Medusa az-9

by Michael Dibdin

  Gilberto pushed a button on the console in the central armrest. There was a whirr of machinery as opaque blinds descended over all the windows and the glass partition, cutting them off totally from the outside world.

  ‘What on earth?’ exclaimed Zen.

  Gilberto laughed and pressed another button, lighting up the sealed interior.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind, Aurelio, but the answer to your question about lunch is a bit of a secret, actually. You’ll understand once we get there.’

  ‘How did you ever get hold of this beast? I thought they were all reserved for the top dogs.’

  ‘So, what am I, shit?’

  ‘No, but you were up to your neck in it, the last I heard.’

  ‘That was before the revolution. You’re not really keeping up with current affairs, are you, Aurelio? Of course for you state employees there’s no need. But some things have changed there too, like these cars. Obviously il Cavaliere didn’t want his people driving around in cars produced by l’Avvocato.’

  Zen’s faint smile acknowledged this reference to the legendary enmity between the Prime Minister and Giovanni Agnelli, the creator of Fiat.

  ‘Besides, there was the whole question of image,’ Nieddu went on enthusiastically. ‘One of the many aspects of Berlusconi’s genius is that he is the first politician since Mussolini to grasp the vital importance of presentation. That’s why he was able to defeat his opponents so convincingly last time out. All the little lefties were sitting around discussing real issues, matters of substance and policy, and then of course disagreeing and splitting into factions and insulting each other and telling people at all costs not to vote for the ideological heretics who had failed to grasp the correct course of action at this historically significant moment, etcetera, etcetera. Meanwhile Silvio just sat there, smiling at you from posters, magazines and TV programmes, looking every inch the man of power that he is and never making the mistake of mentioning any concrete proposals or programmes. “Trust me”, was the message. And the voters did. He didn’t win the election. His opponents lost it.’

  ‘With a little help from the press and TV, most of which he owns.’

  ‘So did the Christian Democrats and the Socialists and Communists back in the old days. That’s not the point. People have had enough, Aurelio! That’s what it comes down to. Take these cars, for example. They’re like those ZIP limos that the Politburo used to drive around in. In the public mind, they’re associated with the former regime, with cliques, cabals, corruption and all the endless misteri d’Italia. Did Andreotti have Mino Pecorelli and Della Chiesa killed? What really happened to La Malfa? Who planted the bomb in Piazza Fontana? How and why did Roberto Calvi die? The truth is that no one cares about all that stuff any more. Berlusconi knows it, so he dumps the whole fleet, allowing yours truly to pick up this rather toney low-mileage vehicle at a knockdown price. Not only that, but since the association with unquestioned power and prestige still operates at a subliminal level, Ahmed can indulge his distinctive driving style, which was honed at the wheel of a jeep in the Taurus mountains incidentally. He there¬ fore has a natural tendency to ignore the presence of other traffic unless it’s very heavily armed and armoured.’

  Zen didn’t reply. Indeed, he hadn’t really been paying attention to Gilberto’s rant, but rather to the sounds and feel of the car’s progress around corners, piazzas and junctions, over cobblestones, paving blocks and asphalt pitted by tram lines.

  ‘I didn’t know there were any good restaurants in Prenestino,’ he remarked at length.

  Gilberto laughed indulgently.

  ‘Very good, Aurelio! I should have known better than to try and fool you. But in fact we’re going a bit further out than Prenestino. It’s not exactly a restaurant, either, more the staff canteen. But you’ll eat well, and the price is definitely right. Anyway, enough of this. What do you want from me this time?’

  ‘Nothing. I told you.’

  ‘And my mother told me that la befana wouldn’t bring me any presents at Christmas if I wasn’t a good boy. I didn’t believe her either. Come on, Aurelio. I really don’t mind, but let’s just get it over with so that we can both enjoy our lunch in peace.’

  Zen slapped his friend on the thigh.

  ‘Gilberto, I swear by all that’s holy that when I called you this morning from the train I just wanted to have lunch and catch up on how things are going. But as it happens something did come up subsequently that you might be able to help with. It’s a question of some digital photographs that I need to have enhanced. Well, one of them anyway. I’ve got a compressed file on disk with me. It would need to be unzipped, of course.’

  He sat back, feeling slightly smug at his command of this jargon. Gilberto, on the other hand, took not the slightest notice.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, opening a cabinet invisibly recessed in the walnut facia before them and taking out a flask of clear liquid and two small glasses. He filled the glasses on the shelf provided by the hatch of the cabinet, then added mineral water from a small plastic bottle. The liquid in the glasses turned a cloudy white. Gilberto passed one to Zen.

  ‘ Salute!’

  Zen sniffed the glass. The odour was overpowering, but it took him a moment to realize what it was. Liquorice was one of those childhood delicacies that he had forgotten about.

  ‘Like it?’

  Gilberto had downed his glass and was lighting a cigarette.

  ‘What is it?’ Zen asked, taking a sip.

  ‘Damned if I know. A variety of arak, I suppose. They’re not supposed to drink at all, of course, but…’

  ‘Who are you talking about?’

  Nieddu turned to him with a teasing smile.

  ‘You’re supposed to be a detective, Aurelio. I’ve already given you three clues.’

  Zen dug out his own cigarettes.

  ‘I’m a police investigator, Gilberto,’ he said in a stiff tone that immediately sounded silly to him.

  ‘Ah, right. So what are you investigating at present?’

  The car had left the main road and was turning this way and that through a grid of side streets, often slowing or braking sharply.

  ‘You can’t expect me to tell you that. Particularly when you won’t even tell me where we’re going.’

  ‘Fair enough. I just thought it might have something to do with Nestore, you see.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nestore Soldani. A former business associate of mine.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Gilberto peered at him with something like disbelief.

  ‘Don’t you watch the news? It’s been a big story for the last two days. Someone planted about a kilo of weapons-grade explosive under the driving seat of his car.’

  ‘I’ve been away. Work. Haven’t had time to watch TV.’

  The car made a left turn on to a deeply potholed surface, then veered sharply right and came to rest. The driver leapt out and opened the door on Gilberto’s side. He then ran around to assist Zen, but he had already managed for himself. The car was parked in the yard of what looked like a factory dating from the abusivo building boom of the sixties or seventies. Nieddu opened a rusting metal door in the wall, then led the way along a corridor and up a flight of bare concrete steps.

  ‘This way,’ he said, opening a door to the left.

  The room inside was cramped, stuffy and unattractive. A desk piled with papers and computer equipment stood at one end, a low coffee table and two chairs at the other. A dour- looking elderly woman appeared at a door at the far end of the room and said something incomprehensible. Without glancing at her, Nieddu replied in the same manner.

  ‘What language is that?’ asked Zen.

  ‘Kurdish.’

  ‘You speak Kurdish?’

  ‘A few phrases. It’s all I need. Give me the file with the photographs.’

  Zen handed it over. Nieddu slipped it into the computer and busied himself with the mouse and the keyboard for a few moments.

  �
��OK, here they are,’ he said. ‘Which one was it you wanted enhanced?’

  Zen studied the images on screen, then pointed.

  ‘That one.’

  The gallery disappeared and was replaced by a full-size dis¬ play of the picture he had selected, showing an almost unrec ognizably broken body.

  ‘Hmm, very dead,’ commented Nieddu.

  ‘A climbing accident,’ Zen explained.

  ‘Don’t bother lying, Aurelio. It’s boring for both of us. Which bit do you want to know more about?’

  ‘Right here, the mark on his arm.’

  Gilberto examined the screen more closely for some time, then stood up and looked Zen in the eyes.

  ‘You said you weren’t investigating that business,’ he said very quietly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m talking about Nestore Soldani! You tell me you’d never heard of him, then hand me a disk containing a shocking image of his corpse, hoping that I’ll crack, break down and spill the beans. They said in the papers that no traces of the body had been found, but of course that was just another lie. Still the old- style hard-line commissariato techniques, eh Aurelio? The country’s changed all around you, but you’re too busy working to keep track of what’s going on, just like Berlusconi’s opponents. You’ve learnt nothing and forgotten nothing.’

  Zen gripped his friend’s arm tightly.

  ‘For the love of God, Gilberto, calm down! Listen, this friend of yours, this Nestore, what happened to him?’

  ‘You know what happened!’

  ‘I swear to you that I don’t.’

  ‘Everyone else in the country does! He was blown up in his car at the entrance to his villa in Campione.’

  Zen released Nieddu’s arm.

  ‘Then there’s no connection. This photograph is of a corpse which was found in a remote area of the mountains east of Bolzano. No villas, no cars.’

  Nieddu stabbed at the screen.

  ‘Then what about the tattoo? Nestore had one just like that on his arm.’

  Zen shrugged.

  ‘Plenty of men have tattoos. Even women, these days.’

  ‘It’s the same, I tell you!’

  They were interrupted by the elderly woman barging in with a large tray which she set down on a low table. It was covered with dishes of food of a kind utterly unfamiliar to Zen. Gilberto said something in the guttural language he had used before. The woman bowed to both men and left, closing the door behind her.

  ‘You swear you knew nothing about this?’ Gilberto asked Zen solemnly.

  ‘On my mother’s grave.’

  Nieddu nodded curtly.

  ‘All right, let’s eat.’

  ‘What is this stuff?’ Zen asked as they sat down at the low table.

  Nieddu produced a bottle of white wine and another of mineral water from a small fridge in the corner.

  ‘The local cuisine,’ Gilberto replied, pointing. ‘ Kelemi, niskan, hevir. U gost, I think. Lortek, balcanres, ciz biz, goste risti… Not sure about that one, but it’s all delicious. The only exception is the beverage they favour, some concoction made from soured milk. One taste I’ve failed to acquire. Normally I just have one or two of these dishes, but I told Tavora that I was entertaining a guest today so she laid on a feast. In their culture, where famine has always been a threat, it’s very important that on a special occasion there should be too much food served. But don’t worry, just have what you want. Anything we don’t eat will be used up.’

  Gingerly at first, then with increasing appetite, Zen began to sample the plates of grilled meats, vegetables, bulgar wheat and rounds of bread like very thin pizza crust. It was indeed all delicious.

  ‘So how did you get involved with these people?’ Zen asked.

  ‘Well, they’re illegals, of course. Their country, which doesn’t exist, has been a war zone since anyone can remember. Historically, the only choice the Kurds have had is whether they want to be oppressed and massacred by the Iranians, the Iraqis or the Turks. So many of them try to leave. A few, like this lot, make it.’

  ‘And where do you fit in?’

  ‘I’m not doing it as a humanitarian gesture, needless to say. They wouldn’t accept that anyway. Very proud bunch. Basically what happened was that our needs coincided. These people — they’re all part of the same family, incidentally — needed food, lodging and protection from the authorities. I needed a loyal and trustworthy work force. I was introduced to the head of the clan through contacts in the city down in Puglia where their ship landed and we struck a deal. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and they’ve kept theirs. And Rosa is delighted, needless to say. If I even thought about making a pass at one of the younger women, they’d get to me before she did. With these people, it’s marriage or death.’

  ‘How many of them do you employ?’

  ‘Thirty or forty. It’s hard to keep count. Anyway, I leave that sort of thing to their boss. They all live and work here, don’t speak Italian, and almost never leave the compound. It’s a bit like one of those abandoned farm complexes you see from the motorway in the Po valley…’

  ‘ Cascine.’

  ‘That’s right. The landowner housed and fed the sharecroppers who worked for him. It was like a little village. Well, that’s what I’m doing here.’

  ‘But what do they do for you?’

  ‘Ah well, that’s something I’d rather not go into.’

  ‘So it’s illegal.’

  Gilberto looked pained.

  ‘Really, Aurelio! Must you use these crude terms? You’re completely out of step with the new way of thinking. The Italian people have re-elected as their prime minister a man who is under investigation, amongst nine other charges, for having paid a judge half a million dollars to find in his favour over a takeover battle. His first action on taking office was to ram through changes in the law to prevent the case going to court before the statute of limitations runs out, and he’s now trying to pass another one that will give him the right to select the judge of his choice before the case goes to trial. And you’re asking me if what I’m doing is illegal?’

  Zen laughed.

  ‘Anyway, it’s not,’ Nieddu went on. ‘Well, not seriously illegal. Just an import and distribution operation.’

  ‘Drugs, I suppose.’

  Unexpectedly, Gilberto also laughed.

  ‘That’s right, drugs. And cigarettes, but only for my personal use. A nostalgia thing. In the Third World, the packets don’t come with all that stuff about cancer being bad for you. Here, that’s about all they do say. Pretty soon they’ll pass a law making the health warning bigger than the packet. You’ll ask the tabaccaio, “Can I have a health warning, please?”, and there’ll be a pack of cigarettes stuck to the back of it.’

  He clapped his hands loudly. The woman appeared and removed the tray of uneaten food, then returned with a pot of coffee and two cups.

  ‘So where do you want me to send the blow-ups of those photos?’ Gilberto demanded.

  ‘You’re still willing to do it?’

  ‘Not personally. I don’t have the equipment. But I know someone who does, and he’s fast and discreet.’

  ‘I thought that after that business about…’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I said I would do it and I’ll do it. That’s what I like about these Kurds. As long as you’re family, and I’m honorary family, they never break their word.’

  ‘I’m not family,’ said Zen.

  Gilberto smiled.

  ‘You saved my marriage. That makes you honorary family. Do you have a computer?’

  ‘Gemma does.’

  ‘Nice to hear that you know someone who’s living in the twenty-first century. Is she on-line?’

  ‘On which line?’

  Gilberto mimed exasperated despair.

  ‘Can her computer talk to other computers?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, it must do, the one at the pharmacy. She places her orders that way.’

  Gilberto lo
oked intently.

  ‘She’s a pharmacist? Well, well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Never mind. What’s the address?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s in Lucca, Via Fillungo, but I don’t know the number.’

  Gilberto gave him another crushing look, then produced a business card and handed it to Zen.

  ‘Give this to her and tell her to send me a blank email. As soon as the enhancement is ready, I’ll attach it and send it back.’

  Zen poured them both more coffee and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Tell me about Nestore Soldani,’ he said.

  Nieddu took an almost physical distance by his look.

  ‘You told me that he had nothing to do with the case you’re investigating.’

  ‘Absolutely not, Gilberto. But you say it’s been a lead story for several days. I’ll be dropping into the Ministry before meeting Gemma at the station, and I might be able to find out who is working on it, maybe pick up a few details to pass on to you.’

  He sat back and shut up. Gilberto Nieddu nursed his coffee and his cigarette for so long that Zen thought the gamble lost, but then he put both down and started to talk in an even, unemotional tone.

  ‘I first met Nestore in the late eighties, through a mutual friend. I’d just left the police and gone into the electronic security and espionage business. Soldani had just left the army and was looking for work. He’d been an officer in the Alpini — a volunteer, if you can believe that. Anyway, he had skills I needed and I used him on a few jobs, but he was too ambitious to stick with me for very long. The next thing I heard, he’d moved to Venezuela and had set up a variety of operations similar to those that I’ve been involved with over the years.’

  ‘Meaning illegal,’ risked Zen.

  Gilberto Nieddu modulated one hand in mid-air.

  ‘On the cusp, Aurelio. On the cusp.’

  He stubbed out his cigarette and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  ‘Venezuela has rich resources of oil, as you probably know. We have none. Soldani also had contacts, notably a former comrade-in-arms who had even more contacts, some with high management figures in the state petrol firm AGIP. In short, Nestore was able to facilitate a very lucrative and mutually advantageous deal between the respective governments involved, undercutting the price to which Venezuela was officially committed by its agreements with the other OPEC countries. He took an appropriate percentage and then wisely decided to quit while he was ahead and retire to the old coun¬ try before things turned politically nasty in Caracas, which they did very soon afterwards. But of course he couldn’t be sure what his reception would be this end either, so he played it clever. Whilst over there, he changed his name, just to be on the safe side, took out Venezuelan citizenship under his new identity and then moved to Campione d’Italia. He bought a property there, which you have to do in order to become resident, and then got in touch with me out of the blue. I think he may have been a bit lonely. He invited me to come and stay, but I never got around to it. We were never close. As I said, it was a business relationship, while it lasted. But I was still shocked to read about what happened to him.’