End Games - 11

by Michael Dibdin

  His mobile phone burbled into life. Martin didn’t want to answer it, but he could no more ignore a ringtone than a mother could her crying baby.

  ‘Yo.’

  ‘Hi, Jake.’

  ‘We’ve got issues, dude.’

  ‘No fucking kidding!’

  ‘The guy called you too?’

  ‘What guy?’

  ‘That big kahuna director we hired for the movie cover.’

  ‘Aldobrandini? We spoke after I arrived here.’

  ‘I mean real time. Like, you know, now.’

  ‘I’ve been totally slammed, Jake. It’s all swimming upstream here. What’s new?’

  ‘Aldo left a message. He somehow found out the whole thing is a scam. Said a lot of stuff about creative property rights and shit. Plus he’s threatening to get on TV and expose us, then sue our asses. What a shitty break! If Newman doesn’t get kidnapped, this never happens.’

  Martin Nguyen took a moment to savour this, the longest discourse he had ever heard Jake pronounce. Then he turned his boss’s habitual brevity against him.

  ‘Newman’s dead.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Murdered. They dressed him up as a corpse, made him walk to an old village someplace, then blew his head off.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  After a long silence, Jake laughed.

  ‘Well, I guess the game’s hotting up.’

  Like much of what Jake said, this didn’t make any sense to Martin, so he decided to ignore it.

  ‘I’ve refocused the search according to the parameters suggested by that team of consultants I told you about. The Aeroscan guy figures they can cover the area in three or four more days.’

  ‘Yeah, but if Brandini goes on TV and tells everyone there isn’t going to be any movie, we’re screwed.’

  ‘Chill, Jake. It’s just the flying permits at risk. I can stall the authorities that long.’

  ‘Okay, but if we get lucky, call me immediately. I’ve got a jet on standby.’

  ‘Well, that’s great, but it’s going to take you half a day to get here and the time difference screws up the scheduling. Plus I don’t know if you remember, but I just said that Pete Newman has been brutally murdered. That means that the cops here have a homicide investigation under way, and anyone associated with the victim – like me, for instance – is a potential witness, if not suspect. The police chief made that very clear to me today. So what with the threat of Aldobrandini going nuclear, I’m under a lot of pressure. Now Aeroscan might just come through tomorrow, in which case I’ll have to move fast without you around or maybe even in touch, because it’ll be the middle of the night over there. So it would help a lot if you told me what we’re actually looking for.’

  There was a long pause.

  ‘It’s kind of hard to explain over the phone, plus I’ve got to go. Let me shoot you a couple of URLs. Think you have problems? Madrona went out and bought this designer dog. It’s like a total bitch.’

  The line went dead. Martin felt rage coil up within him like a thwarted orgasm. For a moment he was tempted to hurl the phone at the wall, but in the end he tapped into his rage and used it to dissipate his earlier tiredness and sense of passive helplessness. He called room service and told them to remove his dirty dishes and bring a bottle of their best cognac, a soda siphon and a bucket of ice. Martin’s father had started his career as a waiter at one of the most exclusive clubs in the French colony of Cochinchine, so he had been in a position to pass on to his son a few tips about the good things in life.

  After leaving his office exceptionally late, Nicola Mantega drove up the superstrada to Spezzano Grande, a ragged stack of concrete boxes perched on the precipitous slopes of the Sila massif. The radio was tuned to the same local news channel he had listened to while driving to work, and as the Alfa Romeo skimmed round the long curving viaduct leading up to the Spezzano turn-off, Mantega was surprised to hear the familiar voice of the new police chief, Aurelio Zen.

  ‘… where officers under my command discovered 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 …’

  The exit for Spezzano angled sharply right, then left up a steep gradient, and at the speed Mantega took it a lesser car than the Alfa 159 Q4 might well have spun out of control. He stopped at the side of the road until his breathing had calmed down to something approaching normal, then nosed through the narrow streets and parked in front of a pizzeria. Gina and the boys were visiting her brother in Leipzig, where he had found work stripping Communist-era plumbing out of desirable nineteenth-century apartment buildings for rich Wessis, so on top of everything else Nicola couldn’t get a home-cooked meal. The street was empty except for a kid who had been showing off his MotoGuzzi bike to his piece of arm-candy. She looked vaguely familiar, Mantega thought as he walked in and ordered. He’d definitely seen her before, maybe even that day, but where?

  He sat down and gulped some beer. It wasn’t surprising that his mind was going after what he’d been put through. He’d spent a miserable afternoon pretending to listen to the needs and demands of some Oriental who had flown in from America to represent the film company that Peter Newman had worked for, but his thoughts had been elsewhere. He already knew that the interim police chief didn’t believe his story about the circumstances of Newman’s disappearance, but hadn’t had enough evidence to proceed against him when the case under investigation had merely been one of abduction. Now it was murder, and of the most atrocious kind. Crimes on that scale create their own judicial momentum, and Mantega knew that he would be one of its first victims. The only surprise was that they hadn’t come for him already.

  To prepare for that onslaught, he needed to be briefed by Giorgio on what exactly had happened, and above all why, but any contact from that quarter now looked as unlikely as an intervention from the other quarter was inevitable. He had made his final pitch before lunch, borrowing Tom Newman’s mobile on the grounds that it was new and therefore untapped. The only reply was from an answering machine, on which he had left a frenzied message whose tone he now regretted. In retrospect, his spontaneous reaction to Tom’s news looked distinctly risky. Giorgio was not one to take kindly to threats and abuse. But what was he supposed to have done? The original deal they had struck was a straightforward business transaction, the victim returned a little poorer but otherwise unharmed and the perpetrators enriched by several million euros. A traditional Calabrian crime, with its roots in the immemorial banditry of the region. Nothing had ever been said about murder, still less a barbaric and apparently motiveless execution such as the one the police chief had described at his press conference.

  He chomped his pizza down, then spent a little time flirting jokingly with the waitress, whose husband had been screwing the sister of the priest in Pedace ever since the difficult birth of their second child. The night outside was a still, solid block of oppressive heat. The storm that should have ripped it open, letting in the fresh air and a cooling downpour, had merely brooded over the area for a few hours and then shifted off to the east, leaving no resolution to the problems it had created. Mantega slipped gratefully into the air-conditioned zephyrs within the Alfa and drove up a tilted labyrinth of minor roads to his villa, where the electronic gates in the boundary fence automatically closed behind him. Tonight, there were no welcoming barks and plaintive whines to greet him. Attilio, his lively pit bull terrier, had come down with an acute intestinal ailment a few days earlier and was still in the care of the vet. Mantega unlocked the house, bolted the door behind him, reset the alarm
system and then fetched a bottle of the local digestivo he favoured and watched an hour of mind-numbing television before going to bed.

  He was awakened by stabbing pains and a sense of suffocation that induced muffled shrieks.

  ‘Shut up!’

  The low voice was also muffled, but Mantega had already recognised Giorgio’s body odour. The gag over his mouth was removed.

  ‘On your feet.’

  The intruder twisted Mantega’s right arm up behind his back and walked him through the dark topography of the house to the kitchen. Visibility was slightly better here, thanks to the security light on the patio. Giorgio sat his captive down on a chair beside the long table strewn with various incongruous artefacts purchased by Gina as part of her unending attempts to create a gracious home and stood over him, his back to the window, his face in shadow. He was wearing jeans, a black leather jacket and a dark woollen hat. His huge hands gleamed in the ambient light like dangling crabs.

  ‘Keep your voice low,’ Giorgio said. ‘The house is under surveillance.’

  ‘Who by?’

  ‘The cops, of course. It took me almost two hours to get in. They’re good, but I’m better.’

  Mantega thought this over, then frowned.

  ‘The burglar alarm?’ prompted Giorgio. ‘One of my friends disabled that on a previous visit, before things got hot. He’s a wizard with wiring. The system looks like it’s working, but it’s just talking to itself. Or perhaps it was your dog you were thinking of? Another friend of mine tossed a chunk of poisoned meat over the fence after the cops outside had handed you off to the team that follows you around during the day.’

  Mantega’s eyes had adjusted by now, and his brain was more alert. The reason for the strange gleam on Giorgio’s hands became obvious. He was wearing a pair of those skin-tight latex gloves used by doctors.

  ‘It seems like this is all news to you,’ Giorgio went on, ‘which just confirms my feeling that you’ve become a liability rather than an asset. All these phone calls you’ve been making, whining and bitching away like some woman! That’s not how a man conducts himself. I need men about me, Nicola, now more than ever. So I’ve decided that the time has come to sever our connection.’

  One of the gleaming hands disappeared for a moment. Then it was back, holding a blade whose gleam was even more intense and much colder.

  ‘No one saw me come and no one will see me go. I suppose you will be missed eventually, but not for many days. Those days are vital to us to make our plans without the fear of being betrayed by a scumbag like you. Your job for us is done, Nicola. All you can do now is harm.’

  To his surprise, Mantega found that he was perfectly calm.

  ‘You’re right about one thing, Giorgio,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty of harm that I can do, even from beyond the grave. Do you think it didn’t occur to me that you might try this? The way you murdered Newman and mutilated that poor kid, it’s clear that you’ve gone out of your mind. Well, I’ve been in this game long enough not to trust crazies, so a complete statement of all our dealings – not just about Newman, but everything, back from the very beginning – is in the hands of a third party and will be deposited with the authorities if anything happens to me. Names, locations, dates, ransom paid and all particulars of both you and your friends. Given that this latest exploit of yours is headline news, that would naturally result in the biggest manhunt this country has seen for years, with you as the star of the show.’

  He held up his hand.

  ‘Now, you may think that the whole community will form a circle and protect you faithfully whatever the cost. That would be a mistake. People round here have a healthy respect for power and patronage, but they don’t have any more time for sadistic crackheads than I do. You’ll be on your own and on the run, Giorgio. Even your friends may eventually start wondering how much your friendship is worth. Sooner or later there’ll be a fire-fight at some ruined farmhouse where you’ve been holed up in misery for months like a kidnap hostage yourself, and you will come out of it either dead or facing a life sentence without parole in that high-security hostel in Terni.’

  Giorgio gestured his boredom.

  ‘This is just talk, Nicola. The plain fact is I don’t need you any more.’

  He approached, knife held out. It was then that Mantega had his supreme inspiration.

  ‘Maybe not, but you do need money. And I’m talking about serious money, the kind that will buy friends and influence people or spirit you away abroad if things get too hot here. That’s what you need, Giorgio, and I know where you can get it. Therefore you need me.’

  Even Mantega didn’t really believe that this last-minute appeal was going to work, but he felt he owed it to his reputation as a notaio di fiducia to give it a whirl. In the event, it stopped Giorgio in his tracks. He must be even more cash-strapped than I thought, Mantega reflected. This didn’t entirely surprise him. Giorgio’s eagerness when Mantega had suggested Peter Newman as a kidnapping prospect indicated that his finances had been at a low point. Since he had chosen to kill his hostage rather than ransom him, with the additional costs of the operation he might well be close to broke by now. Despite their operational efficiency and ruthless enforcement methods, Giorgio and his associates hadn’t progressed much beyond the ‘feast or famine’ approach of the historical brigands. Whatever money they had, they spent, then looked around for more.

  Mantega stood up and smiled widely.

  ‘Put away that knife, Giorgio, and I’ll tell you how you can make yourself a sackful of cash in a week or two, and at no risk whatsoever. Because the beauty of this scheme is that it isn’t even illegal, strictly speaking.’

  Giorgio attempted a contemptuous laugh.

  ‘What kind of bullshit is this?’

  ‘A very easy and lucrative kind,’ Mantega returned with just the right professional polished ease. ‘Draw up a chair, Giorgio. Let’s get rich!’

  Aurelio Zen stayed at his desk until ten o’clock that night, feeling more and more like the captain of a doomed vessel who is reluctantly observing the tradition of going down with his ship. Should he contact the investigating magistrate and advise the arrest of Nicola Mantega and Dionisio Carduzzi, both of them prima facie material witnesses and probable accessories to murder, the former before the fact and the latter after, as the call-catcher and go-between for the man known as Giorgio? Or should he hold off and wait for the even more opportune moment which all his instincts told him was not far off?

  In the end he decided that he was too tired to make an effective decision. He walked back through the brooding darkness to his apartment, packed an overnight bag, then phoned the Questura’s car pool and arranged for a vehicle to drive him first to the Cosenza Nord service station on the autostrada, where he bought a panino and a litre of mineral water, and then up the spectacular highway that snaked up out of the Crati flood plain before piercing the range of mountains in a series of tunnels and viaducts and twisting steeply down to the coast and the main north–south railway line.

  It was a mild night, and Zen spent the hour or so he had to wait sitting outside on a station bench eating his ham and cheese roll, smelling the heady perfume of the sea breezes and listening to the distant hushing of waves on the beach. Leaving Cosenza felt like escaping from a locked room. By the time the Conca d’Oro night sleeper from Palermo pulled in at twenty to one in the morning, he was quite content to stretch out on his bed in a spacious Excelsior compartment and fall asleep for five and a half dreamless hours.

  It was only when he was ejected from this sanctuary into the commuter rush hour at Rome that he realised to what extent he had become a provincial after just a few months in Calabria. He found it both physically difficult and emotionally repugnant to battle his way through the riptide of people coming at him from every direction, empty eyes trained like a gun on the personal zone immediately in front of them, attention absorbed by the loud songs or little voices in their heads, fingers fiddling with iPods and mobile phones,
all oblivious of each other and their surroundings, marching relentlessly onwards like the ranks of the damned.

  In the middle of the vast concourse of Termini station Zen gave up and came to a dazed halt. One of the zombies immediately approached. He automatically placed a cluster of small coins in its outstretched hand.

  ‘This way, Dottor Zen,’ it said.

  ‘How did you recognise me?’

  ‘We obtained a photograph.’

  A Fiat saloon was illegally parked at the kerb. The man opened the rear door for Zen, then got into its equivalent on the far side.

  ‘Your document, please,’ he said as they drove away.

  Zen handed over his police identification card.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To a house where you will meet the person you came to see. Our journey time will be approximately forty minutes, depending on the traffic. There will then be a short delay before the subject arrives.’

  ‘For security reasons?’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t agree to an earlier meeting. He’s an elderly man and doesn’t like making an early start.’

  They drove south-east out of the city along Via Tuscolana, across the ring road and up into the foothills of the Colli Albani. When they reached Frascati, Zen’s escort announced that they were ahead of time and suggested stopping for a coffee. There were no parking spaces available on the edge of the main square, so the driver left their vehicle in the traffic lane of the main street outside the busiest and glossiest bar. One of the traffic wardens blew his whistle shrilly and came striding over, but the driver said a few words to him and the official slunk off. Frascati had been a playground for the rich and powerful since Etruscan times and the locals had learned a thing or two about dealing with such people.