End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  Everyone knew that it was a waste of breath trying to argue with Maria when she used that tone of voice. Besides, the parents were more concerned about their son Sabatino, who had barely touched his food and sat staring blankly at the wall as if oblivious to everything about him. Francesco Nicastro was his best friend. They had played together in the stunted forest on the day when the dead man appeared. Maria rose and announced that she was going to bed early so as to get a good night’s sleep.

  Once in her room, she did indeed undress, but then lay down on top of the covers, glancing alternately at the sacred image on the wall and the looming abyss of the shadowy ceiling high above. The Virgin had been unable to help her in this matter, so Maria would have to help herself, and all of them. For herself she had no fears, but she knew how the kind of men who had inflicted these injuries on the community operated, particularly if there was any truth to the rumours that their leader was possessed by demons. Whatever happened, her son and his wife and Sabatino must be protected. She would have to take stringent precautions before, during and after her trip, keep her wits about her at all times and not carry anything that might identify her if things went wrong.

  Above all, she had to decide what to say and how to say it. After so many years of a silence which she had always assumed would last until her death, it was almost impossible to imagine selecting the words and framing the sentences that would bring the whole matter to light for the first time. In addition, she might very well not be believed. The story she had to tell was just that, a story. She couldn’t prove that it was true or produce any evidence or witnesses to support it. Maria had seen the new police chief on television and he looked like someone you could talk to, but that might just have been his public manner, assumed for the camera and the purposes of meeting the press. One to one, he could easily turn out to be the usual arrogant thug who would dismiss her statement as the ravings of a crazy old woman.

  But none of this weakened her resolve, any more than the impenetrable silence of God, the futile gesture of his Son and the impotent anguish of the Madonna stopped her from praying or going to church. Both the gods and the police were as capricious and vindictive as any of the humans they lorded it over, but every once in a while you might be able to catch their attention and put in a good word for someone. But first you had to make that effort. It might not be sufficient, but if you had any sense of decency then it was necessary. You had to be prepared to ask, to beg, to plead, to grovel. That was all that could be done, and Maria was determined to do it.

  When the papers landed on Zen’s desk early that evening, his first reaction had not been to do with the contents but with the form they took. Written under the letterhead of the US consulate in Naples, the first instalment opened with a boilerplate statement to the effect that ‘this communication contains potentially sensitive classified material’ and hence was being sent in randomly sequenced segments via fax, since no ‘mutually agreed encryption protocols’ were in place between the agencies concerned and the use of email might therefore have constituted a ‘bilateral security hazard’.

  I remember when we first got fax machines at work, Zen thought. They were cutting edge then, a status marker. If you didn’t have one, you weren’t important. Now they were virtually obsolete and sat gathering dust in some unvisited corner of the building. I’ve witnessed the birth and decay of an entire technology, he thought, not just in my lifetime but within recent memory.

  The communication in question was terse in the extreme. Sent in response to a phone call Zen had made the previous evening, it stated that Roberto Calopezzati had been resident in the United States from 1953 until 1965. The American consular official went on to express a disingenuously arch bewilderment at the fact that it had been necessary to contact him for this information. Surely it would have been more convenient for Zen to obtain it from his own internal sources, given that the said Calopezzati’s twelve-year stay in the US had been under the auspices of the Italian government as a legal adviser at their embassy in Washington, DC.

  Zen headed down the corridor to Giovanni Sforza’s office. Livid clouds were hanging low above the city like clusters of poisonous fruit, but the storm wouldn’t break. Inside the Questura, the atmosphere was as taut as overstretched sailcloth.

  ‘I need your help again, Giovanni. There’s an angle to the case that’s been bothering me. It may not be relevant, but if so then it’s a remarkable set of coincidences. According to the official records both here and in the United States, Peter Newman was born in the province of Cosenza under the name Pietro Ottavio Calopezzati. Later he became an American citizen, changed his name to Newman and as far as we know never returned to Italy until recently. In short, we appear to have a Calabrian who moves to the United States, styles himself Newman — uomo nuovo — and avoids any contact with his native country for over forty years. Then one fine day he returns, is kidnapped and is murdered in a highly theatrical way for no apparent motive whatsoever.’

  Sforza nodded bureaucratically.

  ‘And your point is?’ he asked.

  ‘To prove that he was indeed the person mentioned in the records. The Calopezzati family have proved very hard to trace, but I’ve learned an interesting fact about Roberto, who would be Pietro’s uncle if the documents are correct. Our records contain no mention of him after the war, nor do any other related files. But I’ve learned from other sources that a person by that name worked at the Italian embassy in Washington for twelve years from 1953. I now need to know what became of him.’

  ‘What post did he hold at the embassy?’

  ‘Legal adviser.’

  Giovanni Sforza evidently didn’t know what resonance the name Calopezzati had in Calabria, but the term ‘legal adviser’ had its significance for him.

  ‘Secret job,’ he said. ‘That would explain the security clearance level on that file you mentioned.’

  Zen looked incredulous.

  ‘The servizi?’

  ‘Used to be their standard operating procedure. It wasn’t usually covert work. To save everyone time and trouble, and foster good relations with a trusted ally, they were declared to the host government. But it complicates your task. Those people change their identities like we change our socks, only they don’t wash the used ones, they throw them away. And they’re very reluctant to divulge any information about their personnel, present or past. To anyone.’

  Zen shrugged.

  ‘Well, without it, this is all going to take a lot longer. And we don’t have that much time. Now the news of Newman’s death is out, I’m under severe pressure. If I happen to mention in an unguarded moment that my investigation is being impeded by some secretive 007s in Rome, they’ll be under a lot of pressure too. You might mention that in your sales pitch.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ll do my best.’

  In the corridor, Zen was accosted by Natale Arnone, a stack of papers in his fist.

  ‘The report from the Digos day team shadowing Nicola Mantega just came in,’ he said. ‘I know how busy you are, so I’ve filleted it for you.’

  He handed over the sheaf of paperwork with a page containing heavy underlining uppermost.

  ‘Mantega met Tom Newman by chance in a cafe around lunchtime. They made small talk for a while — some archaeological matter — and then Newman told Mantega that his father had been murdered. Mantega appeared perturbed by this news and immediately borrowed the American’s mobile phone, presumably because he suspects his own is being tapped, to call that number in San Giovanni that we now have on intercept. There was no reply, but it switched over to an answering machine and Mantega left this message.’

  His stubby forefinger, with its immaculately trimmed nail, indicated a transcribed passage on the page.

  You crazy bastard! What do you think you’redoing? Newman’s son just told me that hisfather’s dead. Well, that’s the end of it as far asI’m concerned! I trusted you, Giorgio, and now Ifeel betrayed. It’s all very well for you, lying l
owwith your friends out of harm’s way. I’m the onethe cops are going to put through the mincer. Ifthey do, and I still haven’t heard from you, I’ll tellthem everything I know. Names, numbers, dates, times, places, the lot! And don’t think you canblackmail me with that video. That was about akidnapping. This is manslaughter at the veryleast, and probably murder. I had nothing to dowith that and I’m sure as hell not taking theblame. I don’t owe you anything and I shall takeall necessary measures to protect my ownposition, so get in touch by tomorrow at thelatest. If you don’t, all bets are off, and you’ll findout just what I’m — ’

  ‘The machine cut him off at that point,’ Natale Arnone remarked when Zen had finished reading. ‘Shall we take him? He’s clearly been withholding evidence and would probably be ready to talk with a little persuasion.’

  ‘True, but who knows how informative or conclusive his evidence would turn out to be? No, on balance I want to leave him loose a little while longer, along with the man whose phone he called. But he must be watched night and day and we must be prepared for him to try and slip off to another covert meeting with Giorgio at some point. If he does, we have to be ready to move in this time and close the trap. How’s the surveillance operation on the house in San Giovanni going?’

  ‘All in place. They’re doubling up as a maintenance crew from the gas company during the day and a parked delivery truck overnight.’

  A stunning guttural rumble that would have had any rap artist weeping in awe shook the city like a celestial earthquake.

  ‘Young Newman also tried to pick up one of the female Digos agents. She took advantage of the situation to read the number Mantega had just called off the screen of his mobile, in case we didn’t have an intercept in place.’

  ‘What’s the agent’s name?’

  ‘Mirella Kodra.’

  ‘Tell her to get in touch with young Signor Newman, co-operate up to a certain point, find out whatever she can about what he’s up to and report back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Zen heard his desk phone ringing and dashed into his office.

  ‘I’ve found someone who is willing, subject to certain provisos, to talk to you about the subject we discussed,’ Giovanni Sforza said, as though choosing his words carefully. ‘I’ve got him on the line now and will put him through to you.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Don’t ask. And don’t ask him either.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll try to avoid the tough questions.’

  ‘Avoid jokes too. These people take themselves very seriously indeed.’

  After a number of fuzzy clicks, an unfamiliar voice spoke.

  ‘ Buona sera, dottore. I have been given to understand that you wish to contact a certain individual of my acquaintance. For the purposes of this conversation, we will refer to him simply as Roberto.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘And that you wish to obtain a DNA sample from him. May I ask why?’

  ‘To positively identify the victim of a murder I’m investigating. Circumstantial evidence appears to suggest that he was Roberto’s nephew. Genetic profiling would instantly confirm or exclude that hypothesis, which in turn might well have a decisive effect on the progress of the case.’

  There was a silence at the other end.

  ‘So you don’t wish to interview Roberto in person?’ the other man said at length.

  ‘Ideally, yes. He might well be able to supply other details relating to his family which are at present either vague or unknown. But I appreciate the sensitivities of your department, so if you insist I will settle for the DNA material. As you perhaps know, this isn’t an invasive procedure. A mouth swab would suffice. What is crucial, however, is that there should be irrefutable evidence that the sample was indeed taken from the individual under discussion.’

  ‘I can provide immaculate paperwork to support the authenticity of any sample, should Roberto consent to provide one.’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest doubt that you are in a position to provide any type of paperwork whatsoever,’ Zen replied with a touch of steel in his voice. ‘But should the case go to court, the person named in the documents you provided would be required to present himself before the judges in order to validate under oath the statements made therein. Do you really want to risk one of your agents being blown like that?’

  A further silence ensued.

  ‘As it happens, Roberto is willing to meet you in person, subject to stringent conditions.’

  ‘Name them.’

  ‘First, that the meeting be here in Rome. How do you propose to arrive?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When would this be?’

  ‘Tomorrow at the earliest.’

  ‘Then tomorrow. I’ll take the night train.’

  ‘Very well. Please ask Dottor Sforza to contact me with the estimated arrival time and other details in due course. You will be met at the station and conveyed to the meeting place. A medical orderly will be present to ensure that the correct procedures for taking the DNA samples are observed. Following that, you may speak to Roberto for a limited period, on condition that his refusal to respond to any given question is accepted as binding, and that no record of your conversation with him — whether written, electronic or in any other medium — is made. Do you agree?’

  ‘I don’t appear to have any option.’

  ‘Correct. I hope the results of your visit prove helpful, dottore. Buon lavoro.’

  Splayed out on the bed behind two layers of closed curtains, with CNN murmuring from the television, Martin Nguyen devoured the club sandwich that he’d ordered up from room service. It didn’t look like a club sandwich, being layered on slices of a freshly baked roll, but it tasted better than any he’d ever had. Even the fries were great. They were nicely crisp but dense inside, and tasted earthily of potato. Martin had kind of forgotten that fries were made from potatoes, but when you had to chew on them a little the whole process became clear. Al dente, he thought.

  He had been forced to listen to a lot of Italian since his arrival, and found that he understood it perfectly. Not so much the content, although he was picking up quite a bit of that too, but the form. This was atavistically familiar to him, unlike the incoherent lexis-free mumblings he had to deal with back on the West Coast, where the key point of the exchange often seemed to be the speaker’s appeal to anyone present to give him a helping hand with the almost impossible task of articulating whatever banal thought had sparked and then immediately died in his brain. Every utterance ended up as a collaborative effort, like raising a barn. It was tough, backbreaking work, but it brought the community together. Italian, on the other hand, was a language much like Martin’s own lost Vietnamese: pure, plain and declarative. In neither tongue was there even an approximate equivalent for such phrases as ‘So I was, kind of, like, you know?’

  Martin had necessarily learned to speak that dialect on demand, but he also had a number of other registers at his disposal when the need arose. He had been acutely aware of such a need many times that day, but all he had to fall back on were Tom Newman’s translations. The loss of his verbal karate skills had been the greatest trial during an incredibly long working day which had left Martin feeling exhausted, baffled and all the more foreign for the apparent similarities to his own native culture. First there had been the crack-of-dawn meeting at the Aeroscan base, followed by an unpleasant encounter with the local police chief, who had turned out to be both tough and intelligent, qualities which Nguyen respected but preferred not to encounter in opponents in a position of power.

  Then after lunch, during which Tom and the waiter had made the simple transaction of ordering a goddamn meal sound like the finale of some Three Tenors extravaganza, he had spent hours in a dingy, stifling office with the notary that Newman had hired as a fixer trying to figure out the current state of play plus how the hell anything got done in this Latino dump, if it ever did. Throughout, he had been dependent on Tom’
s translations of what was said on either side. The kid’s English was way more sophisticated than Jake’s, but Martin had no way of knowing what his Italian was like, and hence of how he, Martin Nguyen, was coming across.

  To cap it all off, on the way back to the hotel Tom had blurted out the news that his father was dead. Here was cause for genuine grief. In Martin’s view, there was a time and a place for homicide. Plumb in the middle of the stealth-bomber strategy he’d devised for this project, with the victim a declared Rapture Works contractor, was just totally inappropriate. He was furious that his hefty incentive bonus had been put at risk by a bunch of peasant bandidos with more balls than brains. This one was going to need heavy spin on it. It was essential that Aeroscan’s operations continued as smoothly and invisibly as possible until the mission had been accomplished.

  His mobile phone burbled into life. Martin didn’t want to answer it, but he could no more ignore a ringtone than a mother could her crying baby.

  ‘Yo.’

  ‘Hi, Jake.’

  ‘We’ve got issues, dude.’

  ‘No fucking kidding!’

  ‘The guy called you too?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘That big kahuna director we hired for the movie cover.’

  ‘Aldobrandini? We spoke after I arrived here.’

  ‘I mean real time. Like, you know, now.’

  ‘I’ve been totally slammed, Jake. It’s all swimming upstream here. What’s new?’

  ‘Aldo left a message. He somehow found out the whole thing is a scam. Said a lot of stuff about creative property rights and shit. Plus he’s threatening to get on TV and expose us, then sue our asses. What a shitty break! If Newman doesn’t get kidnapped, this never happens.’