End games az-11

by Michael Dibdin

  Aurelio Zen was unable to attend immediately to the implications of this, since he had to deal with the appearance of the female Digos agent who had spent all night at the hospital with the victim she had been accompanying, on his orders, at the time of the attack. Mirella Kodra was extraordinarily lovely, he realised, in the abstracted way in which he thought of much younger women these days. Good legs, great cioccie, a fleece of fluffy hair atop an ovoid face that held its past experiences in perfect balance while eagerly looking forward to more.

  ‘How is Signor Newman?’ Zen asked.

  ‘Stable and in no danger. He managed to avoid the main thrust of the knife. The resulting injury was a clean flesh incision about a centimetre deep with no organ trauma. The wound was cleaned, sutured and dressed. He has been told to rest, avoid physical exertion but stay mobile and return tomorrow to have the dressing changed and the stitches examined. After that he will be free to go home to arrange for his father’s funeral. The doctors plan to discharge him this afternoon.’

  ‘Very good. Unfortunately his attacker sta faccendo il duro and we’ve barely been able to get a word out of him. We must therefore assume that young Newman was targeted for the same reason as his father — because the criminals involved believe that he is the last living representative of the Calopezzati family. Since the initial attack was unsuccessful, we must further assume that it may be repeated. I am therefore transferring you with immediate effect from surveillance duties on Nicola Mantega to bodyguard duties on the potential victim. It would be unwise for him to return to his hotel in Rende, as those concerned almost certainly know that he was staying there. I want you to find somewhere else for him to stay and to ensure his personal safety until further notice. I have a major operation in preparation and I don’t want it screwed up by some sideshow involving American tourists. Is that clear?’

  The Digos agent came abruptly to attention.

  ‘ Sissignore! ’ she hissed.

  She knows that I lied to her, thought Zen as Mirella Kodra stalked out. A major operation in preparation? Ha! He’d said that to sweeten the pill of taking this elite operative off active duties and relegating her to the status of a nursemaid. Judging by her expression and tone of voice, the pill had still tasted very bitter. And what a fatuous, obvious lie. With only two days left before being replaced by Gaetano Monaco, Zen was in no position to mount any major operations, and everyone in the building, including Mirella Kodra, knew that.

  Only what if they were wrong?

  Aurelio Zen didn’t think of himself as a gambler. He didn’t buy lottery tickets or even play the Totocalcio football pools. Passing the famous casino in Venice as a small child, he had asked his father what went on in there and his father had explained. Aurelio was accustomed to his father explaining things. The procedure could sometimes be a bit boring, but he valued it as one of the few links between them. Asked about some aspect of the operations of the railway he worked for, for example, his father would always deliver a lucid, detailed and convincing answer. When it came to what went on behind the imposing portal of the casino, Angelo Zen’s tone remained calm and authoritative, but the content was reduced to the gibbering of an idiot.

  ‘It’s for rich people. They pay a lot of money to wager a lot more on a certain number or the cards they hold. Then they wait and see what happens.’

  ‘And what does happen?’ Aurelio had asked, clutching his father’s hand as they walked along the redolent alley leading to the station.

  ‘The right number or card either comes up or it doesn’t. If it does, those rich bastards get even richer.’

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘Then they lose everything.’

  At the time, Zen hadn’t understood why anyone would want to take risks like that, entirely dependent on forces beyond one’s control, an opinion that was confirmed when his father disappeared shortly afterwards. He’d lost everything without even being conscious of placing the bet, and had never thought to do so again. But life has a way of mocking such resolutions, and he now decided — instantly and without reflection — to stake everything on one spin of the wheel. He therefore summoned Natale Arnone and instructed him to fetch Rocco Battista up from his holding cell in the basement.

  The prisoner was an unprepossessing specimen, vaguely resembling a genetic cross between a wild boar and a stockfish. It is no doubt true that the triumphs of art cannot redeem the defects of nature, but the various forms of mutilation that Rocco had inflicted on his features provided conclusive evidence that there is always room for disimprovement. He shuffled into the room and was about to sit down on the chair facing Zen’s desk, when Natale Arnone adroitly removed it.

  ‘Stand up straight before the chief of police, you scum!’

  Battista stumbled back to his feet and stood looking around dully, but probably no more dully than usual. Zen had already been told that since his initial defiant statement of intent, the prisoner had not once responded by word or gesture to any of the questions and comments of the interrogating officers. He was also acutely aware that the success of the plan he had in mind depended on his eliciting not just a response but the one he needed, so he left Battista standing there, hanging his head and staring down at the floor in a manner which suggested, in a pathetically inadequate way, that while the cops could break his bones they would never break his will.

  Zen lounged back in his chair and stared unblinkingly at the individual with whom he had to deal, taking him in, sizing him up, getting his measure. After an intolerable and seemingly interminable silence had fully matured, he leant forward like a doctor who has concluded his diagnosis, and spoke.

  ‘In my opinion, Rocco, the root of the problem is that you are stupid. That’s not your fault. Men can no more control the degree of intelligence they were born with than they can the size of their membro virile.’

  A satisfied smirk appeared on Rocco Battista’s lips.

  ‘They can however control what they do with the equipment that nature has provided,’ Zen went on. ‘You were observed speaking to Nicola Mantega yesterday. When I broke him early this morning, I told him that he’d been silly. In your case, the appropriate word is stupid. I therefore suggest that we take stock of the situation in which you find yourself. The only witnesses to the attack were you, the victim and his lady friend. One, two, three. When this case comes to trial, any testimony you may give in your own defence will of course be discounted as worthless. As for the victim, he appears to have gone into shock immediately after you knifed him and has only the vaguest and most confused ideas about what happened. In other words, the only credible witness — the person who will in effect decide your fate — is the woman who was accompanying him.

  ‘As you learned to your cost last night, she is also a police officer. Unless she wishes to relinquish that career, she will tell the magistrates simply and solely what I order her to tell them. If she testifies that your intentions were clearly homicidal, and thwarted only by the victim’s agility and alertness, you will be convicted of attempted murder. If on the other hand she deposes that, far from being flustered and off balance, you knew exactly what you were doing — inflicting a painful but non-life-threatening injury, a little lesson for Signor Newman with the implied threat that he might not get off so lightly next time — then you will go down for assault occasioning minor bodily harm.

  ‘Now there’s a big difference between an assault and a botched homicide, Rocco. At least ten years and possibly a lot more, depending on whether the judge’s piles are playing up. But at the bare minimum, a whole decade when instead of eating, drinking, fighting, fucking and indulging in whatever other pastimes console you for your destined role in life as a dickhead, you’ll be locked up for twenty-two hours a day with five other dickheads in a cell designed to accommodate two, under the beady eyes of the uniformed dickheads who run the house of punishment according to their own tried and trusted methods, and take particular pleasure in denying their charges the tempting option of sui
cide by slow strangulation from a knotted bedsheet tied to the window bars.

  ‘That’s the choice facing you now, Rocco. Do you want to spend your next ten to fifteen years eating shitty pizza, stomping whichever of your cretinous crew is marginally more fucked up than you that night and contributing to the alarming incidence of sexually transmitted disease, or would you prefer to escape from these horrors and settle down to a quiet life at the taxpayers’ expense? I appreciate that this is a difficult decision, particularly for someone whose head starts throbbing intolerably when the waiter says “ Acqua gassata o naturale? ” But I’m afraid that you do have to make it. Now. Specifically, in the next five minutes. If you do what I want, your prison spell will be so brief that you may barely have time to find out the hard way who gets to bugger whom in the particular wing of the facility to which you have been committed, since I doubt very much that you would be anyone’s first choice. If not, you’ll be offered virtually unlimited opportunities to suck your wife’s cock.’

  Another minute passed in silence. Then Rocco Battista spoke for the first time.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘To phone Giorgio Fardella using the number registered to his sister Silvia in San Giovanni in Fiore and listed in the directory of your mobile phone under the name Lui. Your mobile carrier has informed us that you called this number three times in the last two years, which suggests that you are known to Giorgio but not one of his close associates. I’m guessing here, but it seems probable that he employed you from time to time, no doubt on minor jobs requiring neither intelligence nor skill but involving a risk to which he was unwilling to expose the more valuable members of his organisation. Three minutes.’

  Once again, Rocco achieved speech.

  ‘What do I say?’

  ‘Giorgio almost certainly will not be at his sister’s apartment in Via del Serpente, but someone will. You are to say that you have an urgent message which must be passed on without delay. The message is that Nicola Mantega is cheating Giorgio over their plan to sell fake antiquities to an American buyer. You have discovered that Mantega has made arrangements with a third party to supply the desired merchandise, thereby cutting Giorgio out of the picture and out of the profits. You will add that the deal will be concluded very shortly and that Giorgio, or someone speaking for him, should therefore summon Nicola Mantega to a personal meeting at the very earliest opportunity, preferably no later than tonight. Ninety seconds.’

  In the event, it was almost half an hour before Rocco speed-dialled the number on the mobile that Zen had restored to him. It went completely against his nature to do the sensible thing, but the police chief had somehow talked him into it. What tipped the balance was that line about the bitch who had so royally kicked his arse the night before testifying that he, Rocco Battista, far from being flustered and off balance, had known exactly what he was doing. No one had ever suggested that Rocco had even the vaguest idea what he was doing. The prospect of being denounced as competent in open court, before all the judges and avvocati in their finery, quite turned his head. It might even get reported on television! ‘According to the prosecution’s leading witness, an experienced policewoman of impeccable character, Rocco Battista knew exactly what he was doing.’ Making a hoax phone call to Giorgio, who had always treated him like shit anyway, was a small price to pay for a glowing public testimonial which would change his status on the street for ever.

  The helicopter ride was maybe the sweetest moment in Jake’s life. Okay, it had cost a shitload of money, but it wasn’t every day that you got to stick it to your real-time opponent in such a satisfying way.

  Phil Larson was still working on the logistics of getting the Aeroscan equipment back to the States, so Jake had fixed for him to hire a sky crane from the company he’d worked with on the survey. The idea was to fly out over the ocean, something to do with the movie, plus there’d be some bulky filming gear so they would need plenty of cargo capacity. After that it all flowed like well-written code. The pilot’s English was barely comprehensible, but he turned out to be a real hot-dogger once they got airborne, plus the truck containing the payload showed up right on time. The only problem was that Martin Nguyen showed up with it, so Jake kind of had to invite him along. It would have been cooler to do it alone, but Nguyen’s muscles and body weight might well prove useful when the time came, even with the grid of rollers that covered the floor of the hold. Jake told the pilot to drive out over the water a couple of miles or kilos or whatever they called them here, then get down real close to the surface and pull over so they could open the cargo door. The guy seemed to understand, and had given Jake and Martin harnesses and restraint lines to prevent them falling out of the open door, plus headsets so they could talk over the noise of the engine and Jake could give him instructions without coming up into the cockpit.

  ‘We haven’t interfaced on this, Jake!’ said Martin’s hollow voice over the intercom as the bear in the air ran up the tree. ‘How can I project-manage the process without a data dump? Where are we headed? What’s the deal?’

  ‘Ninja looting.’

  Martin started yapping again, so Jake turned the speakers off. Be great to have a set of those when Madrona started getting ballsy about babies. The helicopter flew over the wooded range of mountains that ran parallel to the coast, then out over the ocean, whatever the fuck they called it here. Who cared what they called it? It was all one big Pacific. At this point Jake realised that the pilot might need to rap with him about suitable locations for the next phase of the operation, so he turned his headset back on and guess what? In a total validation of everything Jake believed in — no, knew! — the pilot came on a moment later and said, ‘Is good?’ And it was. The helicopter circled round, dipped down and started running back the way they’d come. Jake slid back the cargo door and clipped it open. A hundred feet below, the water lay as crisply rumpled as a length of silk pulled off the bolt for the buyer’s approval.

  ‘Let’s go!’ he shouted to Martin.

  It took maybe five minutes to get the crate positioned correctly and partially out of the doorway. Way before then Martin had started yapping again, so Jake switched him off and started just pointing and pushing. After another few minutes of slewing and shoving they succeeded in manoeuvring the crate’s centre of gravity over the sill of the helicopter’s deck, after which everything happened of its own accord. The inner end of the laden box shot violently into the air, slapping Martin upside the head, then the whole thing flipped out and fell away — splosh! Jake watched it sink, unlatched the door, slammed it shut and told the pilot to drive home. He ripped off his safety harness and pranced around the cargo space, slipping on the metal rollers and falling hard, then holding up his hand and flipping a finger at the roof.

  ‘End times, my fucking ass!’

  You couldn’t win the God game, but he had just stalled the inevitable outcome for a century or two. Life felt good and Jake aimed to enjoy it and Madrona and maybe even their goddamn kids, but it had sure been fun playing.

  It wasn’t till they were back over the coast that he noticed Martin Nguyen was still lying splayed out on the floor where he’d fallen, his head wrenched round at an angle you just knew had to be impossible except maybe for owls. As Jake gradually figured out what must have happened, all of his feelings for this man — who he’d known for like a while, and was pretty sure had screwed him over the purchase price for the menorah — came together in an impassioned outburst of raw, primal whatever.

  ‘Dude!’ he cried.

  Tom lay on the bed staring up at an intricate pattern of cracks on the ceiling. They resembled a river delta seen from space, a satellite photograph of somewhere he’d never been, some remote place where the people had retained their traditional customs and cuisine, a lost heartland where life made sense the way it was supposed to.

  The room to which he was confined was slightly larger than Rocco Battista’s cell, but not much cheerier or better furnished. There was a narrow b
ed, a chest of drawers and some bare shelving. The window was locked, the shutters closed and the conditioned air chilly and synthetic-smelling. Outside the door, which was also locked, stood an armed policeman who admitted nurses and doctors as necessary, gave Tom his meals, accompanied him to the toilet and then locked him up again. He responded to the patient’s Italian as though it were Japanese, occasionally shaking his head or shrugging his shoulders, but never uttered a word.

  The exact time of day or night has little significance in a hospital, and it was not until a doctor came, examined the wound, checked Tom’s pulse and blood pressure, gave him a tub of painkillers and pronounced him fit to depart that he discovered that it was in fact four o’clock in the afternoon. His clothing was returned and the taciturn policeman escorted him to a car parked in a quiet courtyard within the hospital complex. They drove north to an apartment block between Piazza Loreto and Piazza Europa, in the unprepossessing modern suburbs of the city. Tom asked several times where they were going, but the policeman either ignored him or just shook his head in the contemptuous and utterly final Calabrian manner.

  They parked outside a charmless structure dating from the 1970s or 1980s and remained in the car for at least five minutes while Tom’s escort scrutinised the comings and goings on the street. When he was finally satisfied, he got out, flung open Tom’s door and scurried him inside the apartment block like a movie star’s minder dodging the paparazzi. The scene within, however, was not a luxurious night-club or glittering awards ceremony but a dingy foyer with bad lighting, bad paint and seriously bad smells. The policeman spent another nervous minute while the lift trundled lethargically back to the ground floor and then conveyed them, equally lethargically, to the seventh. By the time his escort unlocked one of the doors in the corridor, Tom’s wound had started to ache quite painfully.