The Namesake cab-3

by Conor Fitzgerald

  Blume, feeling old, had watched them through binoculars as they burst into the warehouse, pretending he didn’t care that the young men in their combat uniforms and boots could all run a hundred metres in fourteen seconds or less, and eight kilometres in twenty minutes. He sometimes went on long runs that felt like they might be eight kilometres; hell, they felt like fifty.

  The warehouse haul was 80 kilos of black cocaine and 10 kilos of Nimesulide in five plastic bags. Blume watched as a uniformed policeman wearing surgical gloves lifted one of the fat pill-filled sacks. Blume imagined the sack bursting and the pills bouncing and rolling everywhere as they hit the floor. One quick scoop of his hand and he’d not have another debilitating headache for ten years.

  The two suspects, two brothers called Cuzzocrea, were cocooned in sleeping bags when the NOCS team broke in. The elder of the two apparently didn’t even wake up, the other struggled for a moment with the zip, but lay still when a boot was placed on his throat. The police also recovered 300,000 euros in cash — a good haul.

  It turned out the Cuzzocrea brothers were first cousins of Maria Itria Landolina, wife of a certain Agazio Curmaci whose name was in one of their phones, though no calls had been placed to or received from him. A trace on both phones revealed a stream of connections in Germany, but the wiretap remit issued by the Italian authorities did not extend across the border.

  ‘I have been after Curmaci on and off for years,’ explained Arconti. ‘It’s almost a hobby. He is based in Germany now, so there is not much chance of my getting him, but this connection via the cousins of his wife was too good to pass up.’

  ‘Who’s Curmaci?’

  ‘Is the name completely new to you?’

  ‘No. I looked up some records. The capo of the Dusseldorf-Duisburg locale is Domenico Megale, the crimine is his son, Tony Megale, and the mastro di giornata is Agazio Curmaci. The identity of the contabile is unknown, but may be a guy called Murdolo. Or that’s how things stood two years ago, which is the best information I could find. That’s pretty much it. Theoretically, those three are on the same level…’

  ‘But obviously,’ said Blume, ‘Tony Megale, who’s the boss’s son and is in charge of armed operations, is going to be way stronger than the other two.’

  ‘You’d think that, wouldn’t you?’ said Arconti. ‘And you may even be right. But I think the most powerful one is Curmaci. There is a persistent rumour that Tony is not really the old man’s son. Then there is the fact that Agazio Curmaci was promoted straight up to the same level as Tony within a year of arriving in Germany. Shortly after, there was some sort of falling out between them, followed by several years that Curmaci spent in London where it seems he took a degree in history. Old Man Megale remains as ignorant as the goats he used to herd, and Tony, natural son or not, has inherited the ignorance. If I had to guess, I’d say Curmaci was the one who came up with the idea of calling the old man the Prefect. Putting his fancy education to use flattering the boss.’

  ‘The Prefect?’ said Blume. ‘Isn’t that title a bit too judicial-sounding?’

  ‘I think it’s more ecclesiastic, like Michele Greco used to be called the “Pope”. When the Catholic Church is establishing itself among heathens, it sends out a mission. If the mission is successful, the mission becomes a prefecture. If the prefecture grows in size, it becomes a vicariate. If the vicariate is consolidated, it becomes a diocese. Megale, one of the first missionaries into Germany, obviously sees the Mafia conquest of the Rhine-Westphalia region as being only at the second stage.’

  ‘Let’s get back to Tony,’ said Blume. ‘As the crimine, he has the firepower, access to killers, control over the arsenal.’

  ‘That can be taken away from him, and you should not underestimate the importance of the mastro di giornata, especially when you’re talking about a locale operating outside Italy. The mastro di giornata doesn’t just call meetings, deal with protocol, and act as an intermediary, he is also responsible for maintaining the traditions of the Society, and that is extremely important for a locale based abroad. The Ndrangheta is not just a criminal organization, it’s a system of belief.’

  ‘OK, so Curmaci’s important.’

  ‘Agazio Curmaci is almost certainly a santista, or maybe even higher,’ said Arconti. ‘All the signs are there.’

  ‘I thought a santista was a rank above the boss of a locale,’ said Blume. ‘It seems weird he could be both above and below the boss at the same time.’

  ‘It’s not really a rank. It’s more a function. A santista is dedicated to interfacing with the authorities and the world of business. He will be a member of Rotary clubs, Masonic lodges, business associations, political parties, planning committees and so on. He’ll exchange political favours and will appear as legitimate as possible. But, and this is where the Ndrangheta excels, a santista is even allowed to help the police if he sees it as being in the long-term interest of the Society. He can sacrifice his companions. If he is a santista, then he’s sort of outside the Society and inside it too. He’s allowed to make decisions that go far beyond his official title. Not only could Curmaci overrule Tony, he could even overrule Old Megale if he felt it was in the best interests of the Society.’

  ‘But his comrades don’t know he’s a santista?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’

  ‘And you do?’

  Arconti looked flustered. ‘No, I don’t. But I have a feeling.’

  ‘A feeling that Curmaci can do what he pleases?’

  ‘Not what he pleases. There are rules, and they are intricate. The Ndrangheta has a system that allows for controlled betrayal of parts for the sake of the general preservation of the whole. Cosa Nostra never managed it. In some ways it’s hard not to admire these people.’

  ‘Are you saying that because you’re Calabrian, too, Magistrate?’

  ‘I am proud as well as ashamed of what my people can do,’ said Arconti. ‘Look at Megale, the “Prefect of Westphalia”, to give the murderous old goatherd his full honorific title. He controls a vast fortune that he made by buying up thousands of offices and homes in East Germany after the collapse of Communism, most of which he did from behind bars. Or take his son, Tony; or better, Agazio Curmaci. They too have untold wealth, but live like they’ve taken a vow of poverty. Their families live in tumbledown houses in Locri. It’s not just money that drives them, Blume. Remember that.’

  The magistrate paused and raised his left arm in the air as if trying to gauge the weight of something. ‘Old Megale was released from prison in Germany last week. Don’t you think it’s odd that those two clowns with the pills, the Cuzzocrea brothers, should turn up, a few days before the release?’

  ‘No,’ said Blume. ‘I don’t see it as odd. I don’t see the connection.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the magistrate. ‘I’m just thinking out loud. Old Megale is in his eighties, and maybe he’s wondering who should succeed him. Then again, maybe not. Is his adopted son the appointed heir and successor? Somewhere off to the side, above or below Tony and not so easy to place in the hierarchy, is Agazio Curmaci.’

  ‘They sound like the sort of people who want to kill each other,’ said Blume.

  ‘Tony Megale and Agazio Curmaci have known each other since for ever, long before Curmaci went to Germany. Perhaps they are close friends. We cannot tell from the outside. And if anyone has reason to be bitter about being overlooked by Old Megale, it is Pietro, who is not only the first-born son, but, probably, Old Megale’s only real child. It seems Megale decided a long time ago that Pietro was not up to the job.’

  ‘Where’s this Pietro?’

  Arconti, as if he had been waiting for this question, pulled out a black-and-white photo that looked like it had been taken in the late nineteenth century. ‘That’s him.’

  Blume looked at the photo, and handed it back. ‘Is he normal? He doesn’t seem to have full control over his facial muscles.’

  ‘He’s borderline retarded. He’s still in Calabria.
He and his wife look after Tony Megale’s son, a kid named Enrico. They have no children of their own.’

  ‘If they look after Tony’s kid, then there can’t be too much envy between Tony and Pietro, no? Agazio Curmaci, on the other hand, sounds like a usurper.’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. Pietro and his wife live practically next door to Curmaci’s wife and children. Tony’s son and Curmaci’s son are the same age, go to the same school. Yet in Germany the fathers operate in two different spheres. Tony Megale’s line of business is criminal, Curmaci moves in very legitimate circles. He’s not going to be pleased at having his name linked, however indirectly, to those two we captured.’

  ‘We caught them fair and square, without any tip-offs,’ said Blume. ‘I don’t see how Tony Megale could have planned that to undermine Curmaci.’

  ‘I agree,’ said the magistrate. ‘Also, it’s the sort of ploy Curmaci might use against Tony, not vice versa. Curmaci is subtler. It’s just that I can’t be sure we really were the architects of that operation. If the doctor had not committed “suicide” and if the death had not been very suspicious, the operation would not have begun. We would not have found the connection leading to the Cuzzocrea brothers, who led us to Curmaci’s wife, who led us to Curmaci. All this time I have had a sensation of being led by the nose.’

  ‘By Curmaci towards Curmaci,’ said Blume. ‘It doesn’t really add up.’

  Arconti pushed himself away from his chaotic desk. ‘You’re right. I’ve passed everything into the expert hands of the anti-Mafia magistrates and the DIA. They’re better equipped than us to deal with these things. Unless, of course, you think you would be suited to that line of work.’

  ‘My speciality is unorganized crime,’ said Blume. ‘It’s a bit late now to question my career choice.’

  ‘It’s never too late for that,’ said Arconti. ‘And you’re still young.’

  ‘Only compared to you,’ said Blume.

  ‘See, that’s simply not polite. True, but not polite. I have heard people complain about your bluntness, Commissioner. But if you’re interested, I know someone.’

  ‘Interested in what?’ asked Blume.

  ‘A change of scenery. A new departure in your career,’ said Arconti.

  ‘Have you been talking about me to someone?’

  ‘Yes, and that someone has been looking at you and your strange past. He tells me you had American parents. I was wondering about your name.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything else?’

  ‘Not really. Interested?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Blume. He had once entertained ideas of joining the DIA, but like a lot of other things in life, it had not worked out. Until a few years ago, Blume would have regarded a DIA takeover of a case as probably a good thing; now he was not so sure. Clean, focused and effective in the early 1990s, the DIA and its judicial arm, the DDA, were like erstwhile youthful idealists who had become more tired and compromised as they grew older together, both of them being absorbed into the corrupted political system they had once dared to challenge.

  ‘All right, then. I am pleased to hear you are happy in your current position.’

  ‘That is not what I said.’

  ‘As for me,’ Arconti continued, ignoring Blume, ‘I have stayed away from the anti-Mafia magistrates, but I don’t think they would have me anyway. One needs to come across as a bit more… a bit more…’ He gazed wistfully out the window in search of the word he was looking for.

  ‘Dynamic?’ offered Blume.

  ‘Yes… or…’

  ‘Decisive?’

  ‘Most of all, you need to be a bit uncaring, which is why I thought of you.’

  ‘You’re just sore because I called you old. I am actually a very caring person,’ said Blume.

  ‘People say you are reticent and secretive. Not very clubbable.’

  ‘I simply believe that you should never tell a friend anything you would conceal from an enemy,’ said Blume.

  ‘That attitude is what makes you ideal for Mafia work. I’ve seen this happen time and again in investigations, and it has happened to me. You seek a confession from a crime boss, and next thing you know he’s implicated half your colleagues, three dear friends and all your superiors. It takes a special type of person to deal with that. Someone who can survive alone. Once you have a confession, if you get one, you can’t be sure who’s telling the truth any more. Maybe you’re being played by your informer or maybe you have been fooled for years by colleagues you thought you could trust. Capturing a boss is like holding a rabid wolf by the ears as it tries to bite your balls off. You want to release your grip, but really you’d better not.’

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ asked Blume after the magistrate had not spoken for a while.

  ‘Do you ever get the feeling you are moving in slow motion?’

  Blume nodded. ‘In dreams all the time. Running away, legs getting heavier and heavier. Something dragging you back.’ He looked at the magistrate who was sitting very still. ‘But not when I’m awake.’

  The magistrate lifted his left hand. ‘Do you ever get the feeling one arm is really light and the other really heavy?’

  ‘If I am wearing a watch, it makes my arm feel heavy and causes my wrist to itch,’ said Blume. ‘And now you’ve reminded me.’

  ‘No, not heavy,’ said Arconti absently. ‘More like it was full of water…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘My speciality is blinding headaches, not heavy limbs,’ said Blume, pulling off his watch and pocketing it. He stared at Arconti, who now seemed to be stroking an imaginary beard, as if he were a doctor diagnosing his own arm trouble.

  ‘I am stroking an imaginary beard,’ replied Arconti.

  ‘I see that. You can stop now,’ said Blume.

  ‘Who is your father, Commissioner?’

  ‘My father’s dead.’ Arconti knew that, damn it.

  ‘No,’ said the magistrate, slowly, weighing up Blume’s reply. ‘ “My father’s dead” is one of the initiation responses used by a Russian vor. An Ndranghetista at Curmaci’s level would reply, “The sun is my father”, though there are variations.’

  ‘Is that what the beard-stroking was about? Were you testing to see if I was an Ndranghetista?’

  ‘Of course not, Commissioner. I wanted to see if you recognized the symbolism. The imaginary beard is Garibaldi’s. Garibaldi, Mazzini and La Marmora are the three secular saints of the Santa. Apart from all else, Commissioner, including my trust in you and your work as a policeman, racially and culturally speaking, you could never have been a santista in the Ndrangheta. It has to be in your blood.’

  Blume shrugged. ‘I just had my blood tested. It’s Mafia-free.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk to this friend of mine about a career change?’

  ‘The DIA would never have me,’ said Blume.

  ‘It would not necessarily be the DIA. There are other groups that combat the Mafia from farther behind the scenes.’

  ‘I would need to think about it.’

  ‘It’s a solitary life, but you would not mind, I think. Being alone frees the mind; it allows you to explore areas that others neglect, see things that others miss. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blume. ‘In my solitude, I have also seen many things that are not true.’

  There was a knock at the door.

  ‘ Avanti!? ’ called Blume automatically, before remembering where he was. ‘Sorry, Giudice, this is your office. I had no right…’

  An elderly man in a blue uniform backed into the office wheeling a trolley filled to overflowing with boxes and binders.

  ‘It’s no problem,’ Arconti said to Blume and the man shuffled into the narrow space between them. ‘We Calabrians tend to avoid the word Avanti. It’s what drovers and goatherds shout at the beasts of the fields.’ He watched the uniformed porter wipe the sweat off his brow, and carefully retreat from the trolley, lifti
ng a clipboard off the top box. ‘When addressing humans, we prefer to be more respectful. We prefer to say, simply enough, “come in.” ’

  The porter continued his balancing act with the files, and when it became clear that nothing was going to fall off unless there was a breath of wind, he looked at the form in his hand and addressed the magistrate.

  ‘These files are for Magistrate Matteo Arconti. I hope that is you, Dottore?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the magistrate. ‘That’s my name.’

  6

  Rome

  Thursday, 27 August

  Chief Inspector Panebianco delicately pinched the dead man’s worn identity card between blue latex-covered fingers. ‘As you can see, this guy was called Matteo Arconti. He was reported missing in Milan yesterday.’

  Blume nodded. He was marshalling his thoughts and suppressing his shock. He would speak in a moment.

  Panebianco allowed a few beats of silence to pass, then said: ‘The victim has the same name as the magistrate you’ve been working with, Commissioner.’

  ‘You think you needed to tell me that?’ snapped back Blume.

  Panebianco continued, unfazed. ‘Same name as the magistrate but not him, right? Just to be sure.’

  ‘What sort of dumb question…’ He stopped himself. Panebianco was regarding him with the same detached look in his grey-blue eyes that Blume had seen him use for particularly stupid witnesses and suspects. ‘Sorry, Rosario. You were right to ask. No, this is just his namesake.’

  ‘I agree it was an odd question,’ said Panebianco. ‘I’ve worked with Arconti, and this is not him. But you know the way the dead are always a bit tricky to identify? Best to hear you confirm it, Commissioner. I wonder if he’s related to the magistrate?’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Blume.

  Panebianco raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, there has to be a direct connection. The body was dumped here outside the court buildings: it’s hardly going to be a coincidence, is it?’

  Panebianco seemed to be pushing him for a response.