The Savage Shore

by David Hewson

  He cut the call, walked towards the large group of men staggering off the hill, waved again and shouted very cheerily, ‘Hello!’

  The door squealed open on rusty, ancient fastenings. A gust of petrol stink swept into the warehouse and flooded over the fragrance of fresh lemons. She blinked at the bright light and the blue ocean ahead, then walked to the door to meet whoever was there.

  That seemed to surprise him.

  A gigantic network of pipes and tanks and industrial buildings ran across this strange horizon, like a massive child’s toy stuck together at random. Beyond that giant tankers moved slowly, floating grey whales breaking the view. Aspromonte might have been on the other side of the world.

  ‘Well?’ she asked, feeling the long timber splinter riding against her skin beneath the cotton shirt.

  There was no dog. No agricultural slave. He’d been surely told to go elsewhere which, in itself, was educational. Instead it was the Sicilian who’d been with Vottari when she was taken. Sciarra. He’d said his name as they’d gagged her in the van.

  Just hearing that had made her realize how bad things were. Back home a manutengolo never left a clue about who they were or where they might be found if someone started to look. People became guests for a reason. As surety. As a bargaining tool. Or simply as hostages in a kidnap, to squeeze money out of a family who could usually afford it. You didn’t leave any of them some way back to the people and the place that had held them captive. However they left, in a car, on that final trek into the bleak slopes, it was a one-way passage.

  ‘We need to leave,’ he said.

  ‘A walk in the hills?’

  He was a handsome man and knew it. Nice clothes, nice face and teeth, too much of a tan, though, and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of black-rimmed shades. ‘There are no hills, signora.’ He gestured to the flat dry fields. The lemon trees were short and withered. Nothing good grew here. ‘See for yourself.’

  A dark blue van was parked outside, next to a kennel where the dog lay sleeping, tethered to a long chain.

  ‘We must make a short journey—’

  ‘What do you want?’

  He laughed. ‘What do you have?’

  The way he said that she knew full well what he meant. ‘And in return?’

  Sciarra frowned, a very southern gesture. The sides of his mouth almost seemed to reach down to his chin. He took off the glasses and peered at her. ‘Mancuso was invited to your home in good faith. You planned to trap him. Give him to our enemies. Fortunately … we knew. And could make arrangements of our own. Signora—’ he beckoned to the van – ‘there’s always a price that must be paid. Without that how would any of us know where we stand?’ He patted his jacket pocket and his fingers slid over the unmistakable shape of a weapon. ‘Just get in, will you?’

  ‘My father will pay good money—’

  ‘Too late for that. Get in.’ He nodded at her hand as she waved it in his face. ‘I like that silver bracelet. Nice. I know someone who’ll love it.’

  ‘Screw you,’ she said and moved back into the shadows, fingers sliding towards the spear of wood, shaking, sweating as they did so. ‘Screw Mancuso. Screw all you Sicilian scum and—’

  That did it. He was coming for her and as he raced angrily through the door she could see the gun was out.

  And in her head a memory. A conversation with the Roman just days before about where she came from and how they spoke.

  Agapi for love.

  Miso for hate.

  Zoi for life.

  In the dark he was on her, strong fingers tight around her throat.

  Tanato for death.

  A single scream and that was it.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Peroni said, grinning as he walked up to meet them waving the binoculars. ‘I’m up here birdwatching and seem to be lost. Do you have any idea where we are?’

  The one with the beard, Mancuso according to Falcone, shook his head. ‘We’re strangers here too. Father?’

  The men behind gathered in a group around the vans. They looked exceedingly meek.

  ‘Aspromonte,’ the priest said, seeming a touch befuddled. ‘If you don’t know where you are … how on earth did you get here?’

  ‘Walking—’

  ‘No one walks this far.’

  A few of them were crowding round. Perhaps this wasn’t such a great idea at all.

  He pulled out his phone, hit the speed dial for Casale and said, ‘I think you should join us.’

  Which didn’t take long. Out of the bushes sixteen SWAT officers emerged, armed to the teeth, rifles raised, all the stock phrases coming out.

  Raise your arms.

  Drop your weapons.

  The priest’s bafflement had turned to outrage. ‘What in the name of God is this?’

  Casale came round while the rest of the team herded the men towards the rock slope behind the vehicles. Peroni pulled out his badge.

  ‘A police operation. Who are these people? Why are they here?’ He nodded at the bearded one. ‘Let’s start with you.’

  ‘Some ID would help,’ Casale added, reaching into the man’s jacket, hunting for a wallet. He found one, pulled it out, started to go through the cards.

  ‘We are,’ the priest declared, ‘a group of innocent visitors to a historical site in these hills. We’ve broken no laws. We’ve harmed no one. I don’t understand …’

  Close up the average age of this bunch must have been sixty if it was a day. Something in Casale’s face told him this wasn’t good.

  ‘How long has this trip been arranged?’ Peroni asked.

  The bearded one stepped forward and had a look about him that said: in charge. ‘Since late yesterday. I had a call in my office to say the opportunity was suddenly available after a cancellation.’ He paused for effect then added, ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘I’m sort of guessing you’re not called Mancuso,’ Peroni told him.

  There was a sudden blush behind those bearded cheeks. ‘Mancuso? I … I don’t know any man of this name.’

  ‘Nor me,’ the priest added quickly.

  The beat of the helicopter was steady overhead. Casale scowled at the craft then thrust an ID in front of Peroni. The one with the beard. A name: Antonio Maltese. Fifty-six. The card issued in Siracusa.

  ‘Who are you?’ Peroni demanded. ‘Who are these men? Why—’

  ‘We’re friends of the museum in Siracusa. And parishioners of the church of Santuario Madonna delle Lacrime across the road. Making a rare pilgrimage we paid for, paid well last night—’

  ‘At a few hours’ notice?’ Casale asked.

  ‘At a few hours’ notice! As I said! This place is out of bounds to all but those who know about it. When we were offered the chance I couldn’t possibly refuse.’ He gestured at his wallet. ‘Look at my business card in there. Perhaps that will help you see sense. I must say—’ his finger wagged at Peroni, much like a school teacher’s – ‘I don’t know what this is about. Or why you’re spoiling the peace of this place with that damned machine up there. We’ve a meal booked in Cariddi. This entire outing has cost us all a small fortune. If we’re obstructed in any way this will go further, mark me. I have friends—’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ Peroni said and pulled the card out of the wallet.

  He walked away from the priest and the bearded guy who was getting angrier by the minute. Casale joined him and said, ‘We’ve been going through the IDs for the others. It looks like he’s telling the truth.’

  ‘No weapons?’

  ‘They’re a bunch of rubberneckers. What the hell—’

  He waved Casale into silence then called Teresa. She answered straight away and asked, ‘You’ve got him? The one in Nic’s photo?’

  ‘We’ve got him.’

  Something in his tone must have told her. ‘And?’

  ‘He’s not Mancuso. He’s not a hood at all. None of these people are. They’re a bunch of sightseers from Siracusa who got handed their tickets by the Sicilian
s last night. We got rumbled. I think—’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  He looked at the business card. ‘Our friend with the beard is the professor of antiquities at Catania university. And a lay officer of that funny looking church in Siracusa.’ The conversation back at the vans was getting heated. ‘He’s also looking forward to lunch down the coast and I think it’s best we don’t stop him. Or his friends.’

  ‘Oh my God …’

  ‘You tell Leo. I’ll do my best to calm things down here.’

  The phone rang as they reached the piazza. Just two people there: Gabriele in his chair by the table, hat on, picking orange flesh out of sea urchins he was pulling from a bucket. Then passing them to Silvio Di Capua who was stuffing them on bread before wolfing them down.

  ‘He’s safe,’ Costa told her. ‘Silvio’s here.’

  Teresa Lupo sighed down the line. ‘So I saw. Thank God for that anyway. You’re not going to like this. The Sicilians. The other ’ndrine. There’s not one of them in that party that came down the hill. They’re just a bunch of innocents who got roped in last night on the back of a day out.’

  Gabriele tipped his hat at the two of them, waved and went back to tearing out the orange innards of an urchin with a knife. A bottle was open in a wine bucket in front of him, the wine sparkling in a champagne glass by its side. Silvio looked as if he’d had a few already.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They must have got wind of what was going on. All those people you saw are just … people.’

  ‘That’s why they ran.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Gabriele tipped his hat and said a very loud ‘Buon Giorno’. Silvio began pouring two more glasses and babbling on about how good the urchins were until Falcone’s fierce glare quietened him. ‘At least we’ve got the capo.’ Gabriele was telling some kind of joke, reeling with laughter. He looked half drunk.

  ‘Just him?’ she asked.

  ‘As far as I can see.’

  He could hear the distant sound of the helicopter on the other side of the hill. ‘Did your cameras pick up anything?’

  ‘Not there. We were watching Gianni. Tell you what …’ You never had to ask with Teresa Lupo. ‘I’ll send them round your side. I can route the video to your phone if you like.’

  ‘Do that. We’ll get Gabriele to the airport. Now …’ An argument had started, loud and furious. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘You’re who?’ Falcone bellowed.

  ‘Are you deaf, man? I said. A thespian, for pity’s sake,’ Gabriele declared with a theatrical wave of his arms. ‘I mean, do I look like a criminal? Really?’ He threw another slimy orange urchin in his mouth and spluttered, ‘Though I’ve played my share in the past. Any of you see that Montalbano episode The Urchin’s Return? I played a kind of gangster in that. A very dignified smuggler of seafood. Which made me think of the ricci here. The chap came to a sticky end sadly. I was hoping for another episode …’

  ‘He says he’s an actor,’ Falcone snapped, glaring at him in disbelief. ‘An actor!’

  The old man held out his hand. Falcone just stared at it.

  ‘Gabriele – that is my real name – Gabriele Amalfitano. Pleased to meet you. Not that I come from Amalfi. Salerno. Though I’ve trod the boards in many places. Rome. Naples. Palermo …’

  ‘Gabriele …’

  ‘Maso.’

  ‘I’m Nic. Nic Costa.’

  He reached out and pinched Costa’s cheeks like a friendly grandfather. ‘See. You’re good at acting too. A natural. We were all at it. Well … me and you and Vanni. That fool son of his was struggling to keep up. The girl, mind … she was smart. Though …’ He looked sober for a moment. ‘I think you know that.’

  ‘Well, I have to say—’ Silvio was refilling his glass – ‘they’ve been treating me very well indeed.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Falcone bellowed. ‘Will someone kindly tell me what’s going on?’

  Costa sat down at the table. ‘That would be a good idea, Gabriele.’

  It didn’t take long and he’d guessed most of it already. Gabriele Amalfitano had been shipped in to pretend to be Lo Spettro, the capo of the Bergamotti ’ndrina, a man so reclusive few would see through the deceit. They’d told him what to do, how to behave, offered a rough idea of what to say.

  ‘To hell with false modesty, improvisation has always been one of my talents,’ he went on. ‘I worked with Dario Fo when I was starting out, you know. At the feet of the master. It wasn’t hard. We all play our parts. Some better than others.’

  ‘Vanni,’ Costa said. It was as if a curtain had suddenly lifted. ‘The capo’s Vanni.’

  Gabriele nodded. ‘A more educated and intelligent fellow than he made out. A gentleman to me, and to your young friend here as far as I can see. Though one wouldn’t wish to be on his bad side.’ He reached for more wine. ‘I suspect we shouldn’t lurk round here long, my friend. Relations among the locals are likely to be difficult very soon. As for their compatriots across the strait.’ He raised his glass. ‘I’ve never found comedy to go down well in Sicily. Have you?’

  ‘In the car,’ Falcone ordered, snatching the wine out of Di Capua’s hands. ‘Both of you. Now.’

  They didn’t hesitate though Gabriele had to be persuaded to leave behind the half-full bucket of sea urchins.

  Costa got behind the wheel. Falcone turned and glared at the man in the back. ‘I hope they paid you well. I’m throwing everything in the book at you. I trust you’ll feel this charade was worth it.’

  In the driver’s mirror Gabriele’s face fell very quickly. The actor was gone. There was a real man there, tired, sad and scared.

  ‘I had a call from my wife this morning,’ he said. ‘The first in weeks. Since this strange production began.’ He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his cheeks. ‘She’s well. She’s free finally. They let her go. So yes, sir. I think it was worth it. In fact I believe it may be the finest performance I’m ever likely to give.’

  Costa was about to start the car when his phone went again.

  ‘We’ve got them,’ Teresa said.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Four kilometres down the road from you, on the way to the autostrada.’

  ‘What—?’

  ‘Take out your phone. I’ll live stream the video. We’re recording. For what it’s worth.’

  A picture came up on the screen. Rocco’s scarlet Alfa driving slowly down a serpentine lane. Ahead the terrain seemed to level and the ordered lines of trees there told him it had to be one more bergamot orchard.

  There were cars in the road. Five or six. Blocking the way.

  ‘Silvio. Gabriele. Get out. I’ll call for a car.’

  Falcone came and looked. ‘How long’s it going to take us to reach them?’

  ‘I don’t know …’

  ‘Nic,’ Teresa cut in. ‘There’s a good dozen men down there and unless I’m mistaken they’re the ones Casale’s supposed to deal with. Not the two of you. Unarmed …’

  When the old man and Silvio were back on the piazza cobbles, headed for the table, the food and the wine, Falcone climbed in the passenger seat.

  ‘Nic,’ she pleaded. ‘Nic?’

  He didn’t say much as Rocco drove slowly down the narrow, winding track. It was hard to find the words. When he was young it had been for mules only. His father had taken him up the hill to Manodiavolo every time one of the periodic local wars broke out. Now, even with the occasional use of vehicles, it was still barely passable.

  But after a couple of kilometres the lane became straight and flat, still at altitude, with a view down to the azure sea and the ribbon shore of Cariddi below. All this was his territory by right, by inheritance, bergamot trees mostly with a few orange and lemon bushes dotted around. He knew every field, every stone wall, the feel of the poor, friable soil, the weeds it carried, the pests, the birds, the creatures of the wild.

  ‘This was ours for almost a century,’ he said, pretty much to himself, gazing back at the mountain and
the fist of Manodiavolo in the distance. ‘A long time for one family. We managed well. We did our best.’

  Rocco was weeping. He hated to see that.

  ‘Have we heard from your sister yet?’

  ‘No.’ The car lurched over a pothole. ‘Not a word.’

  He looked at his son and found his temper flaring. ‘Stop sobbing like a woman. You do us all an injustice.’

  They turned another corner and there they were. A line of black cars blocking the way ahead, six or seven men in casual clothes leaning against them, arms folded. A lean, spindly figure at the front, taller than the rest.

  ‘So the Butcher of Palermo did come to see us after all,’ Vanni said as they drew up. ‘Stay in the car. This is mine to deal with.’

  Back on the hill he was pushing the rented Renault. Teresa had told Casale about the gathering on the other side of the mountain. But the SWAT team were even further away, no chance of reaching that part of Aspromonte in much under an hour.

  Falcone clung onto the dashboard as they raced round another tight, sharp corner. ‘What are we supposed to do?’ he asked as the car scraped against the rocky escarpment on their right. ‘When we get there?’

  ‘Arrest them all,’ he said and took his eyes off the wheel to smile at the man in the seat next to him.

  Falcone groaned. Then laughed. ‘Right …’

  ‘What else?’

  He didn’t see the gaping hole in the road ahead until they were on it. The nose of the car dipped as it fell, slamming into the hard stone beneath with such force two tyres burst pitching them straight into a crooked pine tree at the side of the road.

  The air bags blew and the seat belts bit hard. A branch ripped through the windscreen sending shattered glass all round them. After a long moment they seemed still, listening only to the dying engine. Then came the smell of leaking fuel.

  ‘Out,’ Falcone cried, popping his belt, then the driver’s.

  The two of them scrambled out of the mangled vehicle and stood by the road, well back. It didn’t blow. But still they weren’t going anywhere. He picked up his phone from the ground. The screen was cracked from top to bottom but it was still working. With shaky fingers he dialled Teresa and said, ‘We crashed.’