Vendetta az-2

by Michael Dibdin

A phone started ringing in the next room. The proprietor went to answer it. Zen sat down at one of the tables and lit a cigarette. He felt close to despair. Just as he had received information that might well make his mission a success, every door had suddenly slammed shut in his face. At this rate, he would have to phone the Carabinieri at Lanusei and ask them nicely to come and pick him up. It was the last thing he wanted to do. To avoid compromising his undercover operation, he hacf left behind all his official identification, so involving the rival force would involve lengthy explanations and verifications, in the course of which his highly questionab]e business here would inevitably be revealed, probabli stymieing his chances of bringing the affair to a satisfactory conclusion. But there appeared to be no alternative, unless he wanted to spend the night in the street or:; cave, like the beggar woman.

  He looked up as the thin man in the beige overcoat walked in. Instead of going up to the bar, he headed for the table where Zen was sitting.

  'Good morning, dottore.'

  Zen stared at him.

  'You don't recognize me?' the man asked.

  He seemed disappointed. Zen inspected him more carefully. He was about forty years old, with the soft, pallid look of those who work indoors. At first sight he had seemed tall, but Zen now realized that this was due to the man's extreme thinness, and to the fact that Zen had by now adjusted to the Sardinian norm. As far as he knew, he had never seen him before in his life.

  'Why should I?' he retorted crossly.

  The man drew up a chair and sat down.

  'Why indeed? It's like at school, isn't it? The pupils all remember their teacher, even years later, but you can't expect the teacher to recall all the thousands of kids who pave passed through their hands at one time or other. But I still recognize you, dottore. I knew you right away. You haven't aged very much. Or perhaps you were already old, even then.'

  He took out a packet of the domestic toscani cigars and broke one in half, replacing one end in the packet and putting the other between his lips.

  'Have you got a light?'

  Zen automatically handed over his lighter. He felt as though all this was happening to someone else, someone who perhaps understood what was going on. Certainly he didn't.

  The man lit the cigar with great care, rotating it constantly, never letting the flame touch the tobacco. When it was glowing satisfactorily, he slipped the lighter into his pocket.

  'But that's mine!' Zen protested, like a child whose toy has been taken away.

  'You won't be needing it any more. I'll keep it as a souvenir.'

  He stood up and took his coat off, draping it over a chair, then walked over to the bar and rapped on the chrome surface with his knuckles.

  'Eh, service!'

  The proprietor emerged from the back room, scowling furiously.

  'Give me a glass of beer. Something decent, not any of your local crap.'

  Shorn of his coat, the man's extreme thinness was even more apparent. It gave him a disturbing two-dimensional appearance, as though when he turned sideways he might disappear altogether.

  The proprietor banged a bottle and a glass down on the counter.

  '3,ooo lire.'

  The thin man threw a banknote down negligently.

  'There's five. Have a drink on me. Maybe it'll cheer you up.'

  He carried the bottle and glass back to the table ang proceeded to pour the beer as carefully as he had lit the cigar, tilting the glass and the bottle towards each other so that only a slight head formed.

  'Miserable fuckers, these Sardinians,' he commented to Zen. 'Forgive me if I don't shake hands. Someone once told me that it's bad luck, and I certainly don't need any more of that. Strange, though, you not remembering my face. Maybe the name means something. Vasco Spadola.'

  Time passed, a lot perhaps, or a little. The thin man sat and smoked and sipped his beer until Zen finally found his voice.

  'How did you know where I was?'

  It was a stupid question. But perhaps all questions were stupid at this point.

  Spadola picked up his overcoat, patted the pockets and pulled out the previous day's edition of La Nazione, which he tossed on the table.

  'I read about it in the paper.'

  Zen turned the newspaper round. Half-way down the page was a photograph of himself he barely recognized. It must have been taken years ago, dug out of the newspaper's morgue. He thought he looked callow and cocksure, ridiculously self-important. Beneath the photograph was an article headed NEW EVIDENCE IN BUROLO AFFAIR?' Zen skimmed the text.

  'According to sources close to the family of Renato Favelloni, accused of plotting the murders at the Villa Burolo, dramatic new evidence has recently come to light in this case resulting in the re-opening of a line of esggation previously regarded as closed. A senior of the Ministry's elite Criminalpol squad, ViceQuestore Aurelio Zen, is being sent to Sardinia to assess ang coordinate developments at the scene. Further announcements are expected shortly.'

  Zen put the paper down. Of course. He should have guessed that Palazzo Sisti would take care to publicize his imminent trip to the area in order to ensure that the 'dramatic new evidence' he fabricated got proper attention from the judiciary.

  'Shame I missed you in Rome,' Spadola told him.

  'Giuliano spent over a week setting the whole thing up, watching your apartment, picking the locks, leaving those little messages to soften you up. By that Friday we were all set to go. I didn't know you'd sussed the car, though.

  Giuliano was always a bit careless about things like that.

  Same with that tape he took instead of your wallet. It comes of being an eldest son, I reckon, mamma's favourite. You think you can get away with anything.'

  He paused to draw on his cigar.

  'When the cops rolled up I had to beat it out the back way.

  I was lucky to get away, carrying the gun and all. I had to dump it in a rubbish skip and come back for it later. All that effort gone to waste, and what was worse, they'd got Giuliano. I knew he wouldn't have the balls to hold out once they got to work on him. I reckoned I'd have to lie low for months, waiting for you to get fed up being shepherded about by a minder or holed up in some safe-house. I certainly didn't expect to be sitting chatting to you in a cafe two days later!'

  He broke out in gleeful laughter.

  'Even when I read the report in the paper, I never expected it to be this easy! I thought you would be staying in some barracks somewhere, guarded day and night, escorted around in bulletproof limousines. Still, I had to come.

  You never know your luck, I thought. But never in my wildest dreams did I imagine anything like this!'

  The door of the bar swung open to admit Tommaso and another elderly man. They greeted the proprietor loudly and shot nervous glances at Zen and Spadola.

  Zen ground out his cigarette.

  'All right, so you've found me. What now?'

  Spadola released a breath of cigar smoke into the air above Zen's head.

  'What now? Why, I'm going to kill you, of course!'

  He took a gulp of beer.

  'That's why I didn't want to shake hands. One of the people I met in prison used to be a soldier for the Parioio family in Naples. You worked there once, didn't you?

  Gianni Ferrazzi. Does the name ring a bell? It might have been after your time. Anyway, this lad had twenty or thirty hits to his credit, he couldn't remember himself exactly how many, and everything went fine until he shook hands with the victim before doing the job. He hadn't meant to, he knew it was bad luck, but they were introduced, the man stuck out his paw, what was he supposed to do? It would have looked suspicious if he'd refused. He still went ahead and made the hit, though, even though he knew he'd go down for it. That's what I call real professionalism.

  'To be honest, I thought that it would be a bit like that with you. Impersonal, I mean, anonymous, like a paid hit.

  That's the way it was with Bertolini, unfortunately. I just hadn't thought the thing through, that first
time. The bastard never even knew why he died. I had enough to cope with, what with his driver pulling a gun and his wife screaming her head off from the house. I realized afterwards that I wanted a lot more than that, otherwise I might just as well hire it out and save myself the trouble. I mean the victim's got to understand, he's got to know who you are and why you're doing it, otherwise what kind of revenge is it? 'So I swore that you and Parrucci would be different. I certainly got my money's worth out of him, but you were ~ore difficult. Once this terrorist scare started after I shot gertolini it seemed too risky to try and kidnap someone ~m the Ministry. They would have cracked down hard. I gad no intention of getting caught. I've done twenty years for a murder I didn't commit, so they owe me this one free!'

  He leant back in his chair with a blissful smile.

  'Ah, but I never imagined anything like this! To sit here like two old friends, chatting at a table, and tell you that I'm going to kill you, and you knowing it's true, that you're going to die! And all the time those two old bastards over there are discussing the price of sheep's milk or some fucking thing, and the barman's cleaning the coffee machine, and the television's blatting away next door, and the ice-cream freezer in the corner is humming. And you're going to die! I'm going to kill you, while all this is going on! And it'll still go on, once you're dead. Because you're not needed, Zen. None of us are. Have you ever thought about that? I have. I spent twenty years thinking about it. Twenty years, locked up for a murder I didn't even do!'

  Spadola squeezed the last puff of acrid smoke from his cigar and threw that butt on the floor.

  'You want to know who killed Tondelli? His cousin, that's who. It was over a woman, a bar-room scuffle. Once he was dead, the Tondellis saw a way to use it against me, and paid that cunt Parrucci to perjure himself. You bastards did the rest. But even supposing I had killed him, so what? People die all the time, one way or another. It doesn't make a fucking bit of difference to anything.

  'That's what you can't admit, you others. That's what scares you shitless. And so you make little rules and regulations, like at school, and anyone who breaks them has to stand in the corner with a dunce's cap on. What a load of bullshit! The truth of it is that you're the first to break the rules, to cheat and lie and perjure yourselves to get a lousy rise, a better job or a fatter pension! You're the ones who ought to be punished! And believe it or not, my friend, that's what's going to happen, just this once. Take it in, Zen! You're going to die. Soon. Today. And I'm telling you this, warning you, and you know it's true, and yet therc '~ absolutely nothing whatsoever that you can do about it'.

  Not a single fucking thing.'

  Spadola put his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss up into the air like a connoisseur appreciating a fine wine.

  'This is the ultimate! I've never felt anything like it. It makes up for everything. Well, no, let's not exaggerate.

  Nothing could make up for what I've been through. But it it's any consolation, you've made me a very happy man today. You destroyed my life, it's true, but you have also given me this moment. My mother, may she rest in peace used to say that I was destined to great sorrows and great joys. And she was right. She was so right.'

  He broke off, biting his lip, tears welled up in his eyes.

  'I suppose it's no use telling you that I had nothing to do with the evidence against you being faked,' Zen said dully.

  Spadola rocked violently back and forth in his chair as though seized by an involuntary spasm.

  'I don't believe it! This is too much! It's too good to be true!' He panted for breath. 'Do you remember what you said that morning at the farm near Melzo? I told you I was innocent. I told you I hadn't done it. I knew I'd been betrayed, and that made it all the harder to bear. If I'd really knifed that fucking southerner you'd never have got a word out of me, but knowing it was all a fix I thought I'd go crazy. And do you know what you said, when I screamed my innocence in your face? You said, "Yes, well you would say that, wouldn't you?" And you looked at me in that sly way you educated people have when you're feeling pleased with yourselves. Of course you had nothiny, to do with it, dottore! Just like this what's-his-name, th politician in this murder case you're investigating. He didn't have anything to do with it either, did he? People like you never do have anything to do with it!'

  'I don't mean that I didn't plant the knife myself. I mean I dign'g even know that it had been plan‹ed. It was done witgoup my knowledge, behind my back.'

  Then you're an incompetent bastard. It was your case, your responsibility! I've spent twenty years of my life, the only one I'll ever have, shut up in a stinking damp cell witg parely room to turn around, locked up for hours in tpe freezing-cold darkness…'

  He broke off, shuddering uncontrollably, his cheeks glistening wet.

  'Qo on, take a good look! I'm not ashamed of my tears!

  Why should I be? They're pearls of suffering, my suffering.

  I should make you lick them up, one by one, before I blow your evil head off!'

  'Cut the crap, Spadola!' Zen exploded. '- ven if you didn't do the Tondelli job, you were guilty as hell of at least four other murders. What about Ugo Trocchio and his brother? You had them killed and you know it. We knew it, everyone knew it. We couldn't prove it because people were too scared to talk. And so it went on, until some of my colleagues decided that it was time you were taken out of circulation. Since they couldn't do it straight, they did it crooked. As I say, I didn't know. If I had known, I would have tried to stop it. But the fact remains that you earned that twenty-year sentence several times over.'

  'That's not the point!' Spadola shouted, so loudly that the men at the bar turned to stare at him. 'Christ Almighty, if everyone who broke the law in this country was sent to prison, who'd be left to guard them? We'd need a whole new set of politicians, for a start! But it doesn't work that way, does it? It's a game! And I was good! I was fucking brilliant! You couldn't pin a damn thing on me. I had you beat inside out. So you moved the goal posts!'

  'That's part of the game too.'

  Spadola drained off his beer and stood up.

  'Maybe. But the game stops here, Zen. What happens now is real.'

  His voice was perfectly calm again. He stood staring down at Zen.

  'I know what you're thinking. You think I'm crazy, telling you what I'm going to do, warning you, giving you a chance to escape. There's no way I can get away with that's what you're thinking, isn't it? Not in broad daylight in the middle of this village. Well, we'll see. Maybe you're right. I agree that that's a possibility. Maybe you're cleverer than me. Maybe you'll figure out a way to save your skin, this time around. That doesn't worry me. I'll get you in the end, whatever happens. And meanwhile that slim hope is part of your punishment, Zen, just like I was tormented with talk of appeals and parole that never came to anything.'

  He put on his overcoat. 'You've probably noticed that your car's not working. I removed the distributor and cut the leads. Just to save you time, I'll tell you that the phone box is out of order now, too. As for the locals, I doubt it' they'd tell you the time by the clock on the wall. I showed them the paper, you see, told them who you are. Oddly enough, they didn't seem terribly surprised. Between the two of us, I think they must have sussed you out already.

  'So I'll see you later, dottore. I can't say when exactly.

  That's part of the punishment too. It could be in a few minutes. I might suddenly get the urge. Or it might not be until late tonight. It all depends on my mood, how I'm feeling. I'll know when the moment has come. I'll sense it.

  Don't worry about the pain. It'll be quick and clean, I promise. Nothing fancy, like with Parrucci. I really had it in for him in a big way. They used to call him 'the nightingale', didn't they? Because of how beautifully he sang, I suppose. He turned out to be more of a screamer, though, in the end. I had to take a walk, I couldn't handle it myself.

  He was tougher than he looked, though. When I got back an hour or so later he was still whimpering, what was le
ft I had to finish him off with a pistol. Sickening, reagg. Well, I'm off for a piss.' pe walked across the restaurant area and disappeared through a door marked 'Toilets'.

  'Let me use your phone!' Zen told the proprietor. 'That man is an ex-criminal. He has threatened to kill me. I'm a pice-Questore at the Ministry of the Interior. If you don't pelp, you'll be an accessory to murder.'

  The proprietor gazed at him stonily.

  'But your name is Reto Gurtner. I've seen your papers.

  You're a Swiss businessman, from Zurich.'

  'My name is Aurelio Zen! I'm a high-ranking official!'

  'Prove it.'

  'Let me use the phone! Quickly, before he comes back!'

  'There's no phone here.'

  'But I heard it ringing when I came in.'

  'That was the television.'

  Given a few more minutes, Zen might have been able to change the man's mind with a combination of threats and pleas. But the few seconds before Vasco Spadola reappeared were too precious to gamble on that slim possibility. Besides, it would take the Carabinieri at least fifteen minutes to reach the village, and that would be plenty of time for Spadola to carry out his threat. Zen turned and ran.

  Outside in the piazza, people had begun to gather for the promenade before lunch. Zen stood uncertainly by the door. Who could he turn to? Angelo Confalone? But it was Sunday. The lawyer's office would be closed and Zen had no idea where he lived. For a moment he thought of appealing to the crowd, of throwing himself on their mercy. But there was no time to indulge in public oratory, and besides, he had been branded a spy, a proven liar, an agent of the hated government in Rome. Anyone who helped him would risk placing his own position in the community in jeopardy. Spadola was right. He was on his own.

  Then he saw the Mercedes, and realized that there was just one faint hope. It hung by the narrowest of threads, but he had nothing to lose. Anything was better than skulking about the village, hiding in corners waiting to be routed out and killed.

  As he shoved his way unceremoniously through the knots of bystanders, Zen noticed Turiddu standing in a group of other men. They were all staring at him, talking in Iow voices and pointing at a yellow Fiat Uno with Rome number plates parked nearby. To one side, all alone, stood Elia, the mad beggar woman. Zen belatedly noted the resemblance between her and Turiddu, and realized that he must he the brother she had rejected. That explained his anger on finding her at the pizzeria the night before.