Limoncello

Antonio and I had been meeting at the same café, on the first Friday of each month, at 7 pm, for several years. If he was going to be late, or wasn’t going to be able to make it, he always texted to let me know. But it was approaching 8:30 pm, and I hadn’t heard from him, so I was starting to get worried. I tried texting him, and calling him, but he did not reply or pick up. I decided that I would have one more drink, and then would take a walk by his apartment.

On the way to his apartment, I saw our mutual friend Laura, who mentioned that she had just seen Antonio while out for a walk earlier in the day, and that he seemed to be in good spirits as usual. When I arrived, I looked up towards his third floor window and saw that the lights were out, but I buzzed anyway. Antonio didn’t answer, so I hoped for the best, and assumed that the old man had taken an afternoon nap and slept through his alarm. I tried not to worry too much, and headed home for the evening, reminding myself that despite his age, he is in good health, resourceful, and knows to reach out for help if he needs it.

I still hadn’t heard from Antonio by 8 am the next morning, and knowing that he never skips his 9 am morning coffee, I went by his apartment again and sat on the bench outside the front door. It was a cold December morning, with the wind blowing off Boston Harbor and up into the North End making it feel even colder. But I was used to this weather, and patiently waited there for an hour. When Antonio didn’t come out though, I buzzed several other apartments until someone let me in.

After knocking on his door a few times, I put on my gloves, picked the lock, and let myself in. The apartment was a mess, which was never the case, as Antonio was as neat and meticulous as he was stubborn and funny. I soon realized the apartment had been tossed. There were no signs of struggle, and no indication that there had been an altercation - but clearly someone was here before me and was looking for something.

Antonio’s safe behind his bookcase, where he kept everything you would expect a retired spy to keep, was open and empty. I looked around for several more minutes and was about to depart when I noticed something odd. On his drink cart in the kitchen, nothing was out of place except for a bottle of limoncello that was leaning against the rail. It might have meant nothing, but I had a feeling it meant something. Taking note of that, I left the place as I found it, and locked up as I left.

I walked outside, and made my way to the café where we usually met, to think things over. As I sat down, Ana, our favorite waitress, approached the table with a coffee and biscotti, my usual order. I spent an hour reviewing what I saw in the apartment, and trying to piece together anything that made sense.

As I finished another cup of coffee, I looked around for Ana, and when I saw her behind the bar, I also noticed a bottle of limoncello on the shelf. Ana came by my table and I asked her for another coffee, another biscotti, and a glass of limoncello, figuring it may help with the process. She smiled as I placed the order, which I assumed was because I was deviating from my usual. When she came back with my drinks and biscotti, she pulled a small black notebook out of her apron pocket and said “this round is on Tony, and he asked me to give this to you.” I smiled and calmly said thanks, as if I was expecting the notebook, and began reading through it.

-

Antonio and I began meeting shortly after he retired from Agenzia Informazioni e Sicurezza Esterna (AISE) in 2012. Technically, Antonio was an asset, helping me with many cases over the years, but more importantly, he was a mentor and a dear friend who I had known as long as I can remember.

My father and Antonio met at Bocconi University in Milan in the 1960’s, and connected over their shared love of politics and soccer. Antonio was a first-generation Italian, whose parents had immigrated to Italy from Barbados to go to Bocconi University as well, and were both professors there by the time my father and Antonio were in school together.

Antonio’s family had my father over for dinner regularly, especially when he was homesick, and they treated him like a second son. When my father would come home to Boston during school breaks, Antonio would often join, and he became very close with my father’s family too. During those visits, he fell in love with New England and Boston, and decided he would retire here one day.

Following college, my father returned to the United States and began working in the private sector, in corporate communications. Antonio served in the Italian military for a few years, then continued on to graduate school to study architecture, and after graduating joined one of Europe’s top architecture firms. While he was a talented architect, this job was a non-official cover, and Antonio was a spy. And a very, very good one.

Antonio’s work - both in architecture and espionage - took him around the world, and he became well known in one field, and unknown yet a legend in the other. When the Servizio per le Informazioni e la Sicurezza Militare (SISMI) evolved into AISE in 2007, Antonio had the option of retiring, but instead made a smooth transition from his long-time non-official cover at the architecture firm, into an official cover as an Italian diplomat serving in London, where he worked and lived until he retired in 2012, when he moved to New England, splitting time between a house on the coast in Maine and an apartment in Boston.

-

The pages of the small black notebook contained handwritten box scores and game summaries from soccer games. I knew Antonio and his tradecraft preferences well enough to know these were coded notes from meetings. I also knew him well enough to know that I shouldn’t bother paying attention to them or trying to crack his code. That’s because Antonio loved the charm and simplicity of hiding a message in plain sight, and whatever he wanted me to see in this notebook would be obvious. I quickly noticed that next to the name of the home team’s goalie for each game, there was a penstroke, each at a different angle, that were more recent and with a slightly larger line weight than the rest of the characters on the page. As soon as I saw these, I paid the bill, left a nice tip, put on my coat, and walked to my apartment to get to work.

Antonio’s message was hidden using a simple old-school technique that he taught me. Each penstroke was a part of a letter or number, and I just had to flip through each page, and replicate each penstroke on a separate piece of paper to assemble the message. Within 10 minutes I had it. “Mount Desert Island. Bass Harbor. Monday Morning. By Boat. With Our Friend.”

-

Antonio trusted that I would find his message by Sunday, knowing that I would have to leave Sunday night for the fourteen hour journey. Fortunately I found it on Saturday, and so I was able to spend the rest of the day packing and preparing, then relaxed at home for much of the day on Sunday, and left my apartment at 6 pm on Sunday evening.

There are many ways to ensure that you aren’t being followed, but one of the best is on the water. Antonio didn’t want me to take my boat for this journey for some reason though, and I trusted his instincts immensely, so instead I took a water taxi across the harbor to the East Boston Shipyard Marina, where our friend Alessandro was waiting. Alessandro was the driver we hired when we needed one - he was someone who we trusted, and was someone who always asked the right questions and nothing more. I had contacted him on Saturday to confirm his availability, and in a downeast boat very similar to my 36’ Back Cove, we set out into the calm harbor at 6:45 pm for the fourteen hour journey, which would include a brief stop to refuel in Portland.

-

After a windy and foggy afternoon, the weather had cleared up and the conditions were perfect for our journey. I passed the time drinking coffee and reading, along with a few short conversations with Alessandro along the way, and we arrived at Bass Harbor on schedule, at 8:45 am. Whenever Antonio said “morning” he meant 9 am, and if he wanted to meet at any other time during the morning, he would have specified it. As we pulled into the harbor, I saw Antonio pulling up in his favorite car, an Alfa Romeo Stelvio.

“Thanks, Alessandro,” I said as I departed the boat “and safe journey home.”

Antonio got out of the car to greet me, well-dressed as always, and I was happy to see no bruises and no limp either.

“Great to see you, friend,” he said as I approached.

“Same here,” I replied, as we hugged. “What’s going on?”

“Get in. I have some breakfast back at the house, and we can discuss there.”

-

Over coffee, homemade biscotti, omelets, and fruit, Antonio began to tell me the story I was so eager to hear.

“On Friday morning, the day we were supposed to meet, as I was leaving my apartment for my morning coffee, there was a small package leaning against the door frame, with nothing written on it. I took it inside and opened it, and found $20,000 inside with a small note that read ‘From your Quebecois friend.’ Which, as I’m sure you can imagine, nearly caused my heart to stop.”

“Do you think Sonia is alive?” I asked.

“I do. In 1974 we were working together in East Germany, and I paid a smuggler $3,500, which adjusted for inflation is $20,000 today, to help her leave. I always insisted that she should never pay me back, and she would always try to in inconspicuous ways. I hope you now understand why I was not able to be in touch. As soon as I read the note, I knew I had to leave town in case she had been followed. So I packed my bags, and carefully made my way here. And I knew you would want to join.”

“Of course, thank you,” I said. “So, what’s next? Where do you think she is? Do we tell my father?”

“Not yet. We need to confirm that it is from her first. And I think she’s in Montreal. You know how much she loves it there. She rarely misses a Canadiens-Bruins matchup when she’s in town too, and they are playing tonight at 7:30 pm. I think we are going to find her there.”

“I agree. And I’m not sure she realizes how many people, not just friends and family, would be interested to know she’s alive. The world has changed a lot since she disappeared 10 years ago, but the cases she worked on are more relevant today than ever. She knows how to take care of herself, but could always use a couple of old friends by her side.”

“She could. I’m confident that we both made it here discreetly, so I think it will be safe to drive to Montreal and watch some hockey. Enjoy your coffee, freshen up, and we’ll leave in an hour.”