End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘That’s the report of the team I’ve consulted,’ he said. ‘You can read the small print later, but their principal conclusions are clear and I want them implemented subito.’

  Larson looked at him curiously.

  ‘I didn’t know you spoke Italian, Mr Nguyen.’

  ‘I was born in a country then called Indochina, where the official language was French. Later I was moved to the States, where I had to learn English, then in high school I studied Spanish. Italian is pretty much the same except for the make-up and the hairstyle.’

  He went over to the map which took up most of one wall.

  ‘These are the areas you’ve done?’ he queried, indicating the shaded zones.

  Phil Larson nodded.

  ‘Okay, ignore the whole rest of this section and concentrate on the upper valleys of the rivers off this map to the south.’

  Larson looked doubtful.

  ‘Hell, we don’t even have charts for that area. You said to look at the confluence of the rivers and down in the flood plain where we are now. That’s what we’ve been doing. Of course a lot of this terrain has been built on in the last fifty years or so, like this place where we are now. If the site we’re looking for is underneath any of that, we aren’t going to find it anyway.’

  ‘My consultants pointed that out. Plus that in a sprawling flood plain like this the river-bed will have shifted around over the centuries, and that the deforestation of the surrounding mountains a century ago has completely screwed the hydrological aspects of the situation, the amount of water run-off and hence the height of the rivers. So a lot of their data is highly indeterminate. But there are other factors involved. One is that the men who originally constructed this thing were all killed afterwards to keep the location secret.’

  Phil Larson grinned nervously.

  ‘Not a company tradition, I hope?’

  Martin ignored the comment.

  ‘But if the site had been within view of the city of Cosenza, then to preserve the secret all the citizens would have had to be killed too, and there is no record of such a massacre.’

  ‘We’re pretty well out of sight of the city here,’ Larson pointed out.

  ‘Yeah, but back then the main road from Rome down to Sicily ran right along this side of the valley. Anyone using it would have spotted what was going on and maybe come back later to check it out. So bearing all this in mind, your brief is to look in the upper valleys of the rivers that splay out southwards from here.’

  Larson frowned.

  ‘But you said that we were looking for the foundations of a building. Why would anyone choose to build there? Here on the banks I can maybe see, but in the middle of a river? That’s just crazy!’

  Martin glanced at Tom, but he didn’t appear to be paying any attention.

  ‘It’s a tomb,’ he explained to Phil. ‘The people who built it had this religious thing about the dead person resting undisturbed for ever, so beneath a river was perfect. No one except them knew where it was, so there was no way it was ever going to get dug up except by pure chance. Anyway, what do you care? You’ve been given your instructions.’

  ‘Well, like I said, I don’t have charts for that…’

  ‘You’ve also said you’re using visual navigation. Higher up, those rivers are hemmed in by the mountains, so their course can’t have changed much. Start where they join up and follow each of them up to the five-hundred metre level. Does the pilot understand English?’

  ‘Not so as you’d notice. I just point to the strips I want to cover every day.’

  ‘Go and give him his new orders. My assistant will translate.’

  Outside on the concrete forecourt, the pilot was checking his machine over with the meticulous attention of a man who knows that his life depends on it. Phil Larson briefed him on the new search plan, pausing from time to time for Tom to turn it into Italian. He added that the boss was visiting, so to make a good impression they should look busy and get going as soon as possible, then returned to the office where Martin Nguyen was waiting.

  Tom stayed where he was. He’d been fascinated by planes ever since he was a boy, when a friend of his father’s had taken him for a ride in a Cessna out over Marin County and done some freaky stuff that had scared him stiff and left an indelible memory. He half-hoped that this pilot might offer a repeat performance, but the Italian seemed preoccupied with other matters.

  ‘I don’t even have a chart of those valleys,’ he complained to Tom. ‘Not that it would help much. They’re always stringing new electricity lines across them that aren’t marked. And then there are the old pulleys they used to use to bring goods across to the far side from the road. They’re abandoned, so they’re not on the chart, but half of them are still there, sagging down just about exactly the altitude we’ll be flying at.’

  Tom nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Anyway, the whole thing’s pointless,’ the pilot went on. ‘If these Americans want to find the right scenery for this film they’re making, they could do it much cheaper from the ground.’

  Tom noted that the Italian’s resentment and contempt were markedly increased by the idea that his employers were throwing their money away so stupidly.

  ‘Apparently they’re looking for something that’s buried under the river,’ he said, in an instinctive attempt to defend his compatriots. ‘I guess they want to use it for a location in the movie.’

  ‘Under the river? What kind of thing?’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘Some tomb.’

  The pilot continued to stare at him for so long that Tom began to think he must have offended him in some way. Then he smiled wearily.

  ‘ Ma certo,’ he replied in a tone of contempt. ‘ La famosa tomba d’Alarico.’

  It was another perfect morning in Cosenza. Sunlight sidled in through the window, stripping away the acceptable surface of things to reveal the tawdry substance beneath. Seated at his desk, head in hands, Aurelio Zen sensed its intrusive presence as a glow between his fingers. He had been awake since shortly after four o’clock, following a phone call from the Questura under his standing instructions to be summoned at any hour of the day or night in the event of any significant development in the case. By then it was too late to do anything. What had happened had happened, and it was arguably all his fault. Police operations went wrong all the time, but this was different.

  For years now, Zen had been living in a world where reality seemed to have been drained of all substance. Once upon a time, and he could still remember that time, authentic experience had been the default position, as unremarkable as gravity or the weather. Now, though, the authentic sounded a melancholy blue note as it receded, a Doppler effect induced by the speed of cultural change, as though sadly waving goodbye. There were, however, still exceptions to this general rule. Zen’s experience was that for every ten kilometres you travelled between Rome and Cosenza, you moved back another year into the past, finally arriving in the mid-1950s. Authenticity was not as yet under serious threat here, and in some way that he couldn’t have explained, that slewed the ethical equations too. What would have been good enough elsewhere simply wouldn’t do here, back in the lost realm of the real.

  The surgeons at Cosenza hospital were attempting to sew the severed portion of Francesco Nicastro’s tongue back on to the root, but it was uncertain whether he would ever have any feeling or control over it. His father Antonio, the sole wage-earner, was awaiting his turn for an operation to restructure his knee, but it appeared unlikely that he would be able to work again. In short, whatever the outcome of the case, the family was ruined. Zen had spent an hour interrogating the two detectives who had questioned the boy in the first place, but both Corti and Caricato swore that Francesco had been interviewed alone and that neither of them had told anyone but their immediate superiors what the outcome had been. In the end, Zen believed them, but someone must have talked. Zen was privately inclined to think that Francesco’s brother might have mentioned it to a friend �
�� perhaps the third boy who had been playing near the path when il morto appeared — in all innocence, as a way of demonstrating what an idiot his sibling was and thereby bolstering his own status.

  Natale Arnone entered with yet another coffee and some pastries. He also informed Zen that the two Americans who had been instructed to appear that morning had arrived half an hour before, adding that the older one didn’t seem too happy about being kept waiting.

  ‘Oh, and Signor Mantega was on the phone again last night. Used the same public box as he did before, the one that’s now tapped. Two calls. One was to a mobile phone, no reply. The other to a landline that’s been traced to a house in San Giovanni in Fiore.’

  Zen looked up wearily.

  ‘And?’

  ‘A man answered. Mantega asked to speak to someone called Giorgio. The man said he wasn’t there. Mantega left instructions to have Giorgio contact him. I was just wondering if you wanted any immediate action taken.’

  ‘Well, add both numbers to the intercept list, naturally.’

  ‘That’s already been done.’

  ‘Who owns the property?’

  ‘Dionisio Carduzzi, sixty-eight years old, retired carpenter, no criminal record.’

  Zen sighed.

  ‘All right. Have the place watched, but discreetly. See if the Digos boys can stage some sort of utility repair job requiring them to dig up the street near by. They’re to note and if possible photograph everyone who comes and goes, take vehicle details and so on. But tell them to err on the side of caution. I don’t want any more mutilation of innocents. Judging by what happened last night, this Giorgio is a ruthless sadist and evidently jumpy. After my press conference later this morning, he’s going to be even jumpier.’

  He pushed the mound of papers on his desk aside and made a brief phone call to the pathologist who had conducted the post-mortem examination on the corpse found the day before, then another to the Questura’s press officer with instructions to set up a news conference for ten o’clock. After that, he told Arnone to bring on the Americans.

  It was immediately clear when they entered that Arnone had been understating Martin Nguyen’s mood. No sooner was he through the doorway than he launched into a barrage of protests and veiled threats, most of which Tom Newman chose to leave untranslated.

  ‘I turn up here of my own free will for the meeting requested by you during our encounter last night,’ Nguyen concluded, ‘and you keep me waiting for over forty minutes! What time do you people get in to work, anyway?’

  ‘I have been at work since four this morning.’

  ‘Are you night shift? Let me speak to the day guy.’

  ‘An incident has occurred which demanded my attention. I apologise for the inconvenience and am glad to say that I shall not detain you for long, Signor — ’

  He looked defeatedly at the name written on the folder he had opened.

  ‘Nguyen,’ Tom supplied.

  ‘Precisely,’ said Zen. ‘You’re staying at the Rende International Residence, I believe?’

  ‘How do you know that?’ demanded Nguyen.

  ‘All hotels have to report the names and passport details of their guests to the police,’ Tom muttered. ‘It’s standard procedure, nothing personal.’

  Martin Nguyen sighed impatiently.

  ‘Since you already know, why bother asking?’

  ‘And you’re planning to remain there?’ Zen asked.

  Nguyen shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘A week at least. Possibly longer. Why?’

  ‘And what is the purpose of your visit to Cosenza?’

  ‘Business.’

  ‘Could you be a little more specific?’

  ‘I’m executive-producing a significant property for a major-player American movie company. It’s just about to go into production, and key scenes will be shot in and around this city. Luciano Aldobrandini, of whom you may perhaps have heard, is directing and he’s on track to initiate shooting shortly. Up until his disappearance, Peter Newman was acting as our representative on the ground, liaising with the local contractors, getting the necessary permits and so on. Since his skill sets are no longer available to us, I have been tasked with the additional challenge of performing his role.’

  Zen’s face was as expressionless as the frescoed image of some minor saint who was being martyred in some unspeakable way but, thanks to his steadfast faith, remained at peace with himself.

  ‘Signor Newman appears to have spent much of his time with a notary named Nicola Mantega. What was the subject under discussion when they met?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. Pete never mentioned the name, but that’s normal. He was a self-starter, made his own contacts. We didn’t expect detailed reports as long as he got results.’

  Zen considered this in silence for a moment.

  ‘And what about you, Signor, er — ’

  ‘Nguyen,’ Tom interposed.

  ‘What about me?’ the other man demanded.

  ‘Have you been in touch with Mantega since your arrival here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you plan to be?’

  ‘What business is that of yours?’

  Zen gazed for some time at the window, as though there was something of vital importance to be glimpsed through the luminous screening of the blinds.

  ‘Signor Mantega is an interesting man,’ he remarked blandly. ‘He specialises in arranging deals between crooked businessmen and corrupt politicians. One therefore asks oneself why your company should have required his services.’

  Nguyen’s face hardened.

  ‘Are you in fact asking yourself, or are you asking me?’

  Zen pretended to consider this for a moment.

  ‘Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I’m asking you.’

  ‘Then I want a lawyer present,’ Nguyen replied curtly.

  Zen sighed in a weary way.

  ‘I have no time for that nonsense. I’ve had a hard night, signore. I was simply hoping for your cooperation in providing some background to the case that concerns me now. But, to be honest, recent developments have rendered your status entirely peripheral and your resulting interest to me minimal. I therefore invite you to take your leave.’

  After witnessing the initial confrontation, Arnone had remained standing in the corner of the room throughout. With a sweep of his hand, Zen signalled him to escort Martin Nguyen out, then turned to face Tom Newman.

  ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said.

  The spiny dorsal fin of the coast slipped past unnoticed beyond the vast expanse of glass shielding the saloon. Luciano Aldobrandini lay embedded in a winged leather recliner, naked except for a black thong, watching his personal recut for DVD of the film which had won him the silver at Venice back in the 1960s. It should have been the gold, but Visconti’s people had packed the jury.

  All things considered, it had held up pretty well, he thought. Artless and unsophisticated, of course, and given to crude over-emphasis at times. He would make it very differently now, but it was questionable whether the result would necessarily have been an improvement. Primitive though it was in many respects, the original had a raw, driven quality to it, a sense of energy to burn, amounting to sheer recklessness at times, that now felt very, very precious.

  He switched off the DVD player and summoned Pippo.

  ‘Bring me a Singapore Sling, darling.’

  The lad frowned ominously.

  ‘It’s only ten to twelve.’

  ‘Don’t be a bore. In Singapore, it’s cocktail time.’

  His phone chirruped. Luciano glanced at the screen. It was Marcello.

  ‘Where are you?’ the agent asked, with a brittle tone and lack of the customary foreplay which suggested a state of some agitation.

  ‘On board the Narcisso, southward bound to start preparations for the shoot,’ his master replied. ‘A calm sea and a prosperous voyage, since you haven’t bothered to ask
. At least, I trust it will prove to be prosperous. Some of my crew members are joining me in a few days and I intend to put on a show of having started principal photography by the end of the week, as per your instructions.’

  Marcello grunted.

  ‘From what I’ve heard, an advance crew is already in place and has been for several weeks.’

  ‘Heard from whom?’

  ‘Another client of mine.’

  ‘Which specific talentless cunt are you referring to?’

  ‘That’s privileged information, Luciano. Anyway, you wouldn’t be any the wiser if I told you. He’s a rapper.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You see? Right now he’s trekking on horseback along the edge of the Sila range above Cosenza. I called him about a business thing and asked how his holiday was going. “It would be blissful if it weren’t for that damned helicopter that Luciano has hired,” he said. It seems there’s a lot of very noisy low-level flying going on. When my client asked what it was about, he was told it was preparatory location scouting for your movie.’

  Aldobrandini straightened up abruptly.

  ‘That’s absurd! You know I never delegate that sort of work.’

  ‘Exactly. So I engaged the services of an ex-spook who now works as a private eye in Reggio. Last night he raided the compound on the outskirts of Cosenza which this outfit uses as a base, and has just reported his findings. Briefly, the helicopter has been hired by an American company called Aeroscan Surveying. He broke into the machine and took a look inside. The entire cargo space is filled with electronic equipment and screens and seats for the operators. Further research on my part has revealed that Aeroscan is a specialised firm which uses ground-penetrating radar devices to locate objects concealed underground. Everything from unmapped sewage lines to military bunkers and archaeological remains. Are you planning to film underground, Luciano?’

  ‘Not till they plant me there.’

  Pippo returned with a brimming glass. His master downed the contents in one and commanded a refill.