To Scamarcio, this felt like a similar deal; maybe some of the same people were even involved. He had the sense that securing prosecutions was going to be extremely challenging, if not impossible. And would the PM even have the will? Especially if he had once locked horns with the Moltisanti? He stubbed out the cigarette onto the patio, and then, remembering Zaccardo’s sensibilities, picked it up again and popped it into a handkerchief in his pocket — best to keep on the good side of their one useful witness for now.
He stepped back into the cool of the house. Zaccardo was seated on the sofa again.
‘Listen, Zaccardo, there’s something I need to ask you.’
‘Knock yourself out.’ Zaccardo sounded down now, exhausted from it all.
Scamarcio perched on the edge of the armchair, and leaned forward: ‘Did you hear anything about the kidnap of an American girl from Elba — a kidnap on order for these guys who would be delivered to their next party?’
Zaccardo shook his head. ‘No. Are you talking about the little girl who has been all over the news?’
‘Yeah, that girl. So you didn’t hear it mentioned?’
He shook his head again. ‘No, nothing. I’m sorry.’
Scamarcio chose to believe him. ‘Did you ever find out how they got the children?’
He shook his head again. ‘No, nobody spoke to me about that. That was never discussed.’ He paused. ‘But, um, I’m guessing that maybe the Albanian side would have come into play there. They have a history of child-trafficking, don’t they?’
He was right, but it was just supposition and wouldn’t hold up in a court of law. They needed watertight evidence, and for that they’d have to rely on the Ymeri wiretaps.
‘They’ve been involved in that in the past, yes.’ Scamarcio exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. ‘The thing is, it would be really useful if you could go on the record on that side of things, too.’
Zaccardo shrugged. ‘Yeah, I imagine it would be but, as I say, I’m in the dark — maybe more in the dark than you are.’
It seemed to be a question, but Scamarcio chose not to answer it. He thought for a second. ‘You know anyone, any of the staff there, who might be up to speed?’
Zaccardo inclined his head to one side, and then barred his arms across his chest: ‘Come on, I can’t ask them that. That would be suicide — for all of us.’
Scamarcio took his point. He was about to concede it when there was a commotion outside. He heard several pairs of heavy boots pounding up the path, and then knuckles rapping on the door.
Zaccardo looked petrified. ‘What the hell is that?’ Then: ‘You got a gun?’
Scamarcio nodded. Zaccardo ran over to the cupboard by the dining table and knelt to pull out a box from the bottom shelf. He placed it on the table and flipped open the lid. He took what looked like a Beretta 92 from inside and quickly loaded the chamber, his hands shaking. Then he gestured to Scamarcio to follow him to the door. Once Scamarcio was positioned the other side of the doorframe, he nodded at Zaccardo to open up. He did so slowly, and then just shrugged his shoulders and sighed, stowing his weapon away in his pocket. ‘What the fuck are you lot playing at?’
A trio of meatheads bundled into the house. The tallest and fattest of the three said: ‘Rossi called us — said he’d been kidnapped and that you were in danger.’
The little bastard had managed to conceal his mobile on him, realised Scamarcio.
Zaccardo was now covered in perspiration and his hands were shaking, but he just tut-tutted like a bored headmaster, trying to disguise his fear: ‘Oh, for God’s sake, there’s nothing to worry about. I was talking to this man here on business.’ He waved a hand in dismissal. ‘I’ll explain it all later.’
The fat meathead said: ‘Yeah, but Rossi’s handcuffed in the car!’
Zaccardo raised his eyebrows at Scamarcio, who kept his expression neutral, then said: ‘It’s a long story. Everything is under control.’
Scamarcio decided to take the interruption as his cue to leave. He turned to Zaccardo and extended his hand: ‘Many thanks for your help. I’ll be in touch.’ Zaccardo’s palms were wet.
‘Is that it? Can’t you offer me anything now? Just to make sure I’m all right until I see you guys next?’
Scamarcio knew he was talking about a police presence in the house.
‘It seems to me your three friends here are quite capable of looking after you. But I’ll be in touch very soon.’ He gave him a backhanded wave and left the house. The last thing he saw was Zaccardo’s horrified expression. How the little man was going to square all this with his Camorra colleagues, he had no idea.
He’d thrown Rossi and the meathead outside Zaccardo’s, and now the car stank of their sweat. The azure of Amalfi glinted below, and he suddenly wanted a swim and a cold beer. But he knew that was impossible for now, so he dialled Garramone. All he could say when Scamarcio had finished filling him in was, ‘Holy Christ.’
‘You think they’re untouchable?’
‘I don’t know. I need to run it past my friend.’
Scamarcio felt the rage rising up from his lungs, into his chest. It was rising much faster than he could control, and it took him by surprise. ‘Ah, right then, and if he says it’s too uncomfortable, we just drop it, I guess?’
‘Don’t take that tone with me, Scamarcio.’
‘I’m asking you, Garramone. You got me into this: are we going to pursue these men to the end, or are we just going to let it lie like the faithful dogs we are?’
‘Now listen here!’
‘No, you listen to me. I’ve barely slept in the last few days. I’m exhausted, fed up, worried for my future, but most of all I’m sickened by what I’m hearing. I will not let this one go. I will not let it drop, you understand? People are dead. Children are ruined. A little girl’s life is at stake. There’s a limit!’ He slammed down the phone, surprised anew by this fresh outburst of anger.
Part III
53
He gently places the mobile on his desk, and then sinks back against the leather of the swivel chair. The birds are singing in the courtyard — a melancholy melody that makes him think of dusk long before it’s due.
What was it they had said to him the last time they’d met? Something about taxis? ‘We’re not just a taxi where you pay the fare and then leave. Once you’re in, you’re in for life.’
And he’d adjusted. He’d been so desperate to throw them off, start anew, but he’d slowly grown to accept their presence. When he thought about it, it was more a haunting than a presence, an occasional manifestation to remind him that he wasn’t safe, and would have to carry them with him to his grave. He’d tried to do good, and knew that for all the good he was doing they would make him do bad. But at least sometimes it felt right, uncompromised.
But now, where did this leave him? How was it that it had come back around to them? How he wished he’d just let it be! But was that even true? Despite what the papers said, he had a conscience and a heart. He was a human being, with children and grandchildren of his own — a human being who loved and protected others. In the eyes of God, where should he stand? What was required of him now?
He pulls the golden cross his mother gave him on his communion from beneath his shirt and turns it in his palm. Its edges catch the sunlight.
How could any man be expected to sacrifice his daughters on the altar of the greater good? How could he be condemned for protecting them, for making sure they came to no harm? Of course, his old friend was right: these men should see trial; the lid should be lifted on their twilight world. In abstract, that was all correct and proper. But in reality, his reality, that could only mean the end, for all of them. If they’d stop just with him, that would be all right. But they wouldn’t, and that’s how he had become their prisoner. No man could live with that.
SCAMARCIO FELT EMBARRASSED: he didn’t know what to say to Garramone. They were sitting in a café on Via Nazionale, just down from the flat where the chief had first shown him the photos of Ganza, and had first brought him into this mess. Garramone had foam from his cappuccino on his upper lip. He was looking even more liverish than the last time Scamarcio had seen him. No doubt the case was getting to him as much as it was to Scamarcio. It couldn’t be easy having the PM on your back, knowing that your career hung in the balance.
‘Listen, Chief Garramone, about yesterday …’
Garramone waved the thought away. ‘You’d just heard a whole lot of awful shit, and that would get to anyone. I just ask that you don’t repeat the performance. I’ve got enough stress from other quarters.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘So, what’s the news from Elba?’
‘Nothing. They’ve searched all around that camp with a fine-tooth comb, but they haven’t found a thing.’
‘How are the parents holding up?’
‘Both in a complete state, as far as Genovesi tells it. You’ve seen the non-stop coverage?’
‘Haven’t had a chance.’
‘It looks bad for us. The Tuscan chief is in line for a demotion if they don’t sort this. The PM says he’s getting five calls a day from the US secretary of state.
‘So what did the PM say — does he want Zaccardo’s story swept under the carpet?’
‘Contrary to your preconceptions of me, Scamarcio, I argued quite heavily for a trial and for Ganza to take the stand. I told him we have a good witness in Zaccardo.’
‘And?’
‘And he said he needed to think about it.’
Scamarcio shook his head. ‘There’s nothing to think about.’ Then, after a beat: ‘There’s no way he’s going to play ball.’
‘We’ll see. He’s a better man than you think.’
‘I’ll take your word for it.’
Garramone took a bite out of an apricot brioche. ‘Ymeri’s been jabbering like a canary, been getting stressed.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Nepi is delighted. We’ve got him on the line to the brothers — twice.’
‘What did they say?’
Garramone pushed a few buttons on his iPhone and then slid it across the table to Scamarcio. He pulled a small set of earphones from his pocket and slid them across, too. ‘Hear for yourself.’
Scamarcio put in the earphones and pressed ‘Play’.
‘So when are you going to deliver?’ someone with a Sicilian accent was saying.
‘There’s a problem,’ said the voice that Scamarcio recognised as Ymeri.
‘What kind of problem?’
‘Pigs got there first.’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ barked the Sicilian. ‘Can’t you get anything right? I’m about to lose my usual supplier. If you don’t get me those goods, I … am … without … a … supplier.’ He enunciated the last words deliberately, slowly, as if Ymeri were a simpleton. ‘You understand that? You understand what that means? No supplier means no clients and no business.’
‘Listen, Luca, we’re sorting it. Stay calm.’
‘Don’t you dare tell me to stay calm, you son of a bitch!’
Ymeri exhaled. It came out as a low whistle down the line.
‘And the girl?’ asked the Sicilian after a few moments. ‘Tell me that’s bloody happening.’
‘We’re seeing to it, yes.’
‘She has to be on the mainland in two days’ time. Two days, you hear me? You call me tomorrow, and I’ll give you an address.
‘OK.’
‘And, Ymeri, if you fuck this up, that’s it. I’ll let loose my little brother Marco on you. You’ve heard of him, his reputation?’
Scamarcio heard Ymeri swallow down hard. ‘It will all be sorted, trust me.’
The conversation ended there. Scamarcio pulled out the headphones. ‘So she’s still on Elba?’
‘Sounds like it, yes.’
‘Have the police been talking to Dacian’s friends and family again?’
‘Yeah, they’ve been putting the pressure on, but nobody’s giving up anything.’
‘I had the sense that one of them, goes by the name of Pety, knew a bit more than he was letting on. He seemed to be the spokesman for them all. It might be worth them putting the heat on him.’
‘I think they’ve been turning the heat up under all of them, but I’ll pass that on. In the meantime, listen to this other recording.’
Scamarcio saw that Garramone had lined up a second file on the iPhone. He pressed ‘Play’ again.
It was the same angry Sicilian, who he now presumed was Luca Moltisanti. ‘Don’t write this down. You’re going to Monticiano, south-south-west of Siena. As you head into the village, take a left at the first roundabout. Follow that road along for five minutes. Eventually on the right you’ll see a sign for the Tre Santi vineyard. Go up that track, and then turn left. At the end of that road you’ll find a villa. They’ll be waiting for you — 7.00pm.’
‘Got it,’ said Ymeri.
‘We’ll have your money ready. You take it, and then you leave immediately. Understood?’
‘Understood.’
‘And, Ymeri, you’d better get this right — otherwise there won’t be a next time.’
‘OK.’
‘You don’t sound confident, Ymeri.’
‘It will work out, I assure you.’
The Sicilian just hung up.
Scamarcio pulled out the headphones. ‘Are we going to raid the villa?’
‘It’s in discussion.’
‘What does Nepi think? Have they said enough for the magistrates there?’
‘He’s happy enough with the evidence so far, but less happy about the raid — he wants to give Ymeri more rope to hang the brothers with so we can get a fix on their location. He doesn’t expect to find the brothers at the villa — just a few minions and, obviously, Ymeri when he shows up with the girl. He still doesn’t reckon the Moltisanti would have left Sicily. They’re in hiding like all the rest, and run their operations from the different basements they move to every twenty-four hours.’
‘What put them in hiding? What does he have on them so far?’
‘I’m not sure he does — nothing concrete, anyway. They’re naughty boys, in hiding more from their masters than from the squad. Nepi wants them to open up about their former employers. I guess he’s on a fishing expedition for a few names and burial sites. He needs something to reel them in with, that he can use to cut a deal.’
‘And that’s where the parties come in?’
‘I guess so.’
Scamarcio nodded. ‘So what now?’
‘We wait. Like they say, Ymeri is supposed to be bringing the girl tomorrow.’
‘And the Moltisanti?’
‘Nepi is working hard through his contacts to fix a location for them — he thinks somewhere in central Sicily, but he still needs to narrow it down.’
‘What about Gela?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You mentioned before that you’d known the PM from there.’
‘So?’
‘It’s just an idea — the place just popped into my head.’
‘The Moltisanti are Gela boys.’
‘Really?’
The chief just nodded.
‘Did you know them, too?’
He shook his head, but Scamarcio wasn’t quite sure he believed him.
‘They are Gela boys, Scamarcio — it would be too obvious for them to be there.’
‘Sometimes obvious is best.’
Garramone leaned back in his seat. ‘I actually put that one to Nepi, but he says not in this case.’
‘But it c
ould be days, if not weeks, before he gets a location on them. I presume Nepi had been trying for a long time before we came along.’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. Not if he didn’t have anything concrete on them. He keeps his cards close — I’m not in the loop.’
‘We need that raid. We need to get to the girl.’
‘We’ll get it. Don’t worry about Nepi.’
Scamarcio thought for a moment. They needed to make it easier for Nepi to let the raid go ahead.
‘Listen, boss, I’ve got a call to make. Mind if I step outside for a moment?’
‘Take the time you need.’
Scamarcio pulled a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lit up, leaving the jacket hanging over his chair. He stepped out into the dusty chaos of Via Nazionale. It was forecast to reach 34 degrees today: it was turning into one of those tropical Junes, hot and dry with the odd afternoon monsoon. Usually, they heralded a disappointing August.
He didn’t have the number on speed-dial, and didn’t have it written down anywhere. That had been drummed into him from an early age. The old guy had said to call when he felt the need. He knew he shouldn’t be doing this, but desperate times and all that. Principles were all well and good, but they only worked on paper. Reality often called for something different, didn’t it?
‘Yes,’ croaked the old man. Scamarcio pictured him sitting up at the bar, his blue beret tilted to the right, the eyes black and beady behind thick lenses, scanning every hapless visitor that came in.
‘It’s Leo.’
There was a pause down the line. Then: ‘Ah, Leo, my boy. What a nice surprise.’
‘Listen, I need a favour.’
‘A favour? Well, you know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I promised your father that much.’
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