by Aidan Conway
Iannelli could see that telling the story was difficult for him. It was an open sore and he was dealing with a wounded lion. But he also knew that in his own line of work at times he had to use pathos, convey it to his readers, win them over with it. But if he felt it himself then it was all too often an inconvenience. He expressed his commensurate dismay, his disgust, as and when required, but he had to be clinical. Let the story make the rules.
“You know they had a doctor diagnose me with God knows how many wild and wonderful diseases. While they were doing further tests, I was to be suspended and then they took my gun away. All complete nonsense but, in the meantime, with the stress, I began to get sick for real. Clever bastards, aren’t they?”
He threw an eye then at the slightly dog-eared file.
“So, do you want it?”
This was the big break. It was dynamite and it was sitting there.
“What can you tell me about the immigration crisis?” Iannelli asked, sensing there was more to be found.
“Well, it all starts here, doesn’t it? The more who come in, the more can be squeezed from the state and shared out between the interested parties. We’ve got transcripts in there,” he added, “from when we trailed people. They talk about drugs and immigrants being just as good earners for them. The immigrants are better, in fact, because they’re legal trade. Once they are in, they’re a money-making opportunity, whoever’s in power carves up the crisis economy as they see fit. Every immigrant is worth X amount while he’s on Italian soil.”
He gave a deep laugh of disdain. “Did you see that idiot, Mayor Basso, the other day, marching through Rome trying to drum up support for the elections? He said the immigrants that tried to trash that God-awful detention centre – in shocking conditions, no doubt – should all be sent back, with a kick up the arse. It was his administration that had them put there in the first place! And guess who made money out of that? He probably got a kickback off the opposition too when they decided to throw their hats in the ring and cut their losses. You can bet your life on it. And they’re all running scared now, what with the MPD putting a cat among the pigeons.” He cast another eye across at his daughter. “I’m not too convinced about that lot either. They all want to get on that white horse, don’t they? The power that comes with it and then you see what they’re really about. But Rita here’s giving them the time of day. And a little bit more than the benefit of the doubt.”
Rita was scowling back at her father as only a daughter could. “And if the elections go the wrong way, the wrong way for the establishment that is, they are going to be hard-pressed to keep everything under wraps. I think we are living in very interesting times, Dario. Too interesting maybe.”
He finished his glass and got to his feet.
“But now I must leave you. We are taking the boat out tonight to find squid, and put down lobster pots. Somebody has to make some honest money.” Tonino didn’t disguise his enthusiasm about the venture, but for Iannelli the whole idea was like refuse-collection or undertaking – important work but he was glad someone else had to do it.
“Sounds like fun,” he said.
“And then tomorrow we’ve got some tourists to show around. I can take you if you like.”
“That’s very kind,” said Iannelli, snapping back to reality, “but I am expected in Rome tomorrow, as soon as I can get there. I shall be leaving first thing.”
“As you wish. Another time, then.”
“Another time, for sure.”
There was an awkward pause as the three of them stood there, neither, it seemed, wanting to make a move.
“Well, if you want to take up this matter, it is there. If not, you can leave it here with Rita.”
Iannelli reached out and shook the policeman’s hand.
“Thank you for your trust.”
The policeman held on to Iannelli’s hand.
“I don’t trust anyone, Dottore, beyond my own family. I am giving it to you because I am letting go. It’s my decision. Trust left long ago.”
Iannelli gave an awkward smile as the grip was finally loosened.
“And I’m not making any promises. That stuff there is not official, as it isn’t stamped and signed and countersigned. You know the way it works. I don’t need to give you a lesson on bureaucracy, do I? But if you can get it into the public arena, maybe something will start moving. No other journalist I ever met wanted to touch it.”
“I will see what I can do. Do you have copies?”
“No. That’s it. I’m through with fighting now. I did my bit and failed, I suppose. But I tried. You may say it’s selfish of me but there comes a time in your life when you have to stand back and say, can I live now? Is it unreasonable to want to live the rest of my life in relative peace?”
“I understand,” said Iannelli. “I think, however, that you have done much more than just your ‘bit’. But I was just thinking. About the money.”
“What about it?”
“Well, how does it move around? Cash, gold bars? We’re talking a lot of dough here.”
“The safest way, the shortest most discrete route. The ISW, the Institute of Sacred Works, of course. Set up a cover organization, a foundation, a charity, whatever, and then the money flows in and out, like a heart pumping blood around the body. You’ll have to look respectable, of course, but that’s not difficult. Then it’s plain sailing. No checks, no questions asked. No tax. Everybody’s happy. Except the Italian state, or the faithful, if they knew how much lucre’s going through their beloved Church and where it’s all coming from. And if you’re buying from me, or I’m buying from you, it’s all the same. We both have accounts and no one’s the wiser, no one bats an eyelid.”
Iannelli helped Rita clear away the dishes despite her repeated protests that it could wait till the following day.
“If you are looking for the dishwasher, there isn’t one,” she called from the dining room. But he had stopped to look at a picture. It appeared to be of Rita, her father, the mother she had not yet mentioned and, he supposed, a younger brother. He piled the plates into the sink, gave them a cursory rinse then went back into the dining room where she was rearranging the table.
“And this,” she said, picking up the folder. “Nobody wants to touch this. They don’t think their job’s worth it. They don’t think their life’s worth it. Do you?”
In the low, after-dinner lighting and the glow from the coals, a seductive if slightly infernal aura now illuminated the scene. Temptation. Pleasure. Ambition. Opportunity. They all vied now in Iannelli’s fantasies. Then he reached out and for a moment they both held the file suspended between them, its weight much greater than he had expected, until she loosened her grip and it then became his.
As he walked back along the seafront towards his lodgings, out on the dark water he saw the little lights of fishing boats and could hear their engines chugging away like animal hearts. On the boat nearest the shore the men aboard were shining torches down into the water and creating little pools of yellow light. Leaning over one side, as the boat rocked and bobbed, he could just make out a dark figure poised with something like a spear or possibly even a trident, waiting, waiting for just the right moment to strike.
He had bottled it. They’d had another drink after, a coffee, some more almond biscuits and an ammazzacaffè, a final, strong liqueur to “kill” the coffee, thus ensuring a sound sleep. Then she’d sent him packing as was always going to happen. The last kiss on the doorstep had been affectionate and warm but he felt she’d kept her distance, verbally and formally. So it was clear there would be no chance of it wandering towards his lips. Her full breasts, too, had pressed against his chest, and he’d had the urge then to reach an arm around her waist to pull her towards him, but he hadn’t. Why? Fear of rejection? No, he didn’t fear that. Fear of getting in too deep emotionally? Maybe, yes, and bringing her down with him to wherever it was he was now heading? He was taking a road which could lead him anywhere. But this was what he wanted,
wasn’t it? The big story, the scoop. And what did his mother always say? Be careful what you wish for, Dario. You might get it one day.
But despite his racing thoughts, and the quaint, engaging tableau before him, Iannelli’s attention had now become much more firmly focused on the footsteps he had heard following in time with his own and which, as he paused to survey the harbour, had now stopped.
Forty-Seven
“There’s no need for you to see my face, Dr Iannelli. In fact, it’s probably better for you if you don’t.”
The voice came from out of the shadows behind him. It was not markedly Sicilian, but the tone was southern.
“I wasn’t intending to look,” Iannelli replied.
“You are not in danger. I have a proposal for you,” he continued and Iannelli heard the footsteps once again until they stopped beside him. They were both now leaning on the parapet, like two old friends with no need to fill the silence with small talk.
“You are a good journalist, one of the best.”
Iannelli had just been expecting to hear the eulogy to continue with “and a promising young prospect” when a falling star streaked across the sky before them.
“See!” the voice added. “Your timing is impeccable. The Gods are smiling on you. I trust you made a wish.”
“Of course,” Iannelli replied, “but it doesn’t seem to have come true yet.”
The voice gave a dry laugh of knowing acknowledgement.
“Look. When are you going to give up this rabble-rousing commie stuff and come and work for us? I know you don’t believe it. You know it too. But it’s what makes you who you are, right? The maverick. The gunslinger. Well, come and write for my employer,” he said in an almost avuncular tone. “You don’t even have to know who ‘he’ is. Just name your price,” he said. And with that he reached inside his jacket and produced a chequebook and an expensive-looking gold fountain pen.
“We can start right now with a down payment. All you will have to do is to write what certain people would rather the people were reading, or write in a way that keeps everybody more or less happy. We don’t need people stirring up unnecessary emotions, especially at this time. The country needs stability, continuity.”
Iannelli laughed silently to himself at the choice of verb tense “will have to do”. His interlocutor’s vision was like that of the salesman who, in his own mind, has already sold his product, so convinced is he of the illusion he’s peddling.
The hand holding the pen was poised over the chequebook resting on the parapet. A breeze tried but failed to ruffle the pages. Beyond them both was the wide open sea, the boats still there, engines chugging away and the shadowy men still scrutinizing the depths, working, toiling. Honest men, yes. But for what? A pittance? A tradition? A principle? So that he could sit back and fill his face with seafood when he pleased?
So, this was the alternative and this was how it happened. It was as real as this. Money from an offshore account. You could set one up for yourself, too, in Switzerland or San Marino or, now that things were beginning to get that little bit more difficult in Europe, you’d pack your Bermudas and get on a plane to Santo Domingo, the British Virgin Islands or Costa Rica. They would be more than willing to have your money rolling in, like so much surf, and paid generous interest too. If you were prepared to take the risk.
Or you could take the monthly envelopes, le bustarelle, stuffed with notes for you to do with as you pleased. And then you would be on the payroll. There’s a TV debate, they need a journo to give some “balance” to proceedings – get up there and do your stuff. This is the line to take and don’t let the other guy get a word in. Interrupt him, break his train of thought, don’t let him get his message across if you think he’s smart. Remember, people respect you. You did the hard work to get where you are. OK, you’ve changed your mind over the years in a few key areas but you’ve “matured”, right?
“Name your price,” he said again.
How had he found him? Who had sent him? But Iannelli didn’t have time to process all that. This was Sicily, remember. If he got out of this alive he would thank whatever divinity had befriended him and he could dwell on the rest at his leisure. And regret it at his leisure too. Money. Easy money. Did such a thing exist? The hand was poised, waiting. Waiting.
But he had his own gold mine now. The attaché case he was gripping, full of material of such potential sensitivity and with such far-reaching implications it seemed he was heaving around a bomb ready to explode. If he accepted, perhaps he would then have to hand it over, as part of the deal. As collateral. So this was the second gamble of the night. Cash in your chips or hold out, Dario? The scoop of scoops was within his reach. He only had to get it all back to Rome and then he would be in control. He would be pulling the strings for once and the politicians and their whores could dance a merry tune. They could go fuck themselves. All of them.
“In my experience,” Iannelli began, “in this life you either have too little money or too much. I personally find the former the easier of the two burdens to have to bear.”
There was a moment of silence. The breeze whipped up again as if sent from out of the obscure depths before them.
“So you are saying no? And if I said you could write the cheque yourself?” he said, proffering the pen sideways to Iannelli, as if handing him over the controls of some craft they were both piloting. This must have been the moment many dreamed of. But they would own him then. He would cease to be himself.
“The answer in this case is no.”
The same hands then withdrew the chequebook and pen from Iannelli’s rationed field of vision.
“You do realize you are making the biggest mistake of your life? You do know that, don’t you?”
The tone was less avuncular than pride-stung, superior.
“Well, if that is so, things can only get better,” replied Iannelli, unable to resist the opportunity for irony while knowing full-well that this was a moment, perhaps the moment, that would remain etched into his moral conscience. More so than leaving the Roman Post, more so than abandoning law and paying his own way to study journalism against his father’s wishes, more so than leaving his hometown for good for Rome, yes, the infernal city. But there was another story here that could only add to his reputation.
The emissary gave a sigh. “Well, I shall leave you to ruminate on your decision at your leisure, Dr Iannelli.”
“I won’t be here long,” Iannelli replied.
“Of course. I should imagine you will be setting out bright and early tomorrow, for Rome.”
So they knew. Tabs on his phone calls? Or someone passing them information?
“Always like to start the day early,” he countered but aware now that he was forcing the joviality in his tone.
“Start the day with a bang! Eh?”
A shudder ran through Iannelli’s body that wasn’t the chill of the breeze.
“So, buon viaggio, Dottore. A presto, o addio.”
Iannelli waited until his footsteps had died away. Cats screeched in an alley then he heard an engine, a motorbike approaching, tearing then along the promenade behind him, revving and revving almost until it became a hysterical scream. He froze. Was this it? Could he jump? Death at the hands of assassins perhaps still in their teens for whom this was a playground game, like pulling the legs off an insect. The bike and its whooping passengers drew closer and was then right behind him before disappearing again into the night with a last almost comic squawk of its jaded horn. He breathed again. Was he becoming paranoid? Had it really all happened? Yes, it had, and as a bitter keepsake the emissary’s final words remained with him.
“Have a pleasant trip, Dottore. Until next time, or goodbye.”
Forty-Eight
Iannelli woke early and without the aid of the alarm on his phone. For a moment, all was a sublime mystery, almost enjoyably so. Then he remembered where he was, and why, and all that had happened the night before. He lay motionless on his back for some time. A
little grey light was perhaps perceptible. It must have been seven. He checked his watch 6.55. Close. He ran through what he had to do. Check out. Taxi to the port. Fast catamaran back to the mainland. Then a connecting flight from Catania to Rome. Inform the office of his ETA. Sounded straightforward. Sounded. But this was Italy, southern Italy, and things didn’t always go to plan. At least not to his plan.
For want of anything approaching a better solution, he had put the attaché case at the back of the wardrobe. Either that or under the bed. No jewel-safe in the guest house but it had also occurred to him that enquiring about one might only arouse curiosity. And even if there had been, he doubted whether it would have been an obstacle to any determined thief, if they, whoever “they” might now be, were aware of its existence or interested in its contents. He washed, dressed in the previous evening’s clothes, recovered it from its hiding place and zipped it into his now slightly bulging suitcase. With a view to making time and relaxing at the airport he checked out, forgoing breakfast to the clear dismay of the corpulent middle-aged proprietor who managed, however, to furnish him with a taxi number. The only one. No chance of shopping around here then.
“How long will it be?”
“Twenty minutes. Half an hour. More or less,” came the languid reply down the line. Ever-widening experience told him that the “more or less” meant most likely “more” rather than “less”. Perhaps he’d have that breakfast after all. The proprietor said nothing, but his look spoke volumes: “welcome back to the fold, lost sheep and sin no more.”
As Iannelli took his cappuccino in the breakfast room, the ubiquitous TV, like a raucous guardian angel, was at least tuned to a news channel. And it was shouting from the lobby and not in the actual breakfast room. There were pictures of stoic country people with blackened faces holding various long-handled gardening tools while the bleached grass surrounding their homes and smallholdings smouldered. Then there were ominous shots of crust-topped oozing orange lava flows and the crater from which orange sparks gushed up against a night sky. Etna. Another eruption. Subtitled news ribbons confirmed Iannelli’s very different fears.
