‘Exactly. So I engaged the services of an ex-spook who now works as a private eye in Reggio. Last night he raided the compound on the outskirts of Cosenza which this outfit uses as a base, and has just reported his findings. Briefly, the helicopter has been hired by an American company called Aeroscan Surveying. He broke into the machine and took a look inside. The entire cargo space is filled with electronic equipment and screens and seats for the operators. Further research on my part has revealed that Aeroscan is a specialised firm which uses ground-penetrating radar devices to locate objects concealed underground. Everything from unmapped sewage lines to military bunkers and archaeological remains. Are you planning to film underground, Luciano?’
‘Not till they plant me there.’
Pippo returned with a brimming glass. His master downed the contents in one and commanded a refill.
‘So this raises the question of why they are using your movie as the justification for their activities,’ Marcello went on.
‘And how they found out about the film project in the first place.’
‘Fortunately, my employee also took a look inside the temporary office they’ve set up at the site. Tacked to the wall of one of the offices was a large-scale map of the whole area around Cosenza, stamped at the bottom with a form showing details of the surveying job. The box for the title of the relevant contract contained the words “Rapture Works”.’
There was a long silence.
‘It’s beginning to look as if Jeremy’s agent was right,’ Marcello went on. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been scammed.’
Luciano Aldobrandini accepted his second Singapore Sling without even noticing.
‘But why would they do that?’ he protested. ‘All the money they’ve spent already, not to mention the risk of a lawsuit. We are going to sue, I take it?’
‘Depends. We’d have to be able to prove intention to deceive and defraud.’
‘But if all they wanted was to do an aerial survey, why drag me into it?’
‘I have no idea. But don’t forget that it was Rapture Works that insisted on the film being shot in Calabria. It’s just possible that they may have two separate projects on the go and that they’re being piggy-backed for some reason. As of now, we just don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m going to find out!’
Luciano scrolled through his address book to the name of Martin Nguyen, but the number was engaged and stayed that way for over five minutes. He finally succumbed to the robotic siren voice which intervened after ten rings and left a message. Then his eye was caught by the video screen, which had returned to muted TV mode. It showed a man on a podium speaking into a microphone. A window at the upper right read ‘Breaking News’ and the occasion appeared to be a press conference. Normally Luciano would have switched channels, but something about the tall, lean, angular figure struck him, the face particularly. It took another few moments to realise that shorn of the modern clothes – in some suitably fetching drapery, not too daring but seductively suggestive, and with longer, unkempt hair – this man, even more than the late lamented Jeremy, represented his ideal image of John of Patmos. The caption in the right-hand corner indicated that he was in fact the chief of police for the province of Cosenza. Luciano reached for the remote control and turned up the volume, just to hear if the man’s voice was as good as his stunning physiognomy.
‘… the remains of the American lawyer Peter Newman, who has subsequently been identified as a member of the Calopezzati family and hence of Calabrian origin. The victim’s head had been blown off by a charge of plastic explosive detonated by remote control. Forensic tests have revealed that the explosive substance was identical to that used last night to force an entry into a house in the new town of Altomonte, located near by. The capofamiglia, Antonio Nicastro, was then shot while attempting to defend his nine-year-old son Francesco, whose tongue was subsequently severed with a razor blade. These events are clearly related and we urge anybody in possession of any information which might be relevant to come forward and –’
Luciano blanked the screen. Dear God, he thought, and this is where I was going to spend months making my masterpiece? ‘We just don’t know,’ Marcello had said, but now he knew, with overwhelming and irrefutable conviction. There would be no movie. He, the great Aldobrandini, had been bought and sold like a rent boy to be used and then tossed away. Whatever happened now, his genius and his reputation, his entire career, had been besmirched for ever.
He stalked out on deck and up to the wheelhouse.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Matteo,’ he told the skipper. ‘Alter course for Sardinia.’
Tom Newman felt angry. Normally a mild man, he was capable of spectacular outbursts of rage if he felt that others had taken advantage of his good nature. This was one such occasion. These people had pushed him too far. Fine, they’d soon find out what he was made of.
‘Ma cazzo, oh, dov’è ’sto beverragio?’ he shouted at the waiter.
The man paused in mid-stride, then flipped up his right forefinger in a gesture that read, ‘Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something.’
‘Subito, signore!’
Twenty seconds later, the waiter brought what looked like an innocent Campari Soda but in fact contained a shot of vodka – what the Italians called un drink, an alien name for an alien concept. Tom nodded graciously, settled back in his chair with a masterful smile and relaxed again, soaking up the sun and the scene around him. The sun was high in a blue sky flawless except for a few puffy white clouds spilling over the coastal chain of mountains from the Mediterranean to the west. Later on in the afternoon, they would bulk up, loom over the city like thugs and then unleash the mother of all thunderstorms, but for now they were merely decorative or maybe even symbolic, like in some Old Master’s frescoed ceiling of strapping lads and overweight gals, signifiers of beneficence and plenty.
Since leaving the Questura after having received Aurelio Zen’s bad news, he’d drifted at random through the streets, noticing everything with heightened awareness and interacting with whatever presented itself to his dazed consciousness. He’d bought some green peaches and fresh walnuts from one street vendor, and eaten them along with a chalky roundel of aged goat’s cheese sold by another vendor, who looked a bit like a goat himself – skinny, neurotic and driven, like the gormless offspring of some Spanish noble family.
Then there had been the cheap clothing stores run by Chinese immigrants around the bus station, the bijou boutiques on the upscale streets selling pricey goods for wedding presents and the home beautiful, and odd places with English names like Daddy & Son and Miss Sixty – the latter, it turned out, catering not to geriatric spinsters but the adorable young women of the neighbourhood who wanted retro Carnaby Street gear to show off their amazing legs. Tom had listened to a bootleg CD of Calabrian folk music blaring from another street stall and with the help of the salesman had managed to pick out some of the words: O sol, o sol, almo immortale, non t’asconder mai più, che certo veggio s’io non ti miro, non poss’aver peggio. It was a hymn of praise to the sun, all about how when it is hidden from us we’re screwed. Pure paganism, but he was feeling pretty pagan himself. It was in the air here, in the pitiless light, in the facial expressions and body language of the people all around. His father was dead, the police chief had told him. Like this was the first time in the history of the world that someone’s father had died? The Greeks and Romans who’d run this place thousands of years ago would have understood that.
He’d bought the CD and felt it now in his pocket as he heard the melody again in his brain and looked at a passing woman, the fastenings of her bra standing out on her back under the tight top like widely spaced shoulder nipples. Then he saw a face he knew.
‘Signor Mantega!’
Tom sprang to his feet and shook hands with the notaio.
‘How have you been keeping?’ Mantega asked distractedly.
‘Pretty well, all things considered. What about you?’
Mantega look
ed startled, then made a large gesture and sighed deeply.
‘Ah, you know! Work, always work.’
‘Come and sit down,’ Tom urged.
He was feeling lonely and, with two drinks inside him, expansive, but Mantega demurred.
‘Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry –’
‘Solo un momento. I need to ask you something.’
Mantega hesitated, but finally joined Tom at his table. He waved away the waiter and stared at Tom.
‘Well?’ he said pointedly.
‘It’s just this expression I heard today and didn’t understand, so I thought maybe it was dialect. La tomba d’Alarico. Does that mean anything to you?’
Mantega shrugged dismissively. He obviously couldn’t have cared less about Tom’s question, but couldn’t resist the opportunity to hold forth all the same.
‘But of course! Alaric was a barbarian chieftain who invaded Italy in the fifth century. He sacked Rome and then continued south, but died here in Cosenza and is believed to have been buried along with all the treasure he had plundered. There have been many attempts to find the tomb, all of them fruitless. When the Germans were in charge here during the war, they organised a particularly intensive search. The Goths were an important element in Nazi mythology. But even with all their resources, the results were once again negative.’
Tom shook his head in wonder.
‘I’d never even heard of Alaric. So the treasure’s still down there somewhere?’
Mantega shrugged impatiently. Now that he had said his piece, he had no further interest in this dusty subject.
‘Who knows? From time to time some enthusiast comes along and tries again, but without success so far as anyone knows.’
He yawned, and then as a show of politeness added, ‘Why are you interested in Alaric’s tomb?’
Tom gave him a conspiratorial smile.
‘You know that helicopter that’s been prowling about? Turns out it’s carrying some sort of electronic gear that can scan the subsoil. The company drew a blank down the main river-bed, so now they’re going to try the valleys higher up. At least it should be a bit quieter around here.’
Mantega gave a perfunctory nod.
‘Well, I must be going. Have you heard any further word from the police about negotiations for your father’s release?’
It was only then that Tom realised Mantega hadn’t heard the news yet. But he would eventually, and would find it very odd that Tom hadn’t told him.
‘He’s dead.’
Mantega, who had started to get up, abruptly sat down again.
‘What? How? When?’
‘A couple of days ago. They’ve been keeping it quiet until they definitively identified the body. I only just heard the news myself, so the reality hasn’t quite sunk in yet. I suppose I’m still in shock, you know?’
Mantega didn’t seem concerned about this aspect of the situation.
‘Is that your phone?’ he asked, pointing to a shiny silver telefonino lying on the table.
‘Got it just yesterday.’
‘May I borrow it for a moment?’ Mantega asked. ‘I have to make an urgent call and my own mobile has gone dead. You know how it is. I must have forgotten to recharge it.’
‘Help yourself,’ said Tom.
Mantega smiled his thanks. As if finding the street too noisy, he got up and walked into the open doorway of the café. Tom watched him idly, in between exchanging glances with a stunning brunette who had sat down at a neighbouring table soon after Mantega arrived and was now smoking a cigarette and talking on her headset. Tom scribbled ‘Lunch?’ and his new phone number on a scrap of paper, then signalled the waiter and told him to take it over to the woman. While this transaction was in progress, he glanced over at Nicola Mantega, who was apparently having a furious argument with someone. The waiter handed the woman the note. They spoke briefly and he pointed over at Tom. The brunette looked over, and for a moment their eyes met again. Then Mantega reappeared. He handed back Tom’s phone but did not sit down.
‘Sorry, but I have to run,’ he said, as breathlessly as though he already had been running. ‘I’ll be in touch shortly and in the meantime please accept my deepest sympathy for this shocking development. My poor boy! You must be devastated.’
Tom nodded vaguely.
‘Yes, I must.’
‘A presto, allora.’
Mantega trotted off rapidly.
‘I’m not free for lunch,’ a voice said.
Tom looked up to find the brunette standing above him.
‘Oh, what a cute phone!’ she exclaimed. She switched it on, pressed some of the miniature buttons and scanned the screen.
‘You’re pretty cute yourself.’
The woman took this coolly.
‘You’re an American?’ she returned.
Tom smiled self-deprecatingly.
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘Oh, in Calabria, Americans are part of the family,’ she replied with a nicely flirtatious edge. ‘So many of our own people moved there.’
‘Yes, I know. In fact, I may be from this area myself, or at least my father seems …’
He broke off in confusion, but the brunette was now intent on an incoming call on her earpiece. She turned to Tom.
‘I must go.’
Tom gestured helplessly.
‘Okay, how about dinner?’
But she was already out of earshot, hastening along in the direction taken by Nicola Mantega.
For someone whose religious beliefs, theologically considered, amounted to little more than pagan agnosticism, Maria was a good Catholic. It was true that her views on the Trinity, which she thought of as the executive steering committee at the core of any stable family – the father, the mother and the eldest son – probably wouldn’t have passed muster with the Inquisition, had the Church still been taking a lively interest in the opinions of its dwindling flock instead of striving ever more desperately to maintain the ratio of bums to pews.
Maria accepted the existence of God in exactly the same way that she accepted the existence of the government, because you needed someone powerful to hate for not preventing, or at least mitigating, all the needless suffering that went on. She felt sorry for Jesus, having to take the blame for his father’s misjudgements, but it was hard to have much respect for a man who seemed to have spent his brief life preaching that if people were nicer to each other then the world would be a nicer place. As for the meaningless abstraction of the Holy Spirit, that had long been replaced in her mind by the warm, indulgent and eminently human person of the Madonna.
Maria conceived of the Blessed Virgin as possessing much the same range of limited and indirect, but often decisive, powers on the divine level as any mother worth her salt did here on earth. Sometimes she could help, sometimes not, but at least she could be counted on to listen sympathetically and to do her best. Her sphere of activity was of course strictly local. In the chapel dedicated to her in the old church up on the hilltop, she cured burns and eased the pains of childbirth, but if your feet or back were troubling you then you had to pay a visit to her shrines at Aprigliano or Cerenzia. It was like knowing where the different kinds of mushrooms grew or where to find the best wild asparagus.
Maria shared these unorthodox doctrinal views with just about every other elderly woman in the village, but like them she nevertheless attended mass every day. This was partly because someone had to do it, lest the family attract comment, and none of the others had the time or inclination, but largely because it got her out of the house and provided an opportunity to catch up on local gossip. On the day after the police raid on Altomonte and its horrifying sequel, almost all the other women in the community had evidently had the same idea, so the church was much more crowded than usual for evening mass. Sensing the prevailing mood, and perhaps impatient to hear the latest himself, the priest zipped through the service at a brisk pace, skipping the homily and keeping the readings brief.
The moment the congr
egation was dismissed, everyone got down to the real business. Many of them had already had a chance to take preliminary soundings in the course of their daily work, social calls and trips to the shops. Now the time had come to meet in committee, compare notes, sift the evidence and rough out the interim report which would later be delivered to their respective families. Lively discussion was going on both in the church itself and on the steps and street outside between small groups that constantly formed and reformed, relaying their findings to others for comparison and contrast. After about twenty minutes, a consensus gradually emerged.
Both the television news and the local paper had confirmed that the murdered man, despite having been reported following his earlier disappearance as being a visiting American, was in fact a member of the Calopezzati family which had ruled this part of Calabria like a feudal possession for almost two hundred years. The memory of their crimes and infamies was still fresh among the older generation, and there was general agreement that it was harsh but just for this Pietro Ottavio – evidently the illegitimate son of the baronessa Ottavia – to have been condemned to a symbolically ignominious death outside the family’s former stronghold as retribution for the misdeeds of his forebears.
Where dissension emerged was over the punishment of Francesco Nicastro. There were those who held that he deserved it for giving information to the police. Rules were rules and they had to be enforced, brutally if necessary, if the community was to survive in the face of the even more brutal repression that had governed the region since time immemorial. Others argued that boys like Francesco were too modern to understand the old ways, adding that in any case no real harm had been done by his mentioning the victim’s parked car, and above all that the penalty had been disproportionately severe. A few even dared to suggest that the incident was proof of the persistent rumours that ‘he’ had become addicted to the drugs in which he trafficked and had gone over the edge into madness, but the implications of this possibility were so disturbing that it was dismissed by the majority.
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