End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  ‘Films! Oddio, che bello! I’ve always wanted to work in films.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly got the looks for it!’

  What a lame, pathetic, dumbfuck line, he thought, but she seemed pleased by the compliment.

  ‘It isn’t as glamorous as it sounds,’ Tom went on quickly, with what he hoped was just the right touch of sophisticated world-weariness. ‘But what about you? Do you work?’

  Mirella responded with a light, airy explosion of breath and upward dab of her startling eyes that perfectly expressed disgust, contempt and fatalistic resignation.

  ‘An office job with the provincial authorities. It’s very secure, very boring and I know precisely how much I’ll be earning when I reach retirement age.’

  The food came.

  ‘So what do you do?’ Mirella asked after scarfing down two slabs of pizza with admirable greed and concentration.

  ‘I’m a chef. Trained, qualified and with good references. I’ve worked at some celebrity restaurants in the United States and now I’m thinking of moving here and opening up my own place. This is where my roots are, after all.’

  ‘So you said. What’s your family name?’

  Tom paused over a long swallow of beer. If he told her the truth, she would immediately make the connection to his murdered father, who had inflicted enough damage in years gone by. Tom did not intend to let him strangle this relationship at birth from beyond the grave.

  ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said. ‘My father’s family was certainly Calabrian, but they changed their name when they moved to America and I haven’t had time to follow up that angle. These film people work you pretty hard! I’ll need to do some research in the archives. Perhaps you could help with that, Mirella. Anyway, we can talk about that some other time. In the end, I’m more interested in my future than my past.’

  ‘The essential is to keep them in balance.’

  And so it went on. They continued to make pleasant small talk, but the conversation refused to get hot. The place itself didn’t help — it had by now been invaded by a gang of languid adolescents wearing baggy jeans with the crotch down by their knees — but Tom also sensed an inner reticence in Mirella, a desire to avoid moving towards intimacy. That was typically Calabrian, of course, and for that matter he himself had been parsimonious with the truth, but it perhaps explained why he found himself being rather more frank than he had intended when she asked her next question, as if to show her the way, to demonstrate that he was prepared to risk trusting her.

  ‘But I’ve also heard that this movie you’re talking about is not going to happen. Didn’t you see that interview on television with Luciano Aldobrandini? He claimed the whole thing was a fraud!’

  Tom sighed theatrically.

  ‘He may be right. Listen, Mirella. This is in the strictest confidence, but there’s another project involved.’

  By now she had finished eating, in her graceful, dedicated, methodical way, and was all attention.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘They think they’ve found Alaric’s tomb.’

  She laughed then, for the first time.

  ‘You’re joking!’

  Tom shrugged urbanely.

  ‘I doubt that they are. There’s a lot of money involved, and these people are heavyweights when it comes to business. The head of the whole outfit flew in today by private jet and they’re planning to…’

  He stopped himself just in time, and covered up by reaching for his cigarettes, then dolefully replacing them.

  ‘I forgot, no smoking now!’

  Mirella regarded him in a way he wished to prolong for the rest of his earthly existence.

  ‘There’s a bar next door,’ she said. ‘Let’s have our coffees there and smoke outside.’

  He was about to answer when his mobile woke like a colicky baby. It was Martin Nguyen and he didn’t sound happy.

  ‘Where the fuck are you? I called your room and there was no answer.’

  ‘Slipped out to buy some cigarettes, Mr Nguyen. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

  He threw much too much money on the table and, when they were both standing, grasped Mirella’s arm for a moment, just above the elbow, and pulled her towards him.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘My boss wants me back right away. But listen…’

  He tried to meet her eyes, but they were averted. It was then that, for the first time, he smelt her skin, a faint caprine odour like mild goat’s cheese, earthy and creamy. But this smell wasn’t about food.

  ‘ Grazie per la bella serata,’ Mirella said, disentangling herself effortlessly.

  ‘May I call you again?’ Tom found himself saying.

  She smiled vaguely, and was gone.

  Jake was woken by a call from Madrona, wanting to know if he’d got there okay. She’d been worried about him, she said. Madrona worried about everything — getting pregnant, not getting pregnant, global warming, bird flu, you name it. It was one of the many things Jake found cute about her, although he sometimes kind of sensed, like a chill draught on the back of the neck, that it might turn out to be a real ball-buster later on.

  He calmed her down and then jack-knifed out of bed. The clock said some crazy-ass time, but Jake had already figured that the way to handle this trip was like some gaming environment you’re unfamiliar with. He knew he would need to accumulate a lot more experience points before he was fully up to speed, but one key factor was that the time on the clocks here was game time. Not real time, which Madrona had said was like midday, but the right time in the game. Same with everything else. This hotel Martin had booked him into wouldn’t have made the cut as a second-class casino in Reno, but in the game scenario it was hot shit. That was okay. Jake could flex with the best.

  He dug out his laptop, got online and slipped effortlessly into various roles, doing damage, saving the world, getting killed a couple of times. Then he checked out Madrona’s blog — bunch of bitching about how she was having a really heavy period this month — sent a chatroom up in flames, cruised a few porno sites till he found one that rang his bells, jerked off, took a shower and got dressed. Round about ten, game time, he rode the marble-floored lift down to the lobby, feeling totally mellowed out. Martin Nguyen was in the bar nursing a glass of what looked like iced tea but probably wasn’t. Jake was tempted to make an edgy remark about him needing something to settle his delicate stomach. He himself didn’t either drink or smoke. Hell, he didn’t even smoke.

  ‘Dude,’ said Jake.

  Martin grunted. He still didn’t look that hot, but Jake had to admire the way, when he’d got nauseous in the car on those bends, he’d just held the puke in his mouth and then swallowed it down again long enough to tell the driver to pull over.

  ‘Where can I get a menu?’

  Martin took another gulp of whisky.

  ‘Kitchen’s closed.’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Place is run like a mom and pop corner store. Dinner’s seven till nine-thirty, then fuck you till breakfast.’

  ‘Damn. I could really use some foie gras with PBJ.’

  Martin grabbed his mouth real fast.

  ‘Got invited to the opening of this new place in Belltown couple of days back,’ Jake went on. ‘That’s their signature dish. Pan-seared foie gras with peanut butter and jelly. Awesome combo. What’s the food like here?’

  ‘Kind of an Italian feel,’ Martin replied in a highly stressed tone. ‘I’ll have Tom get them to fix you a sandwich or something just as soon as the little shit shows up.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Pete Newman’s boy. I hired him to be my mouthpiece. He claims to be out buying smokes, but I heard him on the phone earlier schmoozing some bimbo. I’ll fire him once we’ve figured out what the deal is on this tomb site.’

  He signalled the waiter to freshen up his drink. Then he caught Jake’s disapproving look.

  ‘Inappropriate, huh? Yeah, I guess you’re right. But what we’re going to be doi
ng later on tonight is even more inappropriate. Smashing our way into a world heritage site and stealing priceless historic artefacts which are government property?’

  He waved largely at their bleak, bedazzled surroundings.

  ‘You think Italian hotels suck? Imagine what their jails are like.’

  ‘What’s the deal with those Iraqis?’

  ‘I’ll call them in once we get there. My biggest challenge has been getting the equipment to the site. It’s not like the towelheads don’t know how to operate the machines. They’re Halliburton trained, for God’s sake. But the rules of the road over in Iraq are basically down to what size gun you carry, so I couldn’t just turn them loose in the traffic over here. Apart from anything else, the poor fucks would be scared shitless. They still haven’t gotten over being told that they can’t even carry side arms. In the end, I fixed to have the hardware delivered by truck to a disused quarry near the site. Don’t worry, it’ll all come together just fine, unless — ’

  ‘Here I am, Mr Nguyen!’

  It was Tom, breathless and superficially solicitous, but looking way more pleased with himself than the purchase of a pack of smokes warranted. Martin slipped him a fifty and told him to pass it on to the right people and get Jake fed.

  ‘I read that material you emailed me,’ Martin said to Jake when they were alone again. ‘Let’s just see if I’ve got the story straight. I mean, if we get arrested, then I want to know what it is I’m supposed to lie about.’

  ‘You mean like talk me through it? Might challenge my attention span. Can’t you do me a PowerPoint presentation?’

  ‘I don’t have the facilities for that, Jake. I’ll try and keep it brief. Just listen up and tell me if I’ve got anything wrong.’

  ‘Sure, Mart. You’re the boss.’

  Nguyen ignored this crack.

  ‘The material you sent me, plus some follow-up research I did online, tells me that we’re looking for the Great Menorah, one of the sacred vessels of the original temple in Jerusalem. It’s of cast gold, hollow within, with a hexagonal base and seven branches representing the planets plus the sun, and weighs in at about one hundred pounds. It stood beside the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple and was captured by the Romans when they sacked the city two thousand years ago.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So the Romans take it back with them. We know that for sure because there’s an image of Jewish slaves carrying it in the triumphal procession carved on the Arch of Titus, after which it was stashed away in one of their temples. Seems they really hated the Jews. It wasn’t enough to beat them in battle, they had to steal their nutty one-god religion. Anyway, three and a half centuries later it’s the Romans’ turn to get conquered. Alaric cleans the city out, then heads south and ends up dying in this fleapit. His Goth homies bury him under the river with all the goodies he’d plundered, then do a total deniability with extreme prejudice operation on the work force.’

  ‘You got it.’

  Martin knocked back his drink.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ he told Jake. ‘I need to smoke.’

  They stepped out into the muscular embrace of the night air. Thunder rumbled and stumbled and then a fragmentation bomb exploded overhead, showering huge drops of water on the patio and the parched lawns, hedges and trees, raising a cool, sensuous freshness that reeked of growth and decay.

  ‘Wow!’ said Jake. ‘They do like weather here too?’

  ‘So if the story about Alaric is true,’ Martin resumed, ‘then there must be a ton of other valuable stuff in the tomb, worth probably billions, supposing you could find a buyer. But we’re not interested in the money, just the menorah, right?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Why? Are you Jewish?’

  Jake grinned.

  ‘Are bears Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods?’

  ‘Okay, okay! Sorry I asked. It’s just that what we’re going to be doing from here on in is very high-risk. Are you sure you want to be there tonight, Jake? If anything goes wrong, I might be able to talk my way out of it. I’m just an employee, but you’re the mandante, as they say here. Might be smarter to stay here at the hotel and then cut back to your jet and get the hell out if the flares go up.’

  ‘No way. I’ve been waiting over a year for this moment. Chickening out now would be like not showing up for your honeymoon.’

  ‘Or your funeral.’

  ‘Don’t let that motion sickness thing get to you, Mart.’

  Tom Newman sidled up to them.

  ‘Sorry to intrude, guys, but your food’s on the table. Crostini rossi piccanti, caciocavallo ai ferri, zuppa di finocchi. Best they could do at this hour.’

  ‘Cool,’ Jake replied cordially. ‘I just love ethnic food.’

  It was in the small hours of the morning, about ten past four, when Nicola Mantega finally heard from Giorgio. So did the police technicians who were monitoring the new phone that Mantega had been given, and as a result the call was immediately traced to a public phone in Cerenzia, about ten kilometres east of San Giovanni in Fiore but with easy access to the superstrada. When a police car arrived twenty minutes later there was no one about, and it was unlikely that anyone in the town had seen Giorgio come or go. Nevertheless, he had been terse.

  ‘They moved in during the night with heavy equipment. Dug around a bit, took a look at the rocks inside, then left in a hurry.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I was watching. Oh, and I hear you got arrested and then released a few hours later. I hope you didn’t make a deal.’

  ‘Of course not! They simply had no evidence against me, so I — ’

  ‘I’ll kill you if I have to, Nicoletta. Whether you’re behind bars or walking the streets makes no difference. Remember that in the days to come and honour our agreement. If anything goes wrong, you’re a dead man whatever happens to me.’

  The phrase kept recurring to Mantega as he drove into Cosenza. Sei un morto. That was how the shattered trunk of the man he had known as Peter Newman was invariably described in the media: ‘dressed like a corpse’. Giorgio might not be as powerful a figure as he liked to make out, but he was crazy. The thing about crazy people was that you never had the slightest idea what they were going to do next, any more than they did.

  Tom Newman appeared at nine o’clock sharp. He looked terrible: pallid, exhausted and depressed. Since his father’s death had been in Mantega’s mind, it occurred to him that the boy might finally have realised the full horror of what had happened. But when he suggested that they adjourn to a bar for a restorative coffee and brioche, the next thing he knew Tom was standing in the street waving enthusiastically to an attractive young woman.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Oh, just a friend,’ Tom replied airily.

  Over their coffees, Mantega elaborated at some length on what fools the police had made of themselves by arresting him the day before. It was vital to get this idea across to the americani. The last thing Mantega wanted was for them to suspect that they might be getting involved with someone complicit in criminal enterprises, especially since they were. Tom made sympathetic noises, but his attention was evidently wandering off in directions that Mantega couldn’t identify.

  ‘So, I understand that the package has arrived,’ he said once they were back in his office. ‘Am I to understand that your employers have succeeded where so many previous efforts have failed? Have they indeed located the site where Alaric the Goth was buried?’

  His tone was studiously jocular if not ironical, but the young man’s response was an abrupt return to his earlier mood of sullen gloom.

  ‘Hell exists, but it may be empty,’ he said.

  ‘Scusami?’

  ‘They’ve found what they think is Alaric’s tomb, only when they dug it out, all that was there was a circle of stone walling filled with river rock. So now they’re thinking it must have been discovered earlier and all the stuff looted and they’re packing up to leave on their private jet this af
ternoon. The only question is whether I go with them.’

  ‘Why would you want to do that?’ murmured Mantega. ‘Judging by the encounter I just witnessed in the street, you seem to be doing quite nicely back in your ancestral home. My congratulations! The only problem now is to find a way in which you can support yourself here and enjoy to the full the ripe fruit of our soaring peaks and fertile valleys, so to speak. I know that you have ideas about opening a restaurant, but that sort of venture requires a lot of money to be done successfully.’

  He leant forward and gazed at Tom intently.

  ‘Luckily for you, I have an idea. Some three or four years ago, I was approached by a certain party with a very unusual proposition.’

  Mantega broke off and looked around cautiously.

  ‘You understand that I am speaking now in the strictest confidence,’ he went on in a conspiratorial undertone. ‘Nothing of what I say must be repeated beyond the four walls of this room. Agreed?’

  Tom jerked his body in a spasm combining a shrug and a nod.

  ‘The individual’s name need not concern us,’ Mantega continued. ‘Suffice it to say that his story was so incredible that I didn’t even bother hearing him out to the end. On the contrary, I laughed in his face, told him in no uncertain terms not to bother me with such nonsense again and showed him the door.’

  Mantega leant still nearer to Tom.

  ‘But after what you have just told me, I’m now asking myself if that wasn’t perhaps the biggest mistake that I’ve ever made in my life!’

  He straightened up again, brisk and businesslike, marshalling the facts in his mind before proceeding.

  ‘This man claimed that by using advanced technological equipment called ground-penetrating radar, mounted on the back of a four-wheel-drive vehicle during the dry season when there’s no more than a trickle of water in the Busento, he and his associates had located the tomb of Alaric and then returned with mechanical diggers, cracked the vault and plundered the contents.’