He opened the trunk. He slipped on his soft chamois leather gloves. He picked up the M-93, and checked the clip and sights one last time. He screwed on the silencer barrel. He crouched down at the front of his car. He leaned into a perfect firing position. Then he pressed his eye against the telescopic sight.
Head, chest. Head, chest.
At a distance of five hundred meters, there’s no difference between a man and a bear.
Crack.
The .50 caliber projectile knocked Robertino back thirty feet or so, carving open a hole at the height of this sternum that was big enough to fit your arm into.
Shalva stood up and, walking at an exceedingly slow pace, headed for the dunes. The blood and bits of flesh and bone of his target were scattered over a radius of several yards. The expression on Robertino’s face was a beaming smile. His eyes were wide open. The Georgian reached behind his back and extracted one of the two Noz knifes from his belt. He castrated the corpse with two rapid slashes of the blade and pushed the bloody trophy into the dead Robertino’s mouth. Then he turned and headed toward the lights of the Off-Shore.
Denis had opened the door to the storeroom where they kept the alcoholic beverages, the room from which the arsenal had been spirited away in a timely fashion the day that Cesare died. He turned on the light and invited Morgana to come in. But she remained motionless.
“Hey, don’t just stand there. Come on, give me a hand. What’s wrong?”
“I heard something.”
“It must have been the wind.”
“No. It’s not the wind.”
“Then maybe it’s that asshole Robertino.”
“Why, do you know where he is?”
“How would I? He left to take a walk on the beach.”
“I know that. But half an hour ago.”
“Don’t you worry about him, no one’s going to kidnap him.”
“Buonasera.”
Shalva’s voice froze them in place.
The barrel of the M-93 kept both of them covered, moving imperceptibly from the forehead of one to the other.
Denis stared at the Georgian.
“And who the fuck would you be?”
Shalva smiled.
“We know each other. We share a passion for saunas. And I’m here to give you Samurai’s best regards.”
Denis Sale’s brain spattered a crate of Corona Light beer. The bullet from the .38 handgun had centered his temple with great precision.
Shalva turned to look at Morgana, who was clutching the pistol in her right hand and continued to extend her outstretched arm in the direction of the corpse.
They stared at each other.
Shalva pointed the M-93 toward Denis’s corpse. And he fired again, blowing his cranium wide open.
Then he set the carbine down on the floor, never taking his eyes off the girl.
Morgana did the same with the .38. Then she took the Georgian by the hand, leading him to the large seashell-shaped bed in the VIP lounge.
It was the first time she’d ever experienced such pleasure with a man. And once she was done trembling from her last orgasm, she found the strength to speak.
“What’s your name?”
“Shalva. My name is Shalva.”
“I’m Morgana.”
It hadn’t been especially hard for Shalva to convince Samurai that leaving the girl alive hadn’t been a mistake and that she wouldn’t turn into a threat. The two men both spoke the same essential language.
“I vouch for her, brother. My guarantee. She solved the problem. She’s going to be useful for us,” said the Georgian.
“Just remember that she’s still and always will be a woman.”
And so it fell to Parisi to roll up his sleeves and get to work. The job wasn’t finished. Samurai’s phone call woke him out of his sleep in his villa in Grottaferrata as he slept next to his good little wife, who knew nothing about any of it.
“Counselor, I pay you to answer on the first ring. Not the tenth.”
“I hope you’ll forgive me, but . . . ”
“Tomorrow morning at eight o’clock I need you to go see Max in Rebibbia prison. Not a minute later. Tell him that not a fly is buzzing at the Off-Shore. And that Denis and Robertino, God rest their souls, have shambled off, the same way that bears shamble off. Heavy caliber. Slavic-made weapons.”
“Is there anything else I need to explain to him?”
“That young man isn’t like you. There’s no need to waste a lot of words on him.”
LIV
On that sunny Monday morning, looking out the window of Jabba’s office, the Roman Forum was heartbreakingly beautiful, though that did nothing to reduce the sheer physical agitation of that cleaned-up Fascist comrade now facing his most challenging test. The television news screen and all the online news sites were leading with the news flash that already dominated the front pages of the newspapers:
PEDDLING NARCOTICS AND CONCEALMENT OF A CORPSE.
INVESTIGATION OF THE PARLIAMENTARIAN MALGRADI.
The three Judases on the opposition side in the city council didn’t even need to be announced. Jabba harangued them like three guilty schoolboys.
“It’s clear to you that with what has happened, our plans have had to change, right? That bill no longer exists. It won’t be debated, today or ever. I’m not signing my name to something put forward by a whoremonger and half a murderer.”
The youngest of the three assumed a solemn expression. It’s one thing to be compliant, but it wasn’t a good idea to overdo it with that stinker.
“The agenda is set by the caucus leaders. And I believe that they’ve already modified it. Unless I’m mistaken, we’re going to vote on Malagrotta today. And so the problem is solved. Rather, I’d assume that we can reconsider the social housing project, at some future date . . . ‘Never’ is a word that we just don’t use in politics. And for that matter the last thing we want to do today is wade into a counterproductive polemic concerning Malgradi’s friends in the city council, on the Campidoglio.”
The ex-Fascist comrade dissolved into a hyena’s smile.
“You took the words right out of my mouth, councilman. In fact, what I had in mind was a nice fat bipartisan motion in which the majority and the opposition declare their mutual agreement in postponing the vote on the project to some more suitable jucture, because of their awareness of the limitations constraining the new executive coalition in terms of the spending review. Eh? What do you think? Rome sets an example for all of Italy. A new season begins. And that way nobody gets hurt.”
And with that, he thought to himself, goodnight, Malgradi. Goodnight and good luck.
The phone call from the RIS laboratories came into Ponte Salario around ten in the morning, amidst the blizzard of documents and examinations and analyses that had surged in the wake of the bloodbath at the Off-Shore. After much time had passed, they’d identified the weapon that had killed Number Eight. Marco Malatesta immediately forgot about Robertino and Denis’s ravaged corpses and paid gave his full attention to the young captain on the other end of the phone line.
“Well, Colonel, the bullet fragment that was extracted from the cranium of Cesare Adami belongs to a batch of Borghi cartridges. We’re talking about antiques. It’s a type of ammunition that was manufactured in Argentina in 1947. We’ve turned our archives inside out and examined all the possible compatibilities. And—”
“And?”
“And we came to the conclusion that the pistol that fired that bullet cannot be anything other than a Mannlicher.”
“An Austrian pistol made in 1901.”
“If I may venture to say so, my compliments, Colonel. Do you know that pistol?”
“Let’s drop that line of pursuit. Just go on.”
“Well, the only thing that seems really interesting is the fact that
this pistol . . . ”
“ . . . had already been fired in 1985 and 1993.”
“Goodness gracious. Then it seems to me that we haven’t discovered anything at all and that what I’m telling you is . . . ”
“You’ve done an excellent job, Captain. You have no idea how excellent.”
Malatesta ended the conversation with the same haste that he next used in dialing de Candia’s number.
“The Mannlicher killed Number Eight, Michelangelo, do you understand that? Now we’ve got him in our grip. Samurai is fucked.”
De Candia didn’t warm up all that much, and that fairly chilly reaction aroused a sense of apprehension in Malatesta.
“You don’t sound fully convinced, Michelangelo.”
“What should I be convinced about? The examinations carried out by RIS or the fact that we have our friend by the balls?”
“Excuse me, Michelangelo, but Mannlicher equals Samurai. We’ve said this a thousand times.”
“Certainly, but the pistol, where is it?”
“We don’t have it.”
“Exactly. And so?”
“But we do have someone who can tell us where to find it. Max. He has no choice. He’s in a world of shit.”
De Candia remained silent for several seconds.
“Go talk to him. And get going immediately. You’ll find the authorization for your investigative interview waiting for you by the time you get there.”
It wasn’t eleven o’clock yet, and when he got to the registry office at Rebibbia, Silvana welcomed Malatesta with a hug.
“You’re not going to see my girls today, are you?”
“No, I’m heading for the men’s wing.”
“I know. They let me know from the district attorney’s office. One more thing, I never had a chance to tell you, but you can’t imagine how happy I am about that young girl caught up in the mess at St. John Lateran. What was her name again . . . Ah, that’s right, Alice. I told you so. My nose is infallible . . . ”
Silvana noticed that Malatesta’s expression had suddenly changed. So she dropped the subject. “Are you going to see the guy involved in the coke bust at Fiumicino?”
“That’s right: Max.”
“There’s a lot of traffic through here today.”
“What do you mean?”
“This morning, first thing, his lawyer came in to talk to him. That Parisi. The kind of guy that, normally, unless it’s at least noon, doesn’t know his own name. But instead, this time, it wasn’t eight o’clock yet.”
Damn it to hell. Damn it to fucking hell. Malatesta would gladly have shot himself. Eight in the morning. Fucking eight in the morning. Samurai had screwed him. But how could he have known about the Mannlicher?”
Max was beaming. The asshole.
“Here I am, Colonel. I can guess what you want to talk to me about.”
“And I can guess that you know exactly what it is. Maybe someone even woke you up to give you the news.”
“TV, Colonel. All-news networks are a great invention. Slaughter on the Waterfront . . . ”
“Well?”
“So I have no reason to remain silent now.”
“Seriously?”
“Last night’s slaughter at the Off-Shore is the vendetta of the Slavs for the cargo lost at Fiumicino.”
“So you’re a dead man walking too?”
“Maybe. Or maybe not. That depends on what Dojcilo has in mind.”
“And just who would that be?”
“A Bosnian Serb. He’s the guy who arranged for me to take the cargo from Folegandros. He must have concluded that the people in Ostia sold him out to you guys. And he settled matters in his own manner. And as far as that goes . . . ”
“As far as that goes, we found Serbian-made cartridge shells and Robertino had his own balls stuffed in his mouth.”
“That’s something you know.”
“Maybe I’m not the only one who knows it. Is that all?”
“No.”
“Don’t tell me that you want to tell me about the rest.”
“I have nothing else to lose. So I might as well get it off my chest. Cesare Adami was my doing. I killed him.”
“And you expect me to believe you?”
“Number Eight had gone too far. Paja and Fieno were my boys.”
“You held them in utter contempt.”
“You were misinformed, Colonel.”
“Then why don’t you inform me correctly. Why did Number Eight kill Spadino?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“What are you, trying to be funny?”
“No. It’s just that I see no reason why you shouldn’t get an answer to your question.”
“Because Spadino was one of your men, too.”
“That’s right, was. Before he died, I was told that he’d gone into business for himself.”
“What a nice fairytale of death you’re telling me.”
“That’s the way it all went.”
Max was false as Judas. He was heaping blame on himself but he was lying, and by now Malatesta had proof. But unless Max agreed to swear under oath that Samurai was to blame, there was no way for Malatesta to drag him into that case. He’d remain unindicted, yet again. And Marco also understood that Samurai hadn’t needed to know anything about the Mannlicher, because he’d already foreseen that sooner or later they’d work their way back to it. And that meant that everything—starting from the murder of Number Eight, to Max’s confession, including the bloodbath at the Off-Shore—everything was part of a plan. RIS had taken a long time to track down that bullet, but even if they’d been quicker off the mark, there was always a Max waiting patiently to be sent on ahead into the slaughterhouse.
“All right, Max. Now you listen to me, and listen good. Let’s just pretend that that’s the way it went. And let’s pretend that I believe the heap of lies you just told me. But let’s also just say that in exchange for a great deal of good will on my part, you tell me one single thing. Which can remain between you and me.”
“If I can, Colonel, why would I keep the truth from you . . . ”
“Tell me what you did with the pistol you used to kill Number Eight. Or, if you prefer, seeing that you’re so crazy about the truth, tell me where Samurai put it before convincing you to take the rap for a murder you never committed.”
Max burst out laughing.
“If I’m not mistaken, I threw it away.”
“You’re just a miserable asshole, Max.”
“And anyway, Colonel, since when has getting your hands on a gat ever been a problem in Rome?”
“A 1901 Mannlicher. A collector’s piece, a rare weapon. Samurai’s weapon . . . ”
Max held the colonel’s gaze without dropping his sarcastic attitude.
“You can get gats like buying toys. With all the accessories that go with them. What does it matter if a toy is an antique or brand new?”
“I understand. I imagine you’ll be happy to put all this down in black and white in a deposition, am I right?”
“You know where to find me. I don’t have anything planned in the next few days.”
“You’re never getting out of here alive, you know that, right?”
“The problem isn’t me. I got what I deserved. The problem is Farideh. I want to be deposed so I can tell the truth about her too. She didn’t know anything about the cargo. I told her that I was a skipper and I dragged her with me to Greece. I told her that I’d been hired to bring a sailboat back to Fiumicino. On Folegandros, she had dinner with me and Dojcilo, who introduced himself as a Russian steel oligarch who owned the boat. Ask him about it. I know that so far, he’s been unwilling to talk, but you’ll see, he’ll be willing to confirm what I’m telling you. She deserves to be kept out of this.”
Malate
sta grabbed Max by his lapels, lifting him straight up out of his chair at the interview table. His forehead was just inches from the young man’s face. The scar on his temple pulsated frantically. He was searching for a squirm of discomfort in those eyes. But Max remained composed, indifferent. Even if now he stank of fear.
Marco dropped him, hurling him into the chair. He turned his back on him and knocked on the armored door to signal that the investigatory interview was over.
“One last thing, Colonel. I shattered Farideh’s father’s hand. I want to get that down on the record too. That girl needs to know the truth.”
The colonel turned and looked at him one last time. To Max, the colonel suddenly seemed tired and disheartened.
“I understand you, Max, I understand you. Your maestro has done an excellent job. But you and he are both laboring under great illusions. The street isn’t what it used to be. And to tell the truth, you’re basically fucked.”
For an instant, it seemed that he had breached some shell. Max turned grim. There shot between them a sort of bolt of comprehension, subterranean and unstated. As if between two enemies who discover that they speak the same language. But it was only for an instant. Max took refuge once again in the martyr’s melancholy grin.
So long, Max, thought the colonel with a hint of regret. You made your choice. Too bad. You’re better than so many others. But you made your choice, so go fuck yourself, you little piece of shit.
Marco shut the armor-plated door behind him.
Game over. All the dominoes were in place now.
He rummaged through his pockets for the Camels. He saw himself again at Il Fungo, face to face with Samurai.
The Great Project had been aborted. Malgradi had hit a brick wall. Other champions of similar breeding were getting ready to take his place.
EPILOGUE
Tomorrow is another day
Pisacane Barracks.
Suburra Page 44