pass. As they waited she carefully removed her leather gloves, scarf, overcoat. Perhaps this coffee would last for a while.
They took a table near the front window. She stirred in two sugars until things were just perfect. She hadn't smiled in the past three hours, and Marco was not expecting one now.
"I have a copy of the materials you're using with the other tutor," she said, reaching for the cigarettes.
"Ermanno."
"Whoever, I don't know him. I suggest that each afternoon we do conversation based on what you have covered that morning."
He was in no position to argue with whatever she was suggesting. "Fine," he said with a shrug.
She lit a cigarette, then sipped the coffee.
"What did Luigi tell you about me?" Marco asked.
"Not much. You're a Canadian. You're taking a long vacation through Italy and you want to study the language. Is that true?"
"Are you asking personal questions?"
"No, I simply asked if that was true."
"It's true."
"It's not my business to worry about such matters."
"I didn't ask you to worry."
He saw her as the stoic witness on the stand, sitting arrogantly in front of the jury, thoroughly convinced that she would not bend or break regardless of the barrage of cross-examination. She had mastered the distracted pouty look so popular among European women. She held the cigarette close to her face, her eyes studying everything on the sidewalk and seeing nothing.
Idle chitchat was not one of her specialties.
"Are you married?" he asked, the first hint of cross-examination.
A grunt, a fake smile. "I have my orders, Mr. Lazzeri."
"Please call me Marco. And what should I call you?"
"Signora Ferro will do for now."
"But you're ten years younger than me."
"Things are more formal here, Mr. Lazzeri."
"Evidently."
She snubbed out the cigarette, took another sip, and got down to business. "Today is your free day, Mr. Lazzeri. We've done English for the last time. Next lesson, we do nothing but Italian."
"Fine, but Fd like for you to keep one thing in mind. You're not doing me any favors, okay? You're getting paid. This is your profession. I'm a Canadian tourist with plenty of time, and if we don't get along, then I'll find someone else to study with,"
"Have I offended you?"
"You could smile more."
She nodded slightly and her eyes were instantly moist. She looked away, through the window, and said, "I have so little to smile about."
The shops along Via Rizzoli opened at io:oo a.m. on Saturday and Marco was waiting, studying the merchandise in the windows. With the five hundred fresh euros in his pocket, he swallowed hard, told himself he had no choice but to go in and survive his first real shopping experience in Italian. He'd memorized words and phrases until he fell asleep, but as the door closed behind him he prayed for a nice young clerk who spoke perfect English.
Not a word. It was an older gentleman with a warm smile. In less than fifteen minutes, Marco had pointed and stuttered and, at times, done quite nicely when asking sizes and prices. He left with a pair of modestly priced and youthful-looking hiking boots, the style he'd seen occasionally around the university when the weather was bad, and a black waterproof parka with a hood that rolled up in the collar. And he left with almost three hundred euros in his pocket. Hoarding cash was his newest priority.
He hustled back to his apartment, changed into the boots and the parka, then left again. The thirty-minute walk to Bologna Centrale took almost an hour with the snaking and circuitous route he used. He never looked behind him, but instead would duck into a cafe and study the foot traffic, or suddenly stop at a pastry shop and admire the deli cacies while watching the reflections in the glass. If they were following, he didn't want them to know he was suspicious. And the practice was important. Luigi had told him more than once that soon he would be gone, and Marco Lazzeri would be left alone in the world.
The question was, how much could he trust Luigi? Neither Marco Lazzeri nor Joel Backman trusted anyone.
There was a moment of anxiety at the train station when he walked inside, saw the crowd, studied the overhead schedules of arrivals and departures, and looked about desperately for the ticket window. By habit, he also searched for anything in English. But he was learning to shove the anxiety aside and push on. He waited in line and when a window was open he stepped up quickly, smiled at the little lady on the other side of the glass, offered a pleasant "Buon giorno," and said, "Vado a Milano." I'm going to Milan.
She was already nodding.
"Alle tredici e venti," he said. At 1:20.
"Si, cinquanta euro," she said. Fifty euros.
He gave her a one-hundred-euro bill because he wanted the change, then walked away clutching his ticket and patting himself on the back. With an hour to kill, he left the station and wandered down Via Boldrini two blocks until he found a cafe. He had a panino and a beer and enjoyed both while watching the sidewalk, expecting to see no one of any interest.
The Eurostar arrived precisely on schedule, and Marco followed the crowd as it hurried on board. It was his first train ride in Europe and he wasn't exactly sure of the protocol. He'd studied his ticket over lunch and saw nothing to indicate a seat assignment. Selection appeared to be random and haphazard and he grabbed the first available window seat. His car was less than half full when the train began moving, at exactly 1:20.
They were soon out of Bologna and the countryside was flying by. The rail track followed M4, the main auto route from Milano to Parma, Bologna, Ancona, and the entire eastern coast of Italy. After half an hour, Marco was disappointed in the scenery. It was hard to appreciate when zipping along at one hundred miles an hour; things were rather blurry and a handsome landscape was gone in a flash. And there were too many factories bunched along the line, near the transportation routes.
He soon realized why he was the only person in his car who was remotely interested in things outside. Those above the age of thirty were lost in newspapers and magazines and looked completely at ease, even bored. The younger ones were sound asleep. After a while Marco nodded off too.
The conductor woke him, saying something completely incomprehensible in Italian. He caught the word "biglietto" on the second or third try and quickly handed over his ticket. The conductor scowled at it as if he might toss poor Marco off at the next bridge, then abruptly marked it with a punch and gave it back with a wide toothy grin.
An hour later a rush of gibberish over the loudspeaker announced something to do with Milano, and the scenery began to change dramatically. The sprawling city soon engulfed them as the train slowed, then stopped, then moved again. It passed block after block of postwar apartment buildings packed tightly together, with wide avenues separating them. Ermanno's guidebook gave the population of Milano at four million; an important city, the unofficial capital of northern Italy, the country's center for finance, fashion, publishing, and industry. A hard-working industrial city with, of course, a beautiful center and a cathedral worth the visit.
The tracks multiplied and fanned out as they entered the sprawling rail yards of Milano Centrale. They came to a stop under the vast dome of the station, and when Marco stepped onto the platform he was startled at the sheer size of the place. As he walked along the platform he counted at least a dozen other tracks lined in perfect rows, most with trains waiting patiently for their passengers. He stopped at the end, in the frenzy of thousands of people coming and going, and studied the departures: Stuttgart, Rome, Florence, Madrid, Paris, Berlin, Geneva.
All of Europe was within his reach, just a few hours away.
He followed the signs down to the front entrance and found the taxi stand, where he waited in line briefly before he hopped in the backseat of a small white Renault. "Aeroporto Malpensa," he said to the driver. They crawled through heavy Milano traffic until they reached the perimeter. Twenty minutes later they left the autostrada for the airport. "Quale compagnia aerea?" the driver said over his shoulder. Which airline?
"Lufthansa," Marco said. At Terminal 2 the cab found a spot at the curb, and Marco turned loose another forty euros. The automatic doors opened to a mass of people, and he was thankful he had no plane to catch. He checked the departures and found what he wanted-a direct flight to Dulles. He circled around the terminal until he found the Lufthansa check-in desk. A long line was waiting, but with typical German efficiency things were moving quickly.
The first prospect was an attractive redhead of about twenty-five who appeared to be traveling alone, which was something he preferred. Anyone with a partner might be tempted to talk about the strange man back at the airport with his rather odd request. She was second in line at the business-class desk. As he watched her he also spotted prospect number two: a denim-clad student with long scruffy hair, unshaven face, well-worn backpack, and a University of Toledo sweatshirt-the perfect fit. He was well back in the line, listening to music on bright yellow headphones.
Marco followed the redhead as she left the counter with her boarding card and carry-on bags. The flight was still two hours away, so she drifted through the crowd to the duty-free shop, where she stopped to inspect the latest in Swiss watches. Seeing nothing to buy, she wandered around the corner to a newsstand and bought two fashion magazines. As she was headed to the gate, and the first security checkpoint, Marco sucked in his gut and made his move. "Excuse me, miss, excuse me." She couldn't help but turn and look at him, but she was too suspicious to say anything.
"Are you by chance going to Dulles?" he asked with a huge smile and the pretense of being out of breath, as if he'd just sprinted to catch her.
"Yes," she snapped. No smile. American.
"So was I, but my passport has just been stolen. Don't know when I'll get home." He was pulling an envelope out of his pocket. "This is a birthday card for my father. Could you please drop it in the box when you get to Dulles? His birthday is next Tuesday, and I'm afraid I won't make it. Please."
She looked at both him and the envelope suspiciously. It was just a birthday card, not a bomb or a gun.
He was yanking something else out of his pocket. "Sorry, there's no stamp. Here's a euro. Please, if you don't mind."
The face finally cracked, and she almost smiled. "Sure," she said, taking both the envelope and the euro and placing them in her purse.
"Thank you so much," Marco said, ready to burst into tears. "It's his ninetieth birthday. Thank you."
"Sure, no problem," she said.
The kid with the yellow headphones was more complicated. He, too, was an American, and he also fell for the lost passport story. But when Marco tried to hand over the envelope, he looked around warily as if they might be breaking the law.
"I don't know, man," he said, taking a step back. "I don't think so."
Marco knew better than to push. He backed away and said as sarcastically as possible, "Have a nice flight."
Mrs. Ruby Ausberry of York, Pennsylvania, was one of the last passengers at check-in. She had taught world history in high school for forty years and was now having a delightful time spending her retirement funds traveling to places she'd only seen in textbooks. This was the last leg of a three-week adventure through most of Turkey. She was in Milano only for a connecting flight from Istanbul to Washington. The nice gentleman approached her with a desperate smile and explained that his passport had just been stolen. He would miss his father's ninetieth birthday. She gladly took the card and placed it in her bag. She cleared security and walked a quarter of a mile to the gate, where she found a seat and made herself a nest.
Behind her, less than fifteen feet away, the redhead reached a decision. It could be one of those letter bombs after all. It certainly didn't seem thick enough to carry explosives, but what did she know about such things? There was a waste can near the window-a sleek chrome can with a chrome top (they were, after all, in Milano)-and she casually walked over and dropped the letter into the garbage.
What if it explodes there? she wondered as she sat back down. It was too late. She wasn't about to go over and fish it out. And if she did, then what? Track down someone in a uniform and try to explain in English that there was a chance she was holding a letter bomb? Come on, she told herself. She grabbed her carry-on and moved to the other side of the gate, as far away as possible from the waste can. And she couldn't keep her eyes off it.
The conspiracy grew. She was the first one on the 747 when they began boarding. Only with a glass of champagne did she finally relax. She'd watch CNN as soon as she got home to Baltimore. She was convinced there would be carnage at Milano's Malpensa airport.
Marco's taxi ride back to Milano Centrale cost forty-five euros, but he didn't question the driver. Why bother? The return ticket to Bologna was the same-fifty euros. After a day of shopping and traveling he was down to around one hundred euros. His little stash of cash was dwindling rapidly.
It was almost dark when the train slowed at the station in Bologna. Marco was just another wear)'' traveler when he stepped onto the platform, but he was silently bursting with pride at the day's accomplishments. He'd purchased clothing, bought rail tickets, survived the madness of both the train station and the airport in Milano, hired two cabs, and delivered his mail, a rather full day without a hint of anyone knowing who or where he was.
And he'd never been asked to show a passport or any type of identification.
Luigi had taken a different train, the 11:45 express to Milano. But he stepped off at Parma and got lost in the crowd. He found a cab and took a short ride to the meeting place, a favorite cafe. He waited almost an hour for Whitaker, who had missed one train in Milano and caught the next one. As usual, Whitaker was in a foul mood, which was made even worse by having to meet on a Saturday. They ordered quickly and as soon as the waiter was gone, Whitaker said, "I don't like this woman."
"Francesca?"
"Yes, the travel guide. We've never used her before, right?"
"Right. Relax, she's fine. She doesn't have a clue."
"What does she look like?"
"Reasonably attractive."
"Reasonably attractive can mean anything, Luigi. How old is she?"
"I never ask that question. Forty-five is a good guess."
"Is she married?"
"Yes, no children. She married an older man who's in very bad health. He's dying."
As always, Whitaker was scribbling notes, thinking about the next question. "Dying? Why is he dying?"
"I think it's cancer. I didn't ask a lot of questions."
"Perhaps you should ask more questions."
"Perhaps she doesn't want to talk about certain things-her age and her dying husband."
"Where'd you find her?"
"It wasn't easy. Language tutors are not exactly lined up like taxi drivers. A friend recommended her. I asked around. She has a good reputation in the city. And she's available. It's almost impossible to find a tutor willing to spend three hours every day with a student."
"Every day?"
"Most weekdays. She agreed to work every afternoon for the next month or so. It's the slow season for guides. She might have a job once or twice a week, but she'll try to be on call. Relax, she's good."
"What's her fee?"
"Two hundred euros a week, until spring when tourism picks up."
Whitaker rolled his eyes as if the money would come directly from his salary. "Marco's costing too much," he said, almost to himself.
"Marco has a great idea. He wants to go to Australia or New Zealand or someplace where the language won't be a problem."
"He wants a transfer?"
"Yes, and I think it's a great idea. Let's dump him on someone else."
"That's not our decision, is it, Luigi?" 1 guess not.
The salads arrived and they were quiet for a moment. Then Whitaker said, "I still don't like this woman. Keep looking for someone else."
"There is no one else. What are you afraid of?"
"Marco has a history with women, okay? There's always the potential for romance. She could complicate things."
"I've warned her. And she needs the money."
"She's broke?"
"I get the impression things are very tight. It's the slow season, and her husband is not working."
Whitaker almost smiled, as if this was good news. He stuffed a large wedge of tomato in his mouth and chomped on it while peering around the trattoria to see if anyone was eavesdropping on their hushed conversation in English. When he was finally able to swallow, he said, "Let's talk about e-mail. Marco was never much of a hacker. Back in his glory days he lived on the phone-had four or five of them in his office, two in his car, one in his pocket-always juggling three conversations at once. He bragged about charging five thousand bucks just to take a phone call from a new client, that sort of crap. Never used the computer. Those who worked for him have said that he occasionally read e-mails. He rarely sent them, and when he did it was always through a secretary. His office was high-tech, but he hired people to do the grunt work. He was too much of a big shot."
"What about prison?"
"No evidence of e-mail. He had a laptop which he used only for letters, never e-mail. It looks as though everyone abandoned him when he took the fall. He wrote occasionally to his mother and his son, but always used regular mail."
"Sounds completely illiterate."
"Sounds like it, but Langley's concerned that he might try and contact someone on the outside. He can't do it by phone, at least not now. He has no address he can use, so mail is probably out of the question."
"He'd be stupid to mail a letter," Luigi said. "It might divulge his whereabouts."
"Exactly. Same for the phone, fax, everything but email."
"We can track email."
"Most of it, but there are ways around it."
"He has no computer and no money to buy one."
"I know, but, hypothetically, he could sneak into an Internet cafe, use a coded account, send the e-mail, then clean his trail, pay a small fee for the rental, and walk away."
"Sure, but who's gonna teach him how to do that?"
"He can learn. He can find a book. It's unlikely, but there's always a chance."
"I'm sweeping his apartment every day," Luigi said. "Every inch of it. If he buys a book or lays down a receipt, I'll know it."
"Scope out the Internet cafes in the neighborhood. There are several of them in Bologna now."
"I know them."
"Where's Marco right now?"
"I don't know. It's Saturday, a day off. He's probably roaming the streets of Bologna, enjoying his freedom." "And he's still scared?" "He's terrified."
Mrs. Ruby Ausberry took a mild sedative and slept for six of the eight hours it took to fly from Milano to Dulles International. The lukewarm coffee they served before landing did little to clear the cobwebs, and as the 747 taxied to the gate she dozed off again. She forgot about the birthday card as they were herded onto the cattle cars on the tarmac and driven to the main terminal. She forgot about it as she waited with the mob to claim her baggage and plod through customs. And she forgot about it when she saw her beloved granddaughter waiting for her at the arrival exit.
She forgot about it until she was safely at home in York, Pennsylvania, and shuffling through her shoulder bag for a souvenir. "Oh my," she said as the card fell onto the kitchen table. "I was supposed to drop this off at the airport." Then she told her granddaughter the story of the poor guy in the Milan airport who'd just lost his passport and would miss his father's ninetieth birthday.
Her granddaughter looked at the envelope. "Doesn't look like a birthday card," she said. She studied the address: R. N. Backman, Attorney at Law, 412 Main Street, Culpeper, Virginia, 22701.
"There's no return address," the granddaughter said.
"I'll mail it first thing in the morning," Mrs. Ausberry said. "I hope it arrives before the birthday."
At ten Monday morning in Singapore, the mysterious $3 mil lion sitting in the account of Old Stone Group, Ltd, made an electronic exit and began a quiet journey to the other side of the world. Nine hours later, when the doors of the Galleon Bank and Trust opened on the Caribbean island of Saint Christopher, the money arrived promptly and was deposited in a numbered account with no name. Normally it would have been a completely anonymous transaction, one of several thousand that Monday morning, but Old Stone now had the full attention of the FBI. The bank in Singapore was cooperating fully. The bank on Saint Christopher was not, though it would soon get the opportunity to participate.
When Director Anthony Price arrived in his office at the Hoover Building before dawn on Monday, the hot memo was waiting. He canceled everything planned for that morning. He huddled with his team and waited for the money to land on Saint Christopher.
Then he called the vice president.
It took four hours of undiplomatic arm-breaking to shake the information loose on Saint Christopher. At first the bankers refused to budge, but what small quasi-nation can withstand the full might and fury of the world's only superpower? When the vice president threat ened the prime minister with economic and banking sanctions that would destroy what little economy the island was clinging to, he finally knuckled under and turned on his bankers.
The numbered account could be directly traced to Artie Morgan, the thirty-one-year-old son of the former president. He'd been in and out of the Oval Office during the final hours of his father's administration, sipping Heinekens and occasionally dispensing advice to both Critz and the President.
The scandal was ripening by the hour.
From Grand Cayman to Singapore and now to Saint Christopher, the wiring bore the telltale signs of an amateur trying to cover his tracks. A professional would've split the money eight ways and parked it in several different banks in different countries, and the wires would've been months apart. But even a rookie like Artie should've been able to hide the cash. The offshore banks he selected were secretive enough to protect him. The break for the feds had been the mutual-fund crook desperate to avoid prison.
However, there was still no evidence as to the source of the money. In his last three days in office, President Morgan granted twenty-two pardons. All went unnoticed except two: Joel Backman and Duke Mongo. The FBI was hard at work digging for financial dirt on the other twenty. Who had $3 million? Who had the resources to get it? Every friend, family member, and business associate was being scrutinized by the feds.
A preliminary analysis repeated what was already known. Mongo had billions and was certainly corrupt enough to bribe anyone. Backman, too, could pull it off. A third possibility was a former New Jersey state legislator whose family made a bundle in government road contracts. Twelve years earlier he'd gone to "federal camp" for a few months and now wanted his rights restored.
The President was off in Europe, in the middle of his get - acquainted tour, his first victory lap around the world. He wouldn't be back for three days, and the vice president decided to wait. They would watch the money, double - and triple-check the facts and details, and when he returned they would brief him with an airtight case. A cashforpardon scandal would electrify the country. It would humiliate the opposition party and weaken its resolve in Congress. It would ensure that Anthony Price would head the FBI for a few more years. It would finally send old Teddy Maynard off to the retirement home. There was simply no downside to the launching of a full federal blitz against an unsuspecting ex-president.
His tutor was waiting in the back pew of the Basilica di San Francesco. She was still bundled, with her gloved hands stuck partially in the pockets of her heavy overcoat. It was snowing again outside, and in the vast, cold, empty sanctuary the temperature was not much warmer. He sat beside her and offered a soft "Buon giorno."
She acknowledged him with just enough of a smile to be considered polite, and said, uBuon giorno." He kept his hands in his pockets too, and for a long time they sat like two frozen hikers hiding from the weather. As usual, her face was sad and her thoughts were on something other than this bumbling Canadian businessman who wanted to speak her language. She was aloof and distracted and Marco was fed up with her attitude. Ermanno was losing interest by the day. Francesca was barely tolerable. Luigi was always back there, lurking and watching, but he, too, seemed to be losing interest in the game.
Marco was beginning to think that the break was about to happen. Cut the lifeline and set him adrift to sink or swim on his own. So be it. He'd been free for almost a month. He'd learned enough Italian to survive. He could certainly learn more by himself.
"So how old is this one?" he said after it became apparent that he was expected to speak first.
She shifted slightly, cleared her throat, took her hands out of her pockets, as if he'd awakened her from a deep sleep. "It was begun in 1236 by some Franciscan monks. Thirty years later the main sanctuary here was complete."
"A rush job."
"Yes, quite fast. Over the centuries the chapels sort of sprang up along both sides. The sacristy was built, then the bell tower. The French, under Napoleon, deconsecrated it in 1798 and turned it into a customs house. In 1886 it was converted back to a church, then restored in 1928. When Bologna was bombed by the Allies its facade was extensively damaged. It's had a rough history."
"It's not very pretty on the outside."
"Bombing will do that."
"I guess you picked the wrong side."
"Bologna did not."
No sense refighting the war. They paused as their voices seemed to float up and echo slightly around the dome. Backman's mother had taken him to church a few times each year as a child, but that halfhearted effort at pursuing a faith had been abandoned quickly in high school and totally forgotten over the past forty years. Not even prison could convert him, unlike some of the other inmates. But it was still difficult for a man with no convictions to understand how any style of meaningful worship could be conducted in a such a cold, heartless museum.
"It seems so empty. Does anyone ever worship in this place?"
"There's a daily mass and sendees on Sunday. I was married here."
"You're not supposed to talk about yourself. Luigi will get mad."
"Italian, Marco, no more English." In Italian, she asked him, "What did you study this morning with Ermanno?"
"La famiglia."
"La sua famiglia. Mi dica." Tell me about your family.
"It's a real mess," he said in English.
"Sua moglie?" Your wife?
"Which one? I have three."
"Italian."
"Quale? Ne ho tre."
"L'ultima." The last one.
Then he caught himself. He was not Joel Backman, with three ex-wives and a screwed-up family. He was Marco Lazzeri from Toronto, with a wife, four children, and five grandchildren. "I was kidding," he said in English. "I have one wife."
"Mi dica, in Italiano, di sua moglie?" Tell me about your wife.
In very slow Italian, Marco described his fictional wife. Her name is Laura. She is fifty-two years old. She lives in Toronto. She works for a small company. She does not like to travel. And so on.
Every sentence was repeated at least three times. Every mispronunciation was met with a grimace and a quick "Ripeta." Over and over, Marco went on and on about a Laura who did not exist. And when he finished with her, he was led to his oldest child, another ere ation, this one named Alex. Thirty years old, a lawyer in Vancouver, divorced with two kids, etc., etc.
Fortunately, Luigi had given him a little biography on Marco Lazzeri, complete with all the data he was now reaching for in the back of a frigid church. She prodded him on, urging perfection, cautioning against speaking too fast, the natural tendency.
"Deve parlare lentamente," she kept saying. You must speak slowly.