CHAPTER 16“I stole it,” Benito Santato repeated for the third time since I’d gotten there.
He’d been saying the same to Commissaire Gojon for some two hours before I’d arrived. He wasn’t forthcoming with much of anything else, including how long he’d been in France or who his contacts were in Paris. A cool customer with nothing to indicate that any kind of approach was likely to crack his hard shell.
Benito Santato was a member of the Brigades Rouge, wanted by the Italian police in connection with some political kidnappings and several murders in Milan. He was about twenty-eight, short and stocky, with close-cropped reddish hair and pale gray eyes that stared back at Gojon without blinking. When he spoke it was in a university-educated French with only a trace of an Italian accent. He di
