Lone Wolf

by Michael Gregorio

  ‘If this is Unknown Two,’ Lucia Grossi said, ‘then the man who called himself Andrews went back on his own three days later.’

  ‘They’re pretending not to know each other,’ Cangio said.

  Lucia Grossi pounced on him. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Farrington glanced beyond the passport barrier four times in less than a minute. Andrews had got through safely, remember. This man kept looking in his direction to make sure that nothing was happening out in the arrivals hall. Are there video cameras on the other side of the passport barrier? If we’re lucky, we might see them team up.’

  ‘I’m sorry, there aren’t,’ Duranti said. ‘Once passports have been okayed, the passengers aren’t our business any more. However …’ He flashed an oily grin at Lucia Grossi. She was the boss so far as he was concerned, and to hell with New Scotland Yard. ‘I can check the car-park security cameras. They’re only single photographs shot at one-minute intervals, but there may be something. It may take a bit of time to go through them.’

  Lucia Grossi nodded, and Duranti turned his attention to the keyboard again.

  ‘Could they have met for the first time on the outward flight, sitting next to one another by chance?’ she said to Duranti.

  ‘With Ryanair, it’s definitely possible.’

  ‘They ended up in a restaurant together,’ Harris reminded her. ‘Would you go out to dinner with someone you had met on a plane?’

  Lucia Grossi looked at him for a moment too long.

  ‘It all depends, don’t you think?’ she said with a hint of a smile.

  ‘These are the outside shots that day,’ Duranti said, calling her attention back to the computer screen as he shuffled the photographs forward. ‘This is twenty minutes after the flight landed. Twenty-three, twenty-four. There he is!’

  ‘Kit Andrews’ appeared on the pavement outside the exit door. In the next still he was lighting a cigarette. He remained on the same spot for five or six shots, as other people walked into the frame, or walked out of it.

  ‘And here’s Farrington,’ said Lucia Grossi. ‘Freeze it, Duranti.’

  The sequence froze, the two men only two or three metres apart. The first man was smoking, the second one trailing a suitcase behind him, head down, his face a blur.

  ‘Now, move ahead one frame at a time,’ she said.

  Duranti obeyed.

  ‘Andrews is still there, but Unknown Two has disappeared.’

  ‘They didn’t know each other,’ Lucia Grossi said. ‘Not a word or a glance passed between them. Did you see anything to the contrary, Cangio?’

  She sounded so dismissive, and the visual evidence certainly backed her up.

  ‘It would be a hell of a coincidence if they met by chance in the same restaurant.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Lucia Grossi said. Then her voice turned plummy as she acted out the scene. ‘“What a small world! You were on the UK flight this morning. Do you know a good spot to eat? We could share a table. What do you say?”’

  A coincidence? It could well be.

  Cangio’s eyes were fixed on the screen, the pictures flipping forward minute by minute in an unending sequence. Kit Andrews disappeared just as a man in a sports cap stepped into the picture. He, too, had a cigarette in his mouth, as if he couldn’t wait to get out of the airport building to light up.

  ‘And that’s it,’ Duranti announced.

  The picture blipped, and next frame came up on the screen.

  Cangio smothered a cry in his throat as Duranti froze the picture.

  Desmond Harris’s phone blared out in that instant, a sound that filled the tiny room.

  Harris listened for a moment, holding up his hand for silence. ‘Barry Farrington is a false name, too,’ he said. ‘They were on the same plane, both using false passports. That is no coincidence. Those two men were together.’

  Cangio leant close to the computer screen.

  The man in the cap had been bending forward to light his cigarette.

  It wasn’t possible to see his face from that oblique angle. It wasn’t easy to say how young or old he might have been, though he wasn’t too old, Cangio thought, given the baseball cap he was wearing. But a dark mark on the side of his neck was partially visible.

  Was it a salamander tattoo which started behind his left ear and ran inside the collar of his jacket?

  Salamanders were immune to fire, the legend said.

  By fire they meant flames, but fire meant fire to some people.

  Salamanders were supposed to be invincible, indestructible, symbols of strength.

  Now, younger members of the ’Ndrangheta clans had laid claim to the creature.

  He had seen a salamander tattoo on the neck of a killer as he smashed a rival gang leader’s head against a rock on Soverato beach two years before. A killer with a similar tattoo had blown the head off his partner, Marzio Diamante, just six months ago, then chased him halfway across Europe with just one thing on his mind: kill Cangio!

  The salamander often darted through his nightmares.

  The salamander always nestled in his darkest thoughts.

  He saw the creatures everywhere, even when they weren’t there.

  Was he seeing one now in the pixelated b/w photograph on the video screen?

  He played with the idea of telling Lucia Grossi and asking Duranti to run through the photographs again, then go through all the videos which had been made that day at the airport when Unknowns One and Two arrived.

  But he knew what Lucia Grossi would say.

  He was making mountains out of molehills, courting attention, seeing his name in lights, imagining headlines in the newspapers. ‘The ranger who whipped the ’Ndrangheta.’ Fame has gone to your head, she would tell him. You cry wolf at every opportunity, Cangio, and no one’s listening.

  And maybe she was right.

  What had he seen, after all?

  A birthmark, a scar? Or was it just another stupid tattoo? So many people had them nowadays, apeing their pop idols and their football heroes. There were millions of fancy dragon designs out there, it took an expert to tell one from another.

  He clicked the button and the frame advanced one minute.

  Other passengers were leaving the arrivals building now.

  But there were some things caught in the frame that might be important.

  A man was standing at the kerbstone by a vehicle with a sliding door.

  He has only visible from the knees down, but Cangio recognised the leather boots he was wearing.

  And from behind the sliding door, a name poked out: Francesco.

  As he called up the next frame, the man stepped inside the vehicle and disappeared from view.

  ELEVEN

  North Africa

  The boatmen in Zuara didn’t bother with masks.

  They only wanted to see the back of your left hand.

  A red spot meant that you went to sea in a wooden boat, while the others were squashed into rotting old gommoni, rubber boats that sank, or barely made it out beyond the coastal limits, heading north towards Pantelleria, where the Italian navy was waiting to take you in tow to a safe port in Europe.

  Italy was Europe, the Boko Haram had told him.

  The Italian sailors all wore white masks and plastic hygiene suits with hoods as they threw out life jackets, bottles of water, blankets the colour of gold but made of a tinsel that kept you warm and dry when the waves got rough and the night got cold.

  There were more masks in Lampedusa, green ones this time, worn by the soldiers, doctors, and nurses, as the migrants were given injections, something to eat, and a bottle of water, a pair of plastic sandals and a tracksuit, then moved out of the security area and onto the ferry that would take them on the next step of the journey.

  The tracksuits were all the same colour, so the red spot came in handy.

  And all the while, every time that they were searched and checked, someone was there, looking out for the big red spot that wouldn’t was
h off. He hoped the spot would never fade, because it got you special treatment, the treatment you had paid for in cash to the Boko Haram.

  There were more face masks at the refugee camp in Sicily.

  And now, in the hospital, there were more people wearing green masks, and long green cotton gowns. They all smelled strange, like they’d been brewing the moonshine that everyone called Man Powa in a copper still.

  Like the one who was pushing the needle into his vein now, saying a word he didn’t understand that sounded like rilassati …

  Catania Airport, Sicily

  The refrigerated carrier boxes were blue.

  They looked like reinforced plastic with four big locks, two on each side of the lid, and large printed labels, red on white, that said Not To Be Opened In Transit.

  There were a half a dozen boxes, each one containing two packs of ice, and the consignment number.

  The ambulance drove out of the compound with its sirens blaring, a man in the back making sure the boxes didn’t roll around or fall off the stretcher gurney on the way to the airstrip.

  The private jet was waiting on the tarmac, its engine thrumming.

  Within ten minutes, it would be winging its way to the north.

  A flight plan was required, of course, but there were no international customs to deal with when the plane was scheduled to land in Umbria in one hour and thirty-five minutes. There would be no customs controls at the small provincial airport of St Francis of Assisi.

  A helicopter would be waiting on the tarmac for the plane to land.

  A private helicopter from a private clinic, where a private patient was already being prepared for the procedure.

  Valnerina

  ‘What do you mean, Don Michele?’

  ‘You heard me. I don’t want to go ahead.’

  ‘Not go ahead?’

  ‘That’s what the Don just said,’ Rocco snapped.

  ‘I … I don’t see the problem,’ the doctor was saying.

  He was a smart little man, prim and neatly dressed. Now, he looked puzzled and slightly amused, a dumb grin on his face, as if he didn’t know what to make of this reaction. He pulled on his collar, straightened his white coat, then said: ‘I mean to say, the goods have … arrived, and they’re as fresh as can be, I promise you. And, well … you are here, too, Don Michele, and so am I … This opportunity is just too good to throw away. We can’t just stop everything now, can we?’

  Rocco bit his lip, and shook his head.

  You didn’t speak like that to Don Michele.

  If the Don wanted something stopping, it stopped.

  The Don was sitting up now. ‘You need me to explain it to you?’

  Instead of saying no, thanks, there was no need for an explanation, the doctor said yes.

  Maybe he thought he could bring Don Michele around.

  He was wrong again.

  If the Don had decided, you were never gonna bring him around.

  ‘You know where this material comes from, do you?’

  ‘As I told you, Don Michele, it comes from Lampedusa …’

  Don Michele’s finger stuck up like a metronome in front of his nose, left-right, no-no.

  ‘Don’t give me that,’ he said. ‘We both know where it comes from before it gets to Lampedusa, don’t we? What I’m asking you – and I want a straight answer – is which bit of fucking Africa does it come from? Can you tell me that?’

  The doctor looked desperately at Rocco, sending out messages.

  We need to get him thinking straight on this issue.

  Rocco carefully looked the other way.

  If the Don had made up his mind, thinking straight didn’t come into it.

  ‘These replacements are … they’re perfect, Don Michele. They’ve been removed and prepared by experts, and carefully maintained in transit. They are worth …’

  ‘They ain’t worth shit,’ Don Michele said.

  The doctor opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  ‘They come from dead blackies,’ Don Michele said. ‘They’re no fucking use to me. Just look at this one!’ Don Michele picked an eyeball out of the tray and stuck into the doctor’s face. ‘What colour do you see?’

  ‘Colour? Colour’s got nothing to do with it.’

  Don Michele held the eyeball up to his own eyes. ‘They’re fucking green. And as for fresh,’ he sniffed hard, ‘I smell stale fish.’

  ‘I’d stake my reputation …’

  ‘You ain’t got a reputation,’ the Don reminded him. ‘You’re working for me.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Don Michele. Let me explain …’

  Rocco wondered whether the doctor was trying to save face, or hasten his own end.

  ‘Eye colour has nothing at all to do with the cornea. The colouring is caused by mineral pigmentation inside the iris,’ the doctor went on with a patronising smile. He might have been lecturing to a group of students, Rocco thought. He didn’t seem to realise that he was dealing with a man who was going blind. And not just any man. He was shining his bright little light into the dilated pupils of one of the most powerful ’Ndrangheta bosses in Italy.

  The Don’s face was a mask of disgust. ‘You wanna make me look like a freak?’

  The doctor laughed.

  Another mistake, Rocco thought.

  No one laughed when the Don asked a question.

  ‘They look green now,’ the doctor explained, ‘because his irises were green, but the layer that you need is colourless, translucent, and almost transparent, allowing the light to pass straight through it, dispersing the rays …’

  ‘Don’t give me that crap. If I say they’re green, they’re fucking green.’

  The doctor wouldn’t learn, wouldn’t keep quiet.

  Give the Don his way, Rocco was tempted to tell him.

  There was no other way to handle the boss.

  ‘What Don Michele means …’

  ‘Shut it, Rocco. He knows what I mean. He’s got ears, right?’

  ‘Right, boss.’

  For the first time that day, Don Michele smiled.

  ‘Wrong, Rocco,’ Don Michele said.

  He reached across in front of the doctor, lifted a scalpel from a kidney tray of surgical instruments, grabbed the doctor by the lobe of his left ear, then slashed down hard with the scalpel.

  The ear and half of the doctor’s face came away in his hand.

  ‘He had ears,’ Don Michele said. ‘He didn’t use them.’

  The doctor opened his mouth, then froze with shock. Rocco rabbit-punched him in the throat before he could scream, and he hit the floor like a heavy wet sack, blood pooling immediately on the white tiles.

  ‘Rocco, cut the other one off,’ Don Michele said, ‘then dump the fucker. Because you’ve got money, they think they can spin you any old shit.’

  Was this the third or fourth ophthalmologist whose patter hadn’t convinced the Don?

  While Rocco was slicing off the other ear, Don Michele said, ‘And that can of worms …’ He pointed to the blue refrigerated plastic box containing eyes that had seen African forests, Saharan deserts, the Mediterranean Sea, and all the rest. ‘Get shut of that lot, too.’

  Next thing the Don was on his feet, ripping off the medical gown.

  ‘Take me home, Rocco,’ he said, waiting while Rocco helped him on with his shirt and his jacket. ‘This fucking clinic gives me the creeps.’

  Fifteen minutes later, the chopper lurched up into the air.

  Don Michele seemed in a better mood than on the journey up. Suddenly, he was chatty.

  ‘What can you see down there, then, Rocco? Umbria’s got a lot going for it. Woods and mountains, sheep and olive groves …’

  Rocco looked down.

  They were still pretty low, the pilot not bothering to gain altitude, riding straight out towards the Nera valley, which they would cross on the way to Assisi and the waiting jet. You could see everything …

  He could see everything, Rocco corrected himsel
f. The Don couldn’t see a thing, and often asked him to tell him what he could see when they were flying or driving around.

  Rocco laughed. ‘There’s an old Jeep down there on the track below … No, hang on, it’s more of a Land Rover. Belongs to the park rangers by the look of it.’

  Don Michele grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Can you see who’s in it?’ he said.

  While the Don was speaking, a face had poked out of the side window, looking up at the helicopter. ‘A fella with a young face,’ Rocco said.

  ‘Could it be that Cangio?’ Don Michele said. ‘There can’t be many of them rangers knocking around here now, can there?’

  Rocco laughed. ‘If we had a hand grenade boss,’ he said. ‘What a lark!’

  Don Michele was quite excited now. ‘I reckon it is him, Rocco,’ he said. ‘Who else could it be? We blew the head off the other one six months ago. Cangio’s the only ranger left in this neck of the woods.’

  Don Michele squeezed up against the window, sheltering his eyes with his hands, trying his best to see the man down below in the Land Rover.

  ‘I bet you it’s him,’ the Don said with a tremor in his voice.

  ‘I wish I’d brought my shooter along,’ Rocco said.

  Don Michele pulled back from the window, settled himself against the seat.

  ‘We’re keeping him on ice, Rocco. Nice and fresh, until we meet him right up close. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to use your shooter, I promise you.’

  TWELVE

  Monte Coscerno

  Cangio glanced at his watch, then made a note of the time in his notebook.

  He switched off the torch, slipped on his gloves again.

  Such total darkness – no moon, no stars – made the night seem even colder than it was.

  It was three or four degrees above zero, though it felt like four or five degrees below.

  It was twenty-seven hours since the last sighting, and he didn’t like what he was seeing.

  No, it was worse than that. It wasn’t simply that he didn’t like the way they were behaving, it was the fact that he couldn’t explain their behaviour that he didn’t like.

  The pack leader seemed to be driven mad by fear, or fright.

  But what was he afraid of?

  Wolves don’t become paranoid for no good reason. They react to danger. A danger presents itself; the wolf reacts. But that was not the order in which things were happening. The pack leader, the dominant male, was constantly looking around him, behaving as if he expected to be attacked. To all appearances, his behaviour was erratic. Though no threat was evident, he clearly felt himself to be in danger. It made no sense at all. There were no other wolves in that section of the park, and wild boar would never come up that high, knowing they’d find nothing to eat at that altitude.