End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘ Ciao, Manuele! ’

  Emanuele, on the other hand, sounded preoccupied.

  ‘There’s something I want to show you, dad. Can you come right now?’

  ‘Come where?’

  ‘To the chapel of Santa Caterina on the back road to Mendicino.’

  ‘Are you there now? I thought you and your friend were spending the day in town. Does he have a car?’

  ‘Don’t ask any more questions, dad, just come. Please!’

  By now, Emanuele sounded desperate. Pancrazi considered that he knew the territory around Cosenza ‘tolerably well’, as he would have put it, but he was not familiar with that particular chapel, probably some devotional shrine of strictly local interest and no architectural merit. He had once joked to a colleague whose subject was the Early Modern period that he himself suffered from a professional version of Alzheimer’s symptoms. ‘I can remember the smallest details of everything that happened up to the fall of Constantinople, but the last five hundred years are just a blur.’ What on earth could Emanuele and his friend have found there in such a place to justify his driving out there ‘right now’? It was charming and flattering that they had even bothered to include him and his interests in their laddish day out together, but the whole thing still didn’t quite make sense.

  The evening rush hour was in full swing and it took him almost forty minutes to reach the rendezvous. It was a small building, squat and mean, set off beside the road in the middle of nowhere, not a house in sight. There was no sign of another vehicle either, which meant that there had either been a mistake about the location of the rendezvous or the two young men had got tired of waiting. Achille decided to take a look inside anyway, if the door was unlocked. It was. The interior was no improvement on the thinly plastered rough stone outside, a cramped space with a few rows of pews set before a small altar. The few ex votos about were old and illegible and the air smelt musty. The place was obviously no longer used on any regular basis. He was about to turn back when the door slammed shut behind him.

  ‘Don’t turn round, professo,’ said a voice. ‘Sit down facing the altar. Keep your hands in view at all times.’

  A harsh laugh.

  ‘Clasped in prayer, if you like.’

  Achille Pancrazi knew immediately what had happened, but his first thought was for himself. God almighty, what would Reginella say when she heard? She had always despised and hated southerners, to the extent of initially refusing to allow her son to visit his father in Calabria. Achille and Emanuele had joined forces on that issue once he became old enough to take a stand on his rights and responsibilities, and they had prevailed, mocking her irrational fears, telling her that everything was different now, that it was time to wake up and stop behaving like a typical paranoid northern racist. They’d prevailed at the time, but now Reginella would exact a terrible revenge.

  And why on earth was this happening to someone like him anyway? He knew that the gangs sometimes took relatively small fry, pharmacists or accountants, to keep their earnings up on a percentage basis, but it had never occurred to him that he might be on their list. All right, he was a university professor, but the pay was miserable even before the outrageous sums withheld under the divorce settlement that his ex-wife’s butch lesbian lawyer had imposed. Just look at my bank statements, he felt like saying. I may have an impressive-sounding title, but the truth is that I’m just scraping by.

  ‘It’s not about money,’ the man said, as though he had been reading Achille’s thoughts. ‘Just a little professional help. Things you can arrange quite easily and will cost you nothing but a little time. In return, I personally guarantee as a man of honour that you will get your son back, safe and unharmed.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Once you have done what we ask.’

  ‘Yes, of course, only… You see, he’s due back at the weekend.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To his mother. She’ll kill me if he’s still missing when she finds out what’s happened.’

  The man laughed again.

  ‘Maybe we should have taken her as well!’

  ‘Could you do that?’ Achille found himself asking.

  ‘I’m not interested in your domestic problems. But it’s essential to our agreement that it remains private. If you or your wife or anyone else informs the authorities, then Emanuele will be returned to you one piece at a time, wrapped in plastic food bags. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘When we wish to contact you, we shall call your home number on your son’s mobile. If I suspect that either number is being monitored by the police, out come the skinning and butchering knives. The same if you fail to follow our instructions to the letter and on time. Are you still following me?’

  The man’s patronising tone made Pancrazi really angry for the first time.

  ‘I’m not stupid, you know!’

  ‘I hope not. What we want is some old Roman treasure.’

  ‘Treasure?’ breathed Pancrazi faintly.

  ‘Gold cups, diamond jewellery, what do I know? But it has to be genuine, the real thing, good enough to pass examination by an expert.’

  ‘What period are we talking about here? Late republic? Early empire?’

  ‘How the fuck should I know?’ the man shouted.

  ‘Of course,’ murmured Pancrazi mildly. ‘Not your area of competence.’

  There followed a silence so long that Pancrazi began to think that the man had left as silently as he arrived, until he spoke again.

  ‘Alaric.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘When did he live?’

  ‘Late fourth to early fifth century, roughly. The exact dates are a matter of some dispute, but a recent paper by Schondorf suggests that — ’

  ‘Okay, the stuff has to be older than that.’

  ‘And where am I supposed to get it?’

  ‘Not my problem, professo. But that’s what you teach, isn’t it? What you profess. The people who run the museums must give you a chance to handle the merchandise once in a while. Well, take that chance, use your wits and wait for me to call.’

  ‘Then what happens?’

  ‘We borrow the sample for a few days, then return it to you and you take it back to wherever you got it.’

  ‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll return it?’

  The man laughed once more.

  ‘None whatever. But if you don’t deliver within the next forty-eight hours, your son will be returned to you in convenient bite-sized chunks. Simmer slowly in a good tomato sauce and you’ll have yourself a meal. You might want to invite your ex-wife. There’ll be plenty.’

  Except for the looming presence of Natale Arnone, in full uniform and fingering the automatic pistol in the white holster attached to the diagonal strap across his ample chest, the scene of Zen’s first interview with Nicola Mantega was identical to that of the previous one with Maria. The atmosphere, however, could not have been more different. The two principals had both removed their ties and unbuttoned their shirts. The air was a broth of smoke, spent breath and body odours, seasoned with fear.

  ‘You’ve been a silly boy, Mantega,’ Zen said quietly. ‘It goes without saying that you’re a total waste of space from a moral and legal point of view, but I have to deal with that every day in my job and by now I’m hardened to it. What I can’t tolerate is sheer carelessness, perhaps because it calls into question my own reason for living. Evil is one thing, but a drunk driver who persistently takes blind corners on the wrong side of the road disturbs me.’

  Mantega sat hunched in his chair like a resilient stuffed toy. He knew how this game was played. Zen gestured to Arnone.

  ‘Again.’

  The young inspector crossed the room to the bank of electronic equipment and pressed a button. Mantega’s voice issued from the loudspeakers attached to the computer terminal on Zen’s desk, the recording of the call he had made on Tom Newman’s mobile to the house in San Giovanni in Fiore w
here Giorgio’s calls were received.

  ‘You crazy bastard! What do you think you’re doing? Newman’s son just told me that his father’s dead. Well, that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned! I trusted you, Giorgio, and now I feel betrayed. It’s all very well for you, lying low with your friends out of harm’s way. I’m the one the cops are going to put through the mincer. If they do, and I still haven’t heard from you, I’ll tell them everything I know. Names, numbers, dates, times, places, the lot! And don’t think you can blackmail me with that video. That was about a kidnapping. This is manslaughter at the very least, and probably murder. I had nothing to do with that and I’m sure as hell not taking the blame. I don’t owe you anything and I shall take all necessary measures to protect my own position, so get in touch by tomorrow at the latest. If you don’t, all bets are off, and you’ll find out just what I’m — ’

  Aurelio Zen came to stand directly over Nicola Mantega.

  ‘So did he?’

  Realising that silence and inertia would no longer do, that a move was required, Mantega glanced up at Zen with an expression of polite confusion.

  ‘Did who do what?’

  ‘Did Giorgio get in touch with you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Zen commented. ‘Giorgio is certainly evil and possibly mad, but he isn’t stupid and doesn’t want to be associated with imbeciles. And who shall blame him?’

  Mantega hung his head and stayed silent.

  ‘All right,’ sighed Zen. ‘As you so aptly put it, all bets are now off.’

  ‘I have a right to legal representation.’

  ‘You are a lawyer, Signor Mantega. Were, rather, as a result of that spectacular bit of silliness nine years ago, but no doubt the old skills are still there.’

  ‘I want an independent witness present to represent my interests and to report any illegal pressure on your part. If you deny me my legal rights, the judges will throw the case out.’

  Zen laughed flirtatiously.

  ‘Who said anything about judges, Nicola? I’m not intending to waste the court’s valuable time on a sleazy little go-between. Try and get it through your thick skull that this isn’t all about you! The investigating magistrate is only interested in the men who kidnapped and murdered Peter Newman, and my only interest in you is as a link to them. You know who they are and quite possibly where. My instructions are to find a way to make you communicate that information.’

  Zen turned away and gazed out of the window at the helicopter that had been tormenting the city for days.

  ‘Arnone,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘At some point in the proceedings, I foresee that Signor Mantega may attempt to resist arrest and will have to be forcibly restrained.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Zen turned. Nicola Mantega had hunkered down again, preparing himself for the long haul ahead.

  ‘What was the video you mentioned in your phone call?’ Zen asked. ‘The one you advised Giorgio not to try and blackmail you with.’

  There was no reply. Zen clapped his hands loudly.

  ‘All right, take him down and turn him over to Corti and Caricato. They are to begin conventionally, but step up the pressure if there’s no valuable product after a couple of hours. Set up a shift rota for the night. No sleep for our guest, naturally. I may take a turn myself later on, depending on how things go.’

  Martin Nguyen was hiding in his room. That wasn’t how he’d put it to the front desk staff, of course. He’d told them that he would be teleconferencing until further notice and mustn’t on any account be disturbed, but the truth was that he was hiding. He lay swathed in a robe of Thai silk on the brutally unyielding bed, wondering how he could have got it so wrong about these people. He’d assumed that on average Italians were about as dumb, lazy and street-level criminal as a certain racially challenged segment of the US population, only with better cuisine and cuter noses. He’d been prepared for that. What he hadn’t been prepared for was to find them just as sharp and sophisticated as himself, if not more so.

  It was just possible that this was the worst day that he’d ever had — apart from his childhood, which was hors concours in that respect. It had started with a disastrous meeting with the deputy mayor of Cosenza and two of his advisers at city hall. Panicked by the outcome, he had called Jake to consult, forgetting that it was the middle of the night over there, and then on top of everything else his fucking interpreter had gone off shift. At the same time, from a professional point of view Martin couldn’t help appreciating the precise manner in which he had been shafted. He liked to think of himself as a top pro, able to take it and dish it out with the best of them, but he had to admit that on this occasion he’d been outplayed.

  The Italians had home advantage, of course, but their game had been damn near perfect. After the curt, peremptory phone call the day before, summoning him to the meeting, Martin had expected a hostile reception. Nothing of the sort! He had been shown into an impressive and comfortable suite, offered coffee and even an alcoholic liqueur — something that would have caused a scandal resulting in instant dismissal had they been elected officials back in the States — and then plied with polite enquiries as to how he was enjoying his stay in Cosenza, and suggestions of pleasurable ways in which he might spend his spare time.

  Once they got down to business, however, it became clear that he wasn’t going to have much spare time. The tone might have been different from the brusque telephone call but the content remained the same: the permits which had been granted to the movie company to carry out low-level helicopter operations in the area were due to expire in a couple of days, and following Luciano Aldobrandini’s public repudiation of the project and his statements casting doubt upon its viability, it would be impossible for the city to renew them without convincing evidence that the film was indeed going ahead and that the flights in question were essential to its production.

  Martin had done the best he could under the circumstances. He had attempted — with some success, he thought — to get across the enormous difficulties of working with a proud, volatile genius such as Aldobrandini notoriously was. The slightest misunderstanding was perceived as a personal insult, a temporary setback regarded as a deliberate attempt by mean-minded businessmen who thought only of money to sabotage a great artist’s crowning masterwork. There had indeed been a regrettable series of minor hitches resulting from the kidnapping of the company’s representative Peter Newman, although he hoped the mayor appreciated that no attempt had been made to leverage this horrendous crime in a way that might have brought unwelcome publicity to the region. It had taken a few days to assemble an alternative leadership team, but now that it was in place all problems would shortly be resolved. He therefore hoped that a temporary extension to the flight permits might be granted, pending such a resolution.

  It was a good pitch, if he did think so himself, but for all their exquisite civility and perfect manners, the opposition hadn’t bought it. They explained that while they quite understood the dilemma in which Signor Nguyen found himself, they too, alas, were under pressure from sources located at various levels of the provincial, regional and even national government, sources whose continuing goodwill was a prerequisite for the successful outcome of many aspects of the city council’s daily work. They must therefore reluctantly inform him that the expiration date of the permits in question would apply, unless and until a demonstrable commitment to the film project, backed by a suitable retraction from its prestigious celebrity director, was forthcoming. Thank you so much for coming, signore, a pleasure to have met you, buona sera, arrivederla and don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.

  Martin hated feeling powerless, incompetent and outclassed, and hated still more others seeing him that way, but after a couple of hours hunkered down in his room he forced himself downstairs, both to avoid cabin fever and to prove that he still had it in the nuts. The open-plan bar and restaurant area w
as a classy venue, if you liked glittering mirror tiles, modernistic chandeliers made of concentric rings of clear plastic, lime-green walls, curved-back leatherette chairs in a deeper shade of the same colour, and tasteful classics like Elvira Madigan and the Barber weepie for strings subliminally audible throughout. His father’s old pal President Van Thieu would have felt right at home, although he would have had the waiting staff shot after a lengthy and intensive Q amp;A with Nguyen senior.

  When Martin finally got his drink, it was at least a good pour, and after negotiations with the bartender, he was brought a silver champagne bucket filled with slivers of slush to ice it down. Jake would be up by now. He wondered whether to call in with a progress report, but the only progress to date had been backwards. Still, the idea reminded him that he’d turned his mobile phone off when he retreated to his room. When he flipped it on again, there was a message from the Aeroscan guy asking him to call back. Martin sighed and took a long swig of his slurpee. Another slew of feeble excuses and hollow promises, he thought. But, as so many times that day, he was wrong.

  ‘Keep it brief, Larson,’ he rapped. ‘I’m on hold in a three-way conference call.’

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry, Mr Nguyen. I just thought I should let you know that we’ve found it.’

  ‘Found what?’

  ‘The data indicate a circular, non-ferrous structure approximately nine and a half metres in diameter buried a metre or so below the river rock up in the Busento valley about five kilometres south of the city. I guess it could have been a fish pool or a reservoir or something, but it’s unquestionably man-made and very solidly constructed.’

  Martin finished the rest of his drink in one.

  ‘Get over here,’ he told Larson. ‘I want large-scale maps of the area and a full report.’

  Back in his room, he called home over an encrypted Skype internet connection. It was twenty after noon where Jake was, which turned out to be his personal gym.