Suburra

by Giancarlo De Cataldo

  The villa in the Parco della Caffarella was immersed in a shade and silence that seemed unnatural given the fact that it was not even two miles as the crow flies from the plaza of the republic where everything was taking place. On the 43-inch high-definition screen of the Sony television set in the oval living room with its large bow windows, a room that constituted the architectural heart of that 22,000-square foot villa—“An exact replica of the office of the President of the United States,” the master of the house boasted coquettishly—the footage from Sky TV’s coverage on Piazza del Quirinale arrived live and larger than life. Even stripped of the voices of the correspondents. Voices, chants, mutterings, and then, loud and clear . . . A shout from the square that turned into a roar, transforming the whistles into a throbbing stadium cheer.

  “Buffoon! Buffoon! Buffoon! Buffoon!”

  It was 8:57 P.M.

  “Mafioso! Mafioso! Mafioso! Mafioso!”

  The procession of motorcycle cops and the midnight-blue Audi A8—bombarded by flashbulbs that illuminated, behind the bulletproof glass, the face of the Italian prime minister in the last act of his show—streamed into the Quirinal Palace.

  Benedetto Umiltà gestured to the Filipino butler, dressed in a jacket encrusted with gold braid. The guests were all sprawled out on cream-colored sofas arranged in stadium seating around the big screen TV. The houseboy served champagne flutes of spritz and handed around crab canapés on a large silver tray.

  “Isidro, delicately, if you don’t mind.”

  Monsignor Tempesta lifted the aperitif to his lips without taking his eyes off the immense television set. Samurai asked if he might have a cup of white tea.

  “Sri Lanka or Zhejiang? They’re both biodynamic teas, sir,” the Filipino asked, as he bowed stiffly from the waist.

  “Whichever is stronger. And no sugar.”

  Umiltà tried to break the tense silence that kept them chained to the images of the prime minister’s farewell.

  “You’ll see, you’re about to drink something absolutely out of the ordinary. A friend of mine sends these teas to me, a general manager at the Ministry of Agriculture. Do you remember him, Your Excellency? He’s the one whose situation we looked into a year or so ago, he purchased that magnificent building in Borgo Pio from the Confraternita Dei.”

  “Dottor Pavetta? No, wait, perhaps I’m mixing him up with the one who made mozzarellas.”

  “Yes, Your Excellency, Pavetta is the one involved in fish farming in Maratea. The one who arranged for the EU financing and who helped out on the construction job on the Salerno-Reggio highway. And, yes, we’re going to be eating his buffalo mozzarellas today. Earlier, I was referring to Dottor Giansi.”

  “That’s right. Giansi. Galeazzo, right? With a brother at SACE insurance and a daughter at the Palazzo della Farnesina, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

  “You have a mind like a steel trap.”

  Samurai interrupted them.

  “Speaking of ministries. Does this evening change anything?”

  Tempesta smiled. And with him, Umiltà.

  “Nothing. A thunderclap in Palazzo Chigi becomes a faint breeze in the ministries. That’s what makes the Italian Republic such a stable institution. And after all, we’ve had reassurances, haven’t we?”

  Tempesta put his hands together as if in a gesture of prayer, brushing the tip of his nose.

  “We’ve had extensive assurances that the transition is going to be painless. And after all, and here it is the churchman in me that’s speaking, from the height, if I may, of the thousands of years of wisdom of the institution that I so imperfectly represent . . . the storm will move on, and we’ll only have to reckon with the eternal and immutable conundrum of human nature. And in particular, with the very peculiar nature of our own people.”

  Amen, thought Samurai with a twinge of envy. It was the same identical moral approach found in Mafiosi and members of the ’ndrangheta: càlati, juncu, ca passa la china. Bow down, reed, and the flood will pass. The tea arrived. Samurai took two exquisitely scented sips from a cup of Chinese porcelain.

  “Just as well. If the ministries aren’t teetering, then I think we can be reasonably confident about the solidity of the city government. Our bill is scheduled to go up for a vote in the city council on Monday. Another forty-eight hours and we can finally get started. In the end, unbelievable but true, Malgradi actually did what he was supposed to.”

  From Piazza del Quirinale, once again, the voice of the Sky TV correspondent could be heard.

  We’ve just been informed that Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi has formally submitted his resignation and has left the Quirinal Palace by a secondary exit. Beginning tomorrow morning, the Italian president and head of state will start a round of consultations and by Monday ought to appoint a leader, and announce the formation of a new government . . .

  Umiltà grabbed the remote control and held it up, so his guests could see it.

  “What if we put on some music instead?”

  The sound issuing from the eight lollipop-stem Bang & Olufsen speakers enveloped the three men in a cradle of powerful sonic waves.

  “Magnificent. Mozart, Symphony No. 25 in G minor. First movement. Allegro con brio. Even though from you, Umiltà, I might have expected Beethoven’s Fifth, or the Eroica,” said Samurai with a sarcastic grin.

  “You think of me as such a banal person.”

  “I prefer to have people surprise me. I so detest being disappointed.”

  They hadn’t noticed the reappearance of the Filipino. Isidro announced the arrival of Pericle Malgradi. The Honorable had the overwrought expression of a shipwreck survivor. Benedetto Umiltà walked to meet him with a studied demeanor.

  “My dear Honorable Malgradi, please come in. In your absence we ventured to comfort our stomachs with a few canapés. Crab, actually. Would you care to partake?”

  “If I’m not being indelicate, I’d like to use the restroom. I don’t feel at all well.”

  “I can imagine. The tension of an evening like this can play some nasty tricks on your stomach.”

  Isidro accompanied the guest to one of the three bathrooms on the ground floor. Seven hundred fifty square feet lined with Pompeii red wallpaper, the sinks and toilets all made of black Carrara marble.

  “What the fuck is this place, a crypt?”

  He reemerged from the toilet as empty as a piece of bamboo. But if possible, more wrecked than before. Returning to the oval living room, Malgradi lunged at Samurai with electric intensity.

  “It’s all over. That damned Carabiniere, it’s all over.”

  Samurai resumed his reptilian gaze. Benedetto Umiltà consigned Mozart to the pause button.

  “What are you talking about? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The ROS . . . They know everything. Two hours ago, Malatesta came to the foundation. They know everything, I tell you! We’re all in danger, Samurai, all of us, even you.”

  Samurai indulged in a faint giggle that left Malgradi blank with terror. He raised his voice.

  “And just what kind of danger would I be in, in your opinion? Come, come, tell me, Malgradi. What do I risk? A little cocaine? Between the two of us, I’m not the one who snorts coke. The whores? You’re the one who fucks whores. And always has. The Lithuanian girl? Who was with her the night that she died? And who called Spadino? Not me. And who asked Number Eight to remove him? Certainly not me. Could it have been you?”

  “I could . . . tell about certain things . . . ” Malgradi let slip.

  “How many children do you have, Malgradi?” Samurai resumed, in a surprisingly gentle voice. “Two girls, I think, am I right? Very pretty, from what I’ve heard. It would be a shame if anything happened to them. They have their whole lives ahead of them . . . ”

  “Gentlemen, please!” Monsignor Tempesta pleaded melodiously. Samura
i put his hands together and fell silent. The bishop approached Malgradi. The Honorable was sprawled out on the sofa, his hands pressed against his tear-streaked face, as if awaiting extreme unction. “Honorable, I believe that what you need is some rest.”

  Malgradi let his hands fall from his face and shot like a weasel in the bishop’s direction.

  “Rest? On Monday the council is going to be voting on the Great Project: it’s my political masterpiece. Our masterpiece.”

  “Honorable, there’s nothing in this whole story that can be called ours. And there never was. You of all people would know that. Two days in politics can be a geological era. The government has fallen and, what’s more, I don’t know how much longer your little secret with the Carabinieri can last in this city, drafty and leaky as it is. Believe me, you can stop thinking about the debate and the vote. Rather, I’d like you to imagine a place.”

  “A place?”

  “You badly need the benefit of silence. It’s a great boon, a balm, like solitude. You need to find yourself, frankly. I was in need of the same thing. Since you read it, you no doubt remember where my Ethics for a New Millennium was written?”

  Samurai asked Isidro to pour him another cup of white tea.

  “Superb.”

  “The tea or His Excellency’s words?” asked Benedetto Umiltà.

  “I’d say both. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m afraid I have to leave you.”

  Samurai got to his feet and Isidro held out his black Prada overcoat. Malgradi was on the sofa, beached like a whale. He seemed to be fast asleep. His shirt was unbuttoned to the belly, one of his legs, dangling from the sofa, displayed a cotton lisle sock that had slipped down to his ankle, and his eyes were half shut. A whitish film encrusted the corners of his mouth. His labored breathing emitted a sort of bronchial rattle. Samurai looked at him with the same indifference he showed as he stepped around homeless men sleeping on cardboard boxes at the Termini train station. He held out his hand to Tempesta, and then to Benedetto Umiltà. Isidro accompanied him to the villa’s internal parking area, holding open the driver’s side door of his black Smart Car.

  Samurai bade him farewell with a pat on the back.

  “Now, when you go back in, make sure you air out the living room. It smells of death.”

  Samurai took less than an hour to reach Trevignano. It was time to start the clean-up campaign.

  Shalva was wide awake and watching TV. Live coverage of the prime minister’s farewell was continuing nonstop. Now they were broadcasting old footage from the archives. 1994. The videocamera with the lens covered with a nylon stocking was filming that man throwing his hat in the ring, back when he still had hair.

  The Georgian had a broad, amused grin on his face, and with circular movements of his wrist he was oxygenating a glass of Bas-Armagnac.

  “Lookie lookie. And I always thought that a swine like you was only interested in watching porn. Do you find the spectacle exhilarating, Shalva?”

  “My friend, the politics in this country is more entertaining than Russian and Georgian politics put together.”

  “Let’s just say that it’s never boring.”

  “Whores, corruption, betrayal. Better than porn. It’s life, Samurai. Your politics is a mirror held up to life.”

  “And to think that instead I wanted to see to a nice funeral.”

  “Life is given, and life is taken away. Tell me what I have to do.”

  “Do you remember the two insects you saw at Il Tatami?”

  Shalva thought back to Morgana with a rush of lust.

  “Unforgettable.”

  “They need to be whacked. The two of them, and a third one, in Ostia. His name is Robertino. I’ll just point you to them. I’ll rely on you to finish the job. And . . . Shalva?”

  “Tell me, brother.”

  “This is just the beginning. It’s time for a breath of fresh air, in Rome.”

  LIII

  They really were members of a generation that was as naïve as it was unholy. Ready to believe that a handshake with a “graybeard” in a locker room was a guarantee of who knew what kind of commitment.

  On Sunday morning, the Skype call that Samurai made to Denis lasted only a few dozen seconds. It was sufficiently concise to leave no room for questions. But not so hasty as to seem fake.

  “Denis, I need to see you all. We need to get to work. Right away. Tomorrow, we’re getting the green light in the city council for the Great Project.”

  “Why ‘see us all’? Aren’t I enough?”

  “Unless I’m misremembering, the last time we spoke you weren’t alone. Or has your company changed?”

  “It hasn’t changed.”

  “Exactly. Since I’m not interested in changing the formation of my team in the middle of an operation, we’ll just keep going the same way we began. And let me say something more. I want Robertino to be there, not just the girl.”

  “Whether he’s there or not doesn’t make any difference. The less he has on his mind, the fewer faces he sees, the better. And after all, you know how little he fucking understands about zoning plans.”

  “Everyone I have an agreement with, I need to look them right in the eyes. Robertino is a problem of yours, not mine. And until you’ve solved that problem, he’s a member of the team, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Whatever makes you happy. He’ll be there. Where?”

  “I’ll come to you. At the Off-Shore.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight, around eight.”

  “Understood.”

  The preparation was the fun part. Better than the actual execution. Always. It allowed him to savor the details, allowing the adrenaline to build up. Shalva had learned this in Serbia from Zoran, a sniper who, after the war was over, organized bear-hunting parties for narcos and Russian oligarchs. And the M-93 Crna Strela Black Arrow 50-calibre precision carbine whose burnished barrel and anatomically shaped stock he was now caressing had been a gift from Zoran. Shalva had saved Zoran’s hide one fine spring day, helping him escape the death-grip of a professional killer from St. Petersburg whose wife Zoran had fucked. And the only form of gratitude that Zoran had shown himself capable of had been the ceremonious and emotional delivery of that fantastic instrument of death, manufactured by the Zastava Arms Company, based in Kragujevac, Serbia.

  “Bears?” Zoran had said. “I’ve killed more than a hundred of them with this. At a distance of five hundred meters, there’s no difference between a man and a bear.”

  After painstakingly checking the bolt and the optics of the infrared laser sights, Shalva slid two clips holding five rounds each into the capacious pockets of his khaki trousers, and slipped under his belt, behind his back, two Noz tactical knives, the kind once used by the army of the former Yugoslavia. It was quite cold for mid-November, and he rummaged through the closet for a black wool-knit watch cap with the word Grand written on the rolled cuff—the name of the Tribeca hotel in New York where he’d first taken a black fashion model to bed. A wonderful memory. An object strictly for important occasions. And this was one of them.

  He checked the time and climbed into his car. It wouldn’t take long to drive from Trevignano to the Coccia di Morto shoreline.

  The Off-Shore was deserted. It had been shut down ever since Number Eight’s death. The searches done by the Carabinieri, and the investigation conducted by the attorney general’s office, had both militated in favor of a lengthy period of renovation. And after all, Denis wanted to scrub that place of its patina of South American bordello.

  “I want something new. Something minimalist,” he had said to Morgana. And in response he had been given a laconic reply.

  “Sure. As long as it doesn’t look like one of those faggoty places.”

  For this reason too, as they killed time while waiting for Samurai, Denis kept going into and out of
the VIP lounge along with Morgana, putting on the air of an architect ruminating over surprising insights.

  “This seashell-shaped bed has got to go.”

  “Sure, but it works perfectly.”

  “And the dancer cubes in the bar . . . get rid of them. We can’t turn this into a Nineties discotheque.”

  They seemed like a couple of newlyweds at Ikea, and Morgana couldn’t really say whether that reassured her or just drove her into a blind fury. She had never fully belonged to Number Eight. And she certainly had no intention of becoming the property of Denis Sale. She was his woman, not his good little wife, whom he’d first get pregnant and then get to manage a “basic” place, as he put it, where maybe she’d be in charge of looking after some other, younger slut.

  Robertino generally kept to himself. He took walks up and down the beach. Watching the two of them fuck meant twisting the knife over and over again in the sore left by Cesare’s death. His own Cesare. He should have told Cesare when he was still alive that that slut Morgana was fucking Denis. Denis, his brother, sure. Who claimed he was going to take his revenge, just as he’d sworn on the day of the funeral. And why not. There he was. Good and docile, waiting for Samurai to show up. But not to whack Samurai. Not at all. To do business with him, bastard that he was, by name and by birth. This damn uoterfront. The day he’d first heard about it was the day Cesare’s death warrant was signed.

  Robertino was furious. And he was too deeply immersed in his rage to be fully aware of the sounds around him. So he missed the car that pulled into the parking lot of the Off-Shore.

  Shalva switched off the engine of the Audi and rolled down the window. From where he was, he enjoyed an excellent line of sight. The first silhouette that he could make out in the darkness, barely illuminated by the interior lights of the bar at the Off-Shore, was that of the little man who was pacing anxiously in circles out on the dunes, several hundred yards from the club. He must be the third guy that Samurai told him about. Robertino. He sat there watching him for a few minutes, until he was sure that Denis and Morgana were nowhere around.