A Known Evil

by Aidan Conway

  He picked up his phone which weighed now like a neat weapon in his hand and he dialled.

  “Excellency!”

  “You will get your courier,” he replied, feeling something of his stately calm now returning. “I will see that it is done.”

  And with that he pressed his thumb into the cherry-red symbol to terminate the call, as if pressing his cardinal ring into a wax seal, and began to breathe calmly again.

  “And you will get your eternal reward too,” he announced to the gold and cream furnishings and the sepulchral silken drapes, “sooner perhaps rather than later.”

  He then moved the small desk on castors to one side and, bending down with a little difficulty, keyed in the digits to open the wall-safe concealed there. He took out only a folded, letter-sized piece of paper and a sleek mobile phone and following the instructions proceeded to make another call.

  The content of the exchange was of a secrecy that few men on earth were privy to. When contact had been firmly established the cardinal continued.

  “So, it seems that I shall have to ‘disappear’ and that we will also be making a new martyr. Respecting my last wishes, I will not be afforded the honour of lying in state, in the spirit of simplicity. A simple casket. Yes. A cardiac arrest. The pressure of work, the outcomes of which could not be left to chance. The concomitant stress. Indeed. The martyr will have a less edifying obituarias to leave behind. Organized crime. Money laundering. Illegal arms brokering. Exploitation. In the interests of an anti-mafia policy which will be rigorously executed and to avoid the appropriation and laundering of monies and material goods his estate will be frozen. Yes, something like that. The journalists usually know it makes sense. And see that his lawyers’ hands are let’s say ‘tied securely’. Several years of painstaking sifting through every detail of his little criminal empire will suffice. Ah yes. ‘The law’s delay’. Indeed. So, should anyone not wish to be reasonable, I will have departed the scene, unable to defend myself in the face of outrageous calumny. Yes. I think they will, as you say, ‘play ball’. The devil is in the detail, yes. As always. As always. And no, I think his friends and family will understand, don’t you? Once they understand who is at the helm. Who is calling the tune. Oh, and the boys too. Yes, one, I am afraid. As a warning to others. ‘The wages of sin are indeed death’. Quite right. Sic transit gloria mundi. How fleeting these worldly things are. How fleeting.”

  Forty-Four

  “Have you got any ideas then?” Rossi countered as he sipped on an uncharacteristic Campari soda. Carrara had practically bustled him out of the flat as soon as he had arrived. Barely time to salute the bella signora, who really was a bellissima signora, though Rossi tried not to let his admiration for the smouldering Neapolitan seem too obvious. But she would go and dress in that way. What could he do? He was only human. And why had he himself then ended up with a blonde? He spun the ice in his drink, forming a violent merry-go-round.

  “Ideas about what?” said Carrara, “about who’s tailing us?” He was looking rakish in his leather jacket, roll-neck jumper and jeans and seemed to be catching the attention of the waitress crossing and re-crossing near their table.

  “About ‘why’, primarily, I would have said. I mean, are they trying to see what we’re up to before we do it or just feeding back reports?”

  “Perhaps they want us to lead them to the prize,” said Carrara, “and then swipe it from under our noses. Or they want to find someone, maybe Marini. Do you think they’ve twigged? That she’s, you know? Not.”

  Rossi zipped the ice around in his slim jim now with the twizzle stick. The cubes seemed to pursue each other like a dog chasing its own tail.

  “So you’re saying it’s the services and not just Maroni’s masters’ minions?”

  “Do you see a difference?” Carrara replied. “I mean if they are all in it together, the distinction between rogue secret services and bent cops seems wholly, let’s say, superfluous.”

  “Or redundant, as in unnecessary. Lot of Ms in that weren’t there?”

  “In what?”

  “Maroni’s masters’ minions.”

  Carrara furrowed his brow and sneaked a look at his watch. The aperitivo was having the intended effect. Rossi knew La Signora didn’t take kindly to being kept waiting, and he, too, was beginning to feel the first rumblings of gastric intent. He was still half-holding out for the invite.

  “It’s just I’d like to know who we’re dealing with,” Rossi finally concluded, “in operational terms.”

  Carrara’s interest flared up again.

  “You don’t think we’re talking targets, do you?”

  Rossi seemed unperturbed yet fatalistic as he leaned back further on the wicker chair and into the warmth of his coat.

  “It’s not so much what Maroni said that bothers me,” Rossi continued, “but how he said it. He was rattled, harried, not like he had things under control, and you know how he likes to have things under control.”

  “So you think they’ve put the frighteners on him?”

  “I don’t think they need to,” said Rossi, “I think he’s got himself into something bigger than he knows how to get out of.”

  “Go on,” said Carrara.

  “Well,” continued Rossi, “if you were working for the financial police, wouldn’t you be asking some questions about a man like our Maroni?”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “Questions about his income, his lifestyle, the boat we’ve never actually seen. Small affair apparently but I ran a few checks and it seems he’s being rather modest. Just upgraded to a thirty footer. Not registered in his name, requires a rather large mooring, and he’s had it moved to one of the more exclusive marinas. And then his kids, who he’s transferred to private schools. Looking to get them into American university next. And I don’t think they’re going to be getting scholarships.”

  “Could have had a windfall,” proffered Carrara. “An American uncle.”

  “But why the secrecy?”

  “Discretion?”

  “Fear. He had a moment of weakness. Then another and before he knew it he was doing somebody else’s bidding in return for handouts. It’s the old story. So, you know what? I don’t think they need to put the frighteners on him. I’d say he’s in it right up to his neck. They’re keeping him there as long as they need him, and he’s got no other choice. He’s going to grow old on the job. If they let him grow old that is.”

  In a grimy call box on the further reaches of the grey and equally grimy Via Prenestina on Rome’s eastern fringes, Victor could finally hear the voice of his friend crackling down the line. He wasn’t so far away. Sicily, in a Centre for Identification and Expulsion or CIE, but he was planning his escape. The place was a joke his friend told him. “They’ll have to move us to the mainland soon. It’s at bursting point and then when we get to one of the other camps, they’ve only got a handful of security guards patrolling the fence. All it will take is a bit of nerve and I’m out of there, brother.” Jibril, like Victor, like so many others had first made the perilous sea crossing on a deathtrap of a boat and by hook or by crook had reached Lampedusa and thus Italian, European soil.

  “Are you eating? What food are they giving you?” his friend asked.

  “Pasta, of course. It’s OK, though they sometimes give us pig. I think some of them find it funny, you know.”

  On Lampedusa, the government had been applying its usual shambolic approach to integration and assimilation, which involved reassuring the often fearful public, watching on their TVs, that the dreaded immigrants were behind bars. The CIEs were as good as prisons, though dressed up as holding houses for these citizens of the world, until the authorities established whether or not they had legitimate grounds for political asylum. Broadcasters filled news bulletins with the appropriate images giving reassurances that the laws in place would ensure any bogus asylum seeker was repatriated without delay. The reality was somewhat different. Security was lax on the mainland, with
guards on low pay open to corruption or not motivated to keep the detainees inside.

  As a consequence, many of the immigrants seeped out into the surrounding countryside, realizing their destiny was in their own hands. Even if they had been fingerprinted and were then expelled they could physically erase their own fingerprints and return again on another boat with different papers or no papers at all. Many of them would be heading to friends or relatives already well-established in France, Germany, Sweden, and the UK. However, the Calais Jungle and the channel tunnel presented more difficulties than other borders.

  “Ring me again tomorrow at the same time at this number,” said Victor.

  “If I have any money left. I’ll have to eat, you know.”

  “You can steal if you have to, you know? It’s not a crime if you’re hungry. Or you can go to a church. A priest will give you something. You can give them my name.” As if afraid of being heard or feeling himself to be in possession of important, classified information, he lowered his voice and put his lips closer to the receiver. “Listen, I’ve got to know some important people here,” he whispered now. “I have met an important business man who knows a cardinal!”

  The voice at the other end laughed out loud.

  “It’s true!” Victor protested. “And he says he can get me a permesso di soggiorno and maybe one for you too.”

  “You told him about me?”

  “He asked if I had friends he could meet.”

  “In return for what, brother? You know there’s always a price, don’t you?”

  There was a pause.

  “Victor. Are you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do they want from you for all this?”

  There was a longer pause.

  “Favours,” he whispered.

  “What kind of favours?”

  “Company, that sort of thing. But it’s all true! He promised.”

  “OK, brother, and I’m friends with a journalist and an aid worker.”

  “Really?” Victor replied.

  “No, of course not. I’m pulling your leg. They’re all users, my friend, I can guarantee you. They’re only helping themselves. But I believe you, don’t worry,” the older, more seasoned friend assured him with a laugh. “But, look. You be careful. I have to go now. There are a hundred people need to use this phone tonight. I’ll be in touch. Wish me luck.”

  “God bless you, Jibril.”

  “The same to you, my brother, the same to you.”

  Forty-Five

  Rossi and Carrara were back in the office and were squaring up to what they had got themselves into.

  “So, she’s going to help us find him. The secret services agent is dusting off her investigative credentials,” said Carrara. “Where do we start?”

  Rossi was procrastinating by sifting through messages on his desk, many of which were handwritten by their still e-mail-shy secretary. He squinted as he tried to decipher the old-school calligraphy and then either consigned them to the wastepaper basket with backhand flicks or moved them to another pile of ‘things to do’ that seemed to be putting on fat like a middle-aged carabinieri’s waistline.

  “Where do you think?” said Rossi, stopping and lingering for a moment longer over a more interesting missive.

  “Got something there then, have you?” Carrara enquired, hoping that what had now attracted Rossi’s attention might be some clue to opening the deadlock in the case.

  “Oh, just an invite to my alma mater, The IAUR. They’re giving out prizes and one of my old profs is up for a gong. Great guy, all-rounder really.”

  Then, as if in the throes of some sudden revelation he reached out for the phone.

  “Eleonora, this note about Professor Borrego, do you remember when exactly? And no phone number? Just the e-mail address? He’s travelling a lot at the moment. Is he? OK. Very well. Grazie. Grazie.”

  He turned back to Carrara.

  “Luigi, I may have an idea.”

  Forty-Six

  Yes. He would send a quick message to Iovine and then drive straight back to Rome as soon as he could. Expecting to get everything he wanted from his scoop, he was planning for the editorial meeting of his life. They would not name their source, there was no question of that. Rita’s father, Tonino, would remain in the shadows, for his own safety, but the information had to come into the public domain. Why had the magistrates blocked it and stopped any prosecutions? He was trying not to get too excited, but it was hard. This story could run and run. It could make him. Rita had spoken, too, of pages going missing from Tonino’s report. Where had they ended up? Who had made them disappear? These were all very legitimate questions demanding straight answers. But where were they likely to come from?

  “All well here. VERY interesting leads. Hope to be in Rome tomorrow night. Can’t say more for now.”

  He left the guesthouse and made his way along the main road until he reached the name of the street Rita had told him to memorize. He worked out which way the numbers were arranged and headed uphill between its wobbly looking houses. Rita answered quickly when he buzzed, and he pushed the building’s heavy oak door inwards and jogged up stone steps to her flat on the first floor. The door was already ajar but out of long-practised politeness, he knocked.

  “Permesso,” he called out.

  Pleasing cooking odours emanated from an unseen kitchen.

  “Here I am!” said a radiant and more relaxed Rita as she swung open the door. She was stunning in a dark green sequinned mini-dress and high fashion beige stilettos. She greeted him in the warm inimitable Sicilian style leaving Iannelli wanting more of the same.

  She took the bottle he was still grasping, gave it an approving glance and led him through to the dining room where a fire was crackling in the grate. In an armchair, sat a relatively energetic-looking man, perhaps in his late-fifties, holding a local newspaper while keeping a sceptical eye on the television news.

  “Dario, this is my father, Tonino.”

  He rose to greet Iannelli with the firm handshake of first acquaintance, looking straight into his eyes. As he did so, Iannelli felt the customary hot knife of suspicion go through him but he was inured to it by now.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you in person. I have read many of your articles for the Roman Post and now I see you work for The Facet.”

  “That’s right,” Iannelli replied.

  “Keep up the good work, that’s all I can say. But tell me about Rome.”

  “Well,” interrupted Rita, “perhaps before we get down to business we should start with a little aperitivo.”

  She click-clacked over to the drinks cabinet for glasses. Iannelli, feeling a father’s inevitable presence, tried not to look overly interested but she was magnetic. She was walking back towards the kitchen when the telephone on the small, marble-topped table near the door began to ring. She took a few quick steps and lifted the receiver.

  “Si?” There was a pause. “Chi è? Chi è?” she repeated before slamming it back down. She paused for a moment and then, with a brisk motion, she reached under the piles of magazines and directories and jerked the lead out from the wall socket.

  “Nothing. No one. Again.”

  Father and daughter looked at one another across the room for a brief instant. Their silent interaction seemed to encapsulate the drama and the fear that Iannelli was now beginning to sense, despite the initial levity and warmth he had hoped would dominate the evening.

  “C’mon,” she said. “They can go to hell. Let’s raise a glass.”

  She hurried back with a bottle of chilled white and filled their glasses for the first toast.

  “Salute!” said Iannelli as he began to raise his glass, but Rita put a hand on his arm.

  “No,” she said. “Remember, you are in Sicily. You must look into the other person’s eyes, like this.” And as she lifted her flute and brought it against his, the radiance of the crystal competed valiantly, but in vain, with the bright light burning in her eyes.
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  Yes, thought Iannelli, in Sicily, always with the eyes. What a fine and necessary tradition that was.

  The meal was more than excellent. For the starter there were toasts of toasted croutons with mushrooms and a rich caponata sauce followed by deep-fried artichokes. Iannelli was already full when the first course – spaghetti with fried aubergines and tomato sauce topped with salted ricotta – followed, but manners meant he had to keep eating and smiling and complimenting the chef. All was rounded off by a delicate but sumptuous main course made with swordfish caught by Rita’s father that very morning. While they ate, Tonino asked most of the questions. Unobtrusively, but with a policeman’s perspicaciousness, he was logging details, cross-checking for inconsistencies, corroborating the facts as Iannelli presented them. The prize here for Iannelli was huge and he was treating it like an interview, a business dinner, thinking quickly and always trying to be one step ahead.

  A substantial file sat on the coffee table around which they were now sitting while they sipped on after-dinner digestive liqueurs.

  “It’s all in there,” said Tonino. “The full reports before they got butchered by whoever it was didn’t want the truth to come out. Nobody else wanted to have anything to do with it. Nobody wanted to say that politicians were in cahoots with organized crime, with the cocaine traffic into the capital, with the money laundering. And everyone was getting their share while we were trying to do our duty, chasing shadows and then when we do finally make the link, what happens? We spell it all out and next thing you know you’ve been transferred. Have you ever wondered why politicians don’t get shot these days? Well, you don’t need to shoot someone who’s on the payroll, do you?”