Enrico reached over and grabbed the bottle and poured himself another grappa. ‘I’m not leaving without Ruggiero!’ He downed the glass in a single gulp and spent the next few minutes coughing and wiping the tears from his eyes.
Another half hour passed and now the bottle on the table was empty and the glass in front of Enrico had tumbled over. Enrico’s face was flushed, his eyes shone bright and his head was lolling from side to side. Cheese rinds lay curled on the table.
‘Salvatore?’ asked Tommasino.
From behind the bar, Salvatore nodded.
He brought over their phones and placed them on the table, giving Ruggiero a wink as he did so. Ruggiero remained impassive, and waited until Salvatore had withdrawn before picking up his phone, and standing up.
Enrico had begun moaning and muttering something incomprehensible.
The forester cackled as if at some private joke, then left the table and went up to the bar counter. ‘Young Megale has drunk too much,’ he said to Salvatore.
‘That’s fine. His good friend Ruggiero is here to look after him. The Curmacis are renowned for their loyalty. The Curmacis and Megales are old friends, working together in faraway hostile lands.’
‘Let’s hope the alliance lasts. It seems to me Enrico is as much a liability as a friend. Here, young Curmaci, what do you want us to do with Enrico?’
‘He’s my responsibility,’ said Ruggiero. I’ll look after him and take him home.’
Monday, 31 August
19
Rome
‘Interesting times, Blume,’ said Massimiliani, ushering him through the visitors’ area without a pass. He lowered his voice as they walked quickly down a corridor towards a tinted window that turned the outside world dark orange.
‘I have a good friend in the German Federal Police. You’ll be meeting him later. This morning, he started talking about Curmaci, and so I pushed him a little and he said he had heard Curmaci was cooperating with the Italian authorities. I said I would have to look Curmaci up, find out who he was, but my BKA friend did not believe me. He seemed quite agitated at the idea that Curmaci might be talking to some Italian magistrate. Isn’t that good? Your lie has gone international over a single weekend.’
‘Why would they be agitated if Curmaci were cooperating with us?’
‘Good question. It makes me wonder if Curmaci might be cooperating with them. I doubt it, but even if he is not actively cooperating with the BKA, he could be partly under their protection thanks to his high-level contacts. We almost never get high-level informers from the Ndrangheta. Ten a penny in the Mafia these days, but not the Calabrians. It would be very frustrating if the Germans got there first. I just think they are worried that if Curmaci were talking to us, we’d find out about things happening in Germany of which they are unaware.’
‘And we don’t really want him talking to the BKA in case he tells them about things in Italy we know nothing about.’
‘Fear of losing face is the greatest impediment to international cooperation, but we actually get on reasonably well with the BKA. Better than you might expect. I’m going to take you down to meet him in a minute.’
He led Blume into an empty conference room with large screens.
‘This is where we show off what the DCSA does. Like the war rooms in the movies? Except when the globe lights up with red lines, they are mobile phone connections we are tracking rather than nuclear missiles. Let me check the BKA guy’s in my office. I’ll send someone down to collect you.’
Blume sat in the room alone, and looked around for something interesting to do. On the podium, he found a laser pointer, and spent some time causing the green dot to play over the DCSA emblem.
The conference room door opened and a small man in a wide brown tie and thick glasses looked around in confusion at not finding anyone within his immediate field of vision. Blume danced the laser beam at him, and the man held up his arms over his face. Blume half expected him to shout, ‘Don’t shoot,’ but all he said was, ‘I was told to fetch you.’
As he followed the man down a long, featureless corridor flanked by closed doors, his phone came to life and started pulling in missed call messages. Caterina had phoned twice.
He stopped and called her back, allowing the man in the brown tie to reach the end of the corridor before realizing Blume was no longer at his heels. He came beetling back wagging an angry finger, but Caterina had already answered.
‘Where have you been?’ she demanded.
Blume glanced at his wrist where his watch used to be, and said, ‘It’s still Monday morning. I’ve been in bed.’
‘I mean yesterday and the day before.’
‘That was a Sunday. It was my day off. Saturday . . . stuff to do. Paperwork, mostly.’
‘You’re not allowed to do paperwork at home. Anyhow, I don’t believe that’s what you were doing.’
‘I don’t have time for a to-and-fro between us. If you want –’
‘They’ve taken the case out of our hands. They found the van in Sesto San Giovanni and,’ she paused for effect, ‘it was burned out and two bodies were found inside. I had to find this out for myself. Only now has the Milan magistrate admitted it to me.’
‘When did they say the van was found?’
‘Friday. They’ve been sitting on the information, making a fool of us. Not of you, though, you backed out of this from the start, didn’t you?’
‘I was giving you breathing space.’
‘Don’t worry about that. I get all the air I need in the large empty spaces you like to leave between us.’
‘I was talking at a professional level. You don’t want me there all the time.’
‘But you knew from the start my investigation was a dead-end.’
Blume started to make a protesting noise, then decided not to bother.
‘You knew and you said nothing,’ she insisted.
‘No. Not at all,’ he said. Accurate or not in her reckoning, it was not right for her to accuse him like this. He turned his back on the man in the brown tie, who was literally hopping with impatience, like a fat chaffinch.
‘Liar,’ said Caterina, and hung up.
He swung round savagely at the bouncing functionary. ‘Next time you wag that finger you’ll be wagging it up . . .’ But he stopped. The man in front of him, who barely reached his chest, seemed on the verge of tears.
‘I have a very tight schedule,’ he squeezed his legs together and twisted his body as if he was holding his bladder. ‘Can you please hurry?’
Blume took pity, and they proceeded at a smart pace down hallways and up stairs, and then the small man popped open a door and led him into a dark, narrow room, the size of a large utility cupboard. A small hopper window near the ceiling slanted inward, allowing in dark air that reminded Blume of the smell of Line A of the Metro. The gunmetal desk spanned the narrow space between the walls, leaving the tiniest gap for the man to squeeze through, which he set about doing at once, as if anticipating that this would take some time, as indeed it did. Blume reflected that it would have been quicker to clamber over the desktop, which had nothing on it.
The man finally reached his seat behind the desk and sat down. He then looked up with a slight frown of annoyance as if he had been sitting there busily working away and Blume was an unexpected and unwelcome visitor. The pleading demeanour evident in the corridor was quite gone now, and he nodded curtly at the third object in the room, a seat, identical to his own, on Blume’s side. He pulled open a drawer, extracted a thin phone and placed it on the table.
‘This is your new phone,’ he said. ‘I need to see the one you have now.’
Blume was interested in seeing where this was leading. He took his clunky old Nokia out of his pocket and set it on the desk between them next to the sleek new Samsung.
‘I see,’ said the man, looking at the Nokia with disfavour. ‘This new one is a Samsung Smartphone – I have forgotten which model, but it will tell you its name when you turn it on.
For now it has but one phone number in it, listed under “Mamma”. That’s us. If we call, please answer. We have a trace on this phone, of course, so we’ll know where you are . . . umm . . .’ He drummed his fingers on the empty desk trying to think of other features.
‘Anyhow, you can keep it afterwards. Like a perk. That’s something. Touch screen, Android operating system, built-in GPS navigator, MP3 player, Bluetooth, internet enabled, and it will connect to all four providers, TIM, Vodafone, Tre and Wind. I don’t know how they did that. Don’t use it for personal calls for the next few days. Nothing sinister, just our standard practice.’ He pointed to Blume’s old Nokia. ‘I am going to take that, OK?’
‘No,’ said Blume. ‘Not OK.’
‘Is it police issue or personal?’
‘Both,’ said Blume. ‘Police issue, but it’s the one I use for everything, You’re not having it. It’s not legal for you to have it.’
The man nodded in complete understanding, but stretched out his hand anyway. Blume grabbed his phone back. The man withdrew his hand as if bitten by a snake. The Smartphone sat on the table between them.
‘If you take the Samsung, I’ll have accomplished 50 per cent of my task. Will you at least take it?’
Blume took it and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Thanks for the gift. You realize I have no idea who you are or what this is about?’
The man relaxed. ‘That explains it. You haven’t been briefed yet. Let me check.’
He pulled out a phone, identical to the one he had just handed to Blume, and pressed its screen. ‘Yes, me . . . He came here first . . . Right. He still has his old phone by the way. Oh yes, I suppose that makes more sense . . .’
He dropped the phone back into his pocket and extended his hand. ‘Well, it’s been a pleasure.’
As Blume took his hand, the door behind them opened and Captain Massimiliano Massimiliani entered.
‘Sorry about that, Alec. You were taken to the wrong room. Or the right room in the wrong order. We’re just down the corridor here, will you come through?’
Pausing before a door, Massimiliani put his hand on Blume’s shoulder. ‘Just before we go in there, two things. First, the German agent is the liaison officer of the BKA to the anti-Mafia and he really is a friend of mine. He’s completely trustworthy.’
‘Completely?’
‘Oh, yes. I don’t tell him much, of course, but if I did, I am pretty certain he would treat the information responsibly. Now, as much as I have great faith in my friend, I would ask you not to fall for his absent-minded stoner act. He often claims he does not understand, but it’s all an act. Mind what you say.’
Massimiliani opened the door and ushered him in. The man inside stood up and introduced himself rapidly, almost before Blume had taken stock of him.
‘Kommissar Blume, I am Kriminaloberrat Winfried Weissmann,’ he spoke English. ‘Please call me Winfried.’
‘Winfried?’ Blume had a distant memory of his father mentioning a great-grandmother who had the same name. Or was that Winifred? The man in front of him must once have had a full shock of Afro-style hair in his youth. What was left was still frizzy and wild, but it was also snow white and had receded so far from his forehead that it now sat like a pile of freshly shorn wool on the back of his head. Although at least sixty years old, he wore a denim jacket and a red-and-green checked shirt, but, whether in deference to his official function or in recognition of his age, he also wore a shiny pale-blue loosely knotted tie. Winklepicker boots with silver buckles peeped out from below his drainpipe trousers. Blume was not surprised to see an ankh-shaped earring hanging from his fleshy earlobe. Behind him, Captain Massimiliani was nodding in approval as Blume took all this in his stride.
‘Lei è il capomissione? Sind Sie Oberbefehl . . .’ said Blume, holding out his hand and smiling pleasantly.
‘Ah! You speak some German!’ The BKA man suddenly seized Blume’s hand in his own, clasped the other hand over it, and pressed it rather emotionally, as if they were childhood friends now reaching a parting of the ways. ‘But we can speak English. Oberbefehl is a bit of an exaggeration. I am the chief of this mission. I don’t think Massimiliano has explained everything to you?’
‘No.’
‘It’s very simple and – hah! – it is very embarrassing, yeah?’
‘If you say so,’ said Blume, taking a step back.
‘I am embarrassed!’ shouted Weissmann, then lowered his voice, glaring suspiciously at the closed door. ‘We have an agent by the name of Konrad Hoffmann, who has been working in the BKA for fifteen years and has a perfect record. I do not know him personally, although I have met him. For the past five years, this officer has been specializing in inquiries into the management of industrial waste and organized crime. Most of his inquiries have focused on the export and disposal of heavy metals produced by German firms. So far, his investigations have focused on the Camorra and the illegal dumping of toxic waste in the region of Campania. The Camorra is not the only Mafia involved in this sector, but Hoffmann’s inquiries have been focused on that particular organization rather than any other.’
He paused and regarded Blume with an appraising look, as if seeing him for the first time. Blume nodded gravely, which seemed to satisfy him, and he continued. ‘Nine months ago, Konrad Hoffmann made an application for vacation leave, which is his right. In fact, he has not even claimed for as long as he might, and it is absolutely normal for him to ask for time off in the summer, just as it is also perfectly normal for him to take a camper van and drive south into Italy along with thousands of other Germans. So none of this was noticed.’
‘No one noticed a German with a camper van driving to Italy in August?’ said Blume. ‘I understand why this might not make the news.’
The BKA chief found this extremely funny and filled up the room with throaty laughter.
‘That was very humorous. So many Germans with camper vans and motor homes . . .’ He lowered his voice, ‘Not as bad as the Dutch, though. You can’t move on Italian roads for the Dutch and their yellow number plates and little camper vans! Yeah, so, Konrad Hoffmann. He left on Thursday, spent Friday night in Tyrol, Saturday in Mantua, and last night in the “Tiber Village”. He is on his way from there to us now. You understand this?’
‘I’m following what you are saying,’ said Blume, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
‘You are following me. That is good. I cannot ask for more. Now, as you know the boss of the Dusseldorf colony of the Ndrangheta, Domenico Megale . . . wait, wait . . . I have to say this right.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The Italians call him . . .. Megale u Vecchiu. That means “Old Megale”. Did I pronounce it right?’
‘Sounds fine to me,’ said Blume.
‘Did I pronounce it right?’ insisted Weissmann, a note of aggression creeping into his voice.
‘It’s Calabrian. In Italian it would be il vecchio, in Rome we’d say er vecchio.’
The mistrustful glint returned to Weissmann’s eyes. Massimiliani darted an anxious glance at Blume, as if to appeal for his greater understanding, but did not intervene.
‘We will call him by his proper name, Domenico Megale,’ decided Weissmann.
‘Great idea,’ said Blume.
‘So, this Domenico Megale was released from prison after a series of trials and sentences. He is too old to face trial again, but we think he will probably not be boss for long. Maybe already he is not.’
‘I would not presume that,’ said Blume. ‘Italy is a country for old men. Death rather than age, sickness or incarceration stops a boss from being boss, or a prime minister from being prime minister.’
‘Excellent point! Italy is controlled by evil old men: I must remember your observation. We have been watching Megale’s house since his release. It is located between Duisburg and Dusseldorf, in a village called Grossenbaum. We have been noting down the number plates of vehicles, taking photographs of visitors. And one of those visitors was Konrad Hoffmann, who is now in Italy on business
we know nothing about. That is the problem.’
‘He is freelancing?’
‘We don’t know. This is what is such an embarrassment. We are very surprised at this. We wanted to see who would turn up at Megale’s house to welcome him back, but we did not expect one of our own agents to go there. He arrived wearing a false moustache and unnecessary glasses. It was the worst effort at disguise anyone on the surveillance team had ever seen, and this is one of the reasons they took a particularly close look at him and circulated the image immediately. I would like to put the photo of Hoffmann in disguise on the BKA intranet so everyone can be amused, except it is a serious matter,’ said Weissmann, then suddenly guffawed. ‘Hoffmann is a person who likes to work on his own as much as possible, and he has done well like this. The logical thing to think was that he was investigating some Eco-Mafia connection between the Ndrangheta and the Camorra. So we sent round an agent last week to his office to have a chat, but discovered he was on leave. We started looking for him, casually, with no big hurry, then it was discovered he had crossed into Italy.’
‘Well, have you asked him?’
‘We contacted him by phone yesterday and asked him if he was enjoying his holiday and where he was. He told us the truth. Perhaps he knew if we were calling we already knew, and were tracking his phone. He’s a BKA agent, after all, and a very good one, but only behind the desk. In the field he is a disaster, as we can see from his attempt at disguise and his failure to notice a stakeout by his own colleagues. I do not think he has many friends in his department. But his record is impressive, as are his qualifications. Yeah, so . . .’ Weissmann fingered his earring.
‘Did you ask him where he was going?’ prompted Blume.
‘Ah sure, that is what I had forgotten! We asked him where he was going next, and he said he was on holiday and could not be sure. So we, very politely because he is a colleague who has contributed much, insisted that he must tell us. He said then he was going to Campania, which, of course, is an area he knows something about. But,’ Weissmann paused for dramatic effect, ‘what is the connection with Domenico Megale and Calabria? We are still looking through his files, but we see no evidence of a connection between the Camorra and the Ndrangheta in this area.’
The Namesake Page 12