Vendetta az-2

by Michael Dibdin

  Maria Grazia made a reflective noise. 'Well, let's see. He was young. Dark, quite tall. Handsome! Twenty years ago, maybe, I'd have…'

  'What did he do?'

  'Do? Nothing! He just disappeared. I went over and had a look. Sure enough, there he was, in one of those cages.

  He was trying to mend it but he couldn't. In the end they had to take it off the wall and put up a new one.'

  'A new what, for the love of Christ?'

  Stunned by this blasphemy, the housekeeper murmured, 'Why, the streetlamp! The one that was forever turning itself on and off. But when I saw him floating there in mid-air I got such a shock! I didn't know what to think!

  It looked like an apparition, only I don't know if you can have apparitions of men. It always seems to be women, doesn't it? One of my cousins claimed she saw Santa Rita once, but it turned out she made it all up. She'd got the idea from an article in Gente about these little girls who…'

  Zen repeated his earlier instructions about keeping the front door bolted and not leaving his mother alone, and hung up.

  On his way downstairs, he met Giorgio De Angelis coming up. The Calabrian looked morose.

  'Anything the matter?' Zen asked him.

  De Angelis glanced quickly up and down the stairs, then gripped Zen's arm impulsively. 'If you're into anything you shouldn't be, get out fast!'

  He let go of Zen's arm and continued on his way.

  'What do you mean?' Zen called after him.

  De Angelis just kept on walking. Zen hurried up the steps after him.

  'Why did you say that?' he demanded breathlessly.

  The Calabrian paused, allowing him to catch him up.

  'What's going on?' Zen demanded.

  De Angelis shook his head slowly. 'I don't know, Aurelio. I don't want to know. But whatever it is, stop doing it, or don't start.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  De Angelis looked again up and down the stairs.

  'Fabri came to see me this morning. He advised me to keep away from you. When I asked why, he said that you were being measured for the drop.'

  The two men looked at one another in silence.

  'Thank you,' Zen murmured almost inaudibly.

  De Angelis nodded fractionally. Then he continued up the steps while Zen turned to begin the long walk down.

  I never used to dream. Like saying, I never used to go mad. The others do it every night, jerking and tossing, sweating like pigs, groaning and crying out. 'I had a ter~ible dream last night! I dreamt I'd killed someone and they were coming to arrest me, they'd guessed where I was hiding! It was horrible, so real!'

  You'd think that might teach them something about this world of theirs that also seems 'so real'!

  Then one night it happened to me. In the dream I was like the others, living in the light, fearing the dark. I had done something wrong, I never knew whaf, killed someone perhaps. As a punishment, they locked me up in the darkness. Not my darkness, gentle and consoling, but a cold dank airless pit, a narrow tube of stone like a dry well. The executioner was my father. He rammed me down, arms bound to rny sides, and capped the tomb with huge blocks of masonry. I lay tightly wedged, the stones pressing in on me from every side. In front of my eyes was a chink through which I could just see the outside world where people passed by about their business, unaware of my terrible plight. Air seeped in through the hole, but not enough, not enough air! I was slowly suffocating, smothered beneath that intolerable dead weight of rock. I screamed and screamed, but no sound penetrated to the people outside. They passed by, smiling and nodding and hatting to each other, just as though nothing was happening!

  It was only a dream, of course.

  Thursday, 13.40 – 16.55

  'So what's the problem, Aurelio? A little trip to Sardinia, all expenses paid. I should be so lucky! But once you're in business for yourself you learn that the boss works harder than…'

  'I've already explained the problem, Gilberto! Christ, what's the matter with you today?'

  It was the question that Zen had been asking himself ever since arriving at the restaurant. Finding his friend free for lunch at such short notice had seemed a stroke of luck which might help Zen gain control of the avalanche of events which had overrun his life.

  Gilberto Nieddu, an ex-colleague who now ran an industrial counter-espionage firm, was the person Zen was closest to. Serious, determined and utterly reliable, there was an air of strength and density about him, as though all his volatility had been distilled away. Whatever he did, he did in earnest. Zen hadn't of course expected Gilberto to produce instant solutions, but he had counted on him to listen attentively and then bring a calm, objective view to bear on the problems. As a Sardinian himself, his advice and knowledge might make all the difference.

  But Gilberto was not his usual self today. Distracted and preoccupied, continually glancing over his shoulder, he paid little attention to Zen's account of his visit to Palazzo Sisti and its implications.

  'Relax, Aurelio! Enjoy yourself. I'll bet you haven't been here that often, eh?'

  This was true enough. In fact Zen had never been to Licio's, a legendary name among Roman luxury restaurants. The entrance was in a small street near the Pantheon. You could easily pass by without noticing it.

  Apart from a discreet brass plate beside the door, there was no indication of the nature of the business carried on there.

  No menu was displayed, no exaggerated claims made for the quality of the cooking or the cellar.

  Inside you were met by Licio himself, a eunuch-like figure whose expression of transcendental serenity never varied. It was only once you were seated that the unique attraction of Licio's became clear, for thanks to the position of the tables, in widely-separated niches concealed from each other by painted screens and potted plants, you had the illusinn of being the only people there. The prices at Licio's were roughly double the going rate for the class of cuisine on offer, but this was only logical since there were only half as many tables. In any case, the clientele came almost evclusively from the business and political worlds, and was happy to pay whatever Licio wished to ask in return for the privilege of being able to discuss sensitive matters in a normal tone of voice with no risk ofbeing either overheard or deafened by the neighbours. Hence the place's unique cachet: you went to other restaurants to see and be seen; at Licio's you paid more to pass unnoticed.

  On the rare occasions when Zen spent this kind of money on a meal he went to places where the food, rather than the ambience, was the attraction, so Gilberto Nieddu's remark had been accurate enough. That didn't make Zen feel any happier about the slightly patronizing tone in which it had been made. Matters were not improved when Gilberto patted his arm familiarly and whispered, 'Don't worry! This one's on me.'

  Zen made a final attempt to get his friend to appreciate the gravity of the situation.

  'Look, I'll spell it out for you. They're asking me to frame someone. Do you understand? I'm to go to Sardinia and fake some bit of evidence, come up with a surprise witness, anything. They don't care what I do or how I do it as long as it gets the charges against Favelloni withdrawn, or at least puts the trial dates back several months.'

  Gilberto nodded vaguely. He was still glancing compulsively around the restaurant.

  'This could be your big chance, Aurelio,' he murmured, checking his watch yet again.

  Zen stared at him with a fixed intensity that was a reproach.

  'Gilberto, we are talking here about sending an innocent person to prison for twenty years, to say nothing of allowing a man who has gunned down four people in cold blood to walk free. Quite apart from the moral aspect, that is seriously illegal.'

  The Sardinian shrugged. 'So don't do it. Phone in sick or something.'

  'For fuck's sake, this is not just another job! I've been recommended to these people! They've been told that I'm an unscrupulous self-seeker, that I cooked the books in the Miletti case and wouldn't think twice about doing so again. They've brief
ed me, they've cut me in. I know what they're planning to do and how they're planning to do it. If I try and get out of it now, they're not just going to say, "Fine, suit yourself, we'll find someone else."

  They've already hinted that if I don't play along I could expect to become another statistic in somewhere like Palermo. Down there you can get a contract hit done for a few million lire. There are even people who'll do it for free, just to make a name for themselves! And no one's going to notice if another cop goes missing. Are you listening to any of this?'

  'Ah, finally!' Gilberto cried aloud. 'A big client, Aurelio, very big,' he hissed in an undertone to Zen. 'If we swing this one, I can take a year off to listen to your problems. Just play along, follow my lead.'

  He sprang to his feet to greet a stocky, balding man with an air of immense self-satisfaction who was being guided to their table by the unctuous Licio.

  'Commendatore! Good morning, welcome, how are you? Permit me to present Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen.

  Aurelio, Dottor Dario Ochetto of SIFAS Enterprises.'

  Lowering his voice suggestively, Nieddu added, 'Dottor Zen works directly for the Ministry of the Interior.'

  Zen felt like walking out, but he knew he couldn't do it.

  His friendship with Gilberto was too important for him to risk losing it by a show of pique. The fact that Gilberto had probably counted on this reaction didn't make Zen feel any happier about listening to the totally fictitious account of Paragon Security's dealings with the Ministry of the Interior which Nieddu used as a warm-up before presenting his sales pitch. Meanwhile, Zen ate his way through the food that was placed before them and drank rather more wine than he would normally have done.

  Occasionally Gilberto turned in his direction and said, 'Right, Aurelio?' Fortunately neither he nor Ochetto seemed to expect a reply.

  Zen found it impossible to tell whether Ochetto was impressed, favourably or otherwise, by this farce, but as soon as he had departed, amid scenes of compulsive handshaking, Gilberto exploded in jubilation and summoned the waiter to bring over a bottle of their best malt whisky.

  'It's in the bag, Aurelio!' he exclaimed triumphantly. 'An exclusive contract to install and maintain anti-bugging equipment at all their offices throughout the country, and at five times the going rate because what isn't in the contract is the work they want done on the competition.'

  Zen sipped the whisky, which reminded him of a tarbased patent medicine with which his mother had used to dose him liberally on the slightest pretext.

  'What kind of work?'

  Nieddu gave him a sly look. 'Well, what do you think?'

  'I don't think anything,' Zen retorted aggressively.

  'Why don't you answer the question?'

  Nieddu threw up his hands in mock surrender. 'Oh!

  What is this, an interrogation?'

  'You've gone into the bugging business?' Zen demanded.

  'Have you got any objection?'

  'I certainly have! I object to be tricked into appearing to sanction illegal activities when I haven't even been told what they are, much less asked whether I mind being dragged in! Jesus Christ almighty, Gilberto, I don't fucking well need this! Not any time, and especially not now.'

  Gilberto Nieddu gestured for calm, moving his hands smoothly through the air as though stroking silk.

  'This lunch has been arranged for weeks, Aurelio. I didn't ask you to come along. On the contrary, you phoned me at the last moment. I would normally have said I was busy, but because you sounded so desperate I went out of rny way to see you. But I had'to explain your presence to Ochetto, otherwise he would have been suspicious. This way, he'll just think I was trying to impress him with my contacts at the Ministry. It worked beautifully. You were very convincing. And don't worry about repercussions.

  He's already forgotten you exist.'

  Zen smiled wanly as he dug a Nazionale out of his rapidly collapsing pack. 'You were very convincing.' Tania had said the same thing the night before, and it had apparently been Zen's 'convincing' performance in the Miletti case which had recommended him to Palazzo Sisti.

  Everyone who used him for their own purposes seemed very satisfied with the results.

  'So you're in the shit again, eh?' continued Nieddu, lighting a cigar and settling back in his chair. 'What's it all about this time?'

  Zen pushed his glass about on the tablecloth stained with traces of the various courses they had consumed. He no longer had any desire to share his troubles with the Sardinian.

  'Oh, nothing. I'm probably just imagining it.'

  Nieddu eyed his friend through a screen of richly fragrant smoke.

  'It's time you got out of the police, Aurelio. What's the point of slogging away like this at your age, putting your life on the line? Leave that to the young ambitious pricks who still think they're immortal. Let's face it, it's a mug's game. There's nothing in it unless you're bent, and even then it's just small change really.'

  He clicked his fingers to summon the bill.

  'You know, I never had any idea what was going on in the world until I went into business. I simply never realized what life was about. I mean, they don't teach you this stuff at school. What you have to grasp is, it's all there for the taking. Somebody's going to get it. If it isn't you, it'll be someone else.'

  He sipped his whisky and drew at his cigar.

  'All these cases you get so excited about, the Burolos and all the rest of it, do you know what that amounts to'?

  Traffic accidents, that's all. If you have roads and cars, a certain number of people are going to get killed and injured. Those people attract a lot of attention, but they're really just a tiny percentage of the number who arrive safely without any fuss or bother. It's the same in business, Aurelio. The system's there, people are going to use it. The only question is whether you want to spend your time cleaning up after other people's pile-ups or driving off where you want to go. Fancy a cognac or something?'

  It was after three o'clock when the two men emerged, blinking, into the afternoon sunlight. They shook hands and parted amicably enough, but as Zen walked away it felt as though a door had slammed shut behind him.

  People changed, that was the inconvenient thing one always forgot. It was years now since Gilberto had left the police in disgust at the way Zen had been treated over the Moro affair, but Zen still saw him as a loyal colleague, formed in the same professional mould, sharing the same perceptions and prejudices. But Gilberto Nieddu was no longer an ex-policeman, but a prosperous and successful businessman, and his views and attitudes had changed accordingly.

  On a day-to-day level this had been no more apparent ihan the movement of a clock's hands. It had taken this crisis to reveal the distance that now separated the two men. The Sardinian still wished Zen well, of course, and would help him if he could. But he found it increasingly difficult to take Aurelio's problems very seriously. To him they seemed trivial, irrelevant and self-infiicted. What was the point cf getting into trouble and taking risks with no prospect of profit at the end of it all?

  Gilberto's attitude made it impossible for Zen to ask him for help, yet help was what he desperately needed for the Project that was beginning to form in his mind. If he couldn't get it through official channels or friendly contacts then there was only one other possibility.

  The first sighting was just north of Piazza Venezia. After the calm of the narrow streets from which most traffic was banned, the renewed contact with the brutal realities of Roman life was even more traumatic than usual. I'm getting too old, Zen thought as he hovered indecisively at the ke rb. My reactions are slowing down. I'm losing my nerve, my confidence. So he was reassured to see that a tough-looking young man in a leather jacket and jeans was apparently just as reluctant to take the plunge. In the end, indeed, it was Zen who was the first to step out boldly into the traffic, trusting that the drivers would choose not to exercise their power to kill or maim him.

  It was marginally less reassuring to catch sight of the s
ame young man just a few minutes later in Piazza del Campidoglio. Zen had taken this route because it avoided the maelstrom of Piazza Venezia, although it meant climbing the long steep fiights of steps up the Capitoline hill. Nevertheless, when he paused for breath by the plinth where a statue of his namesake had stood until recently succumbing to air pollution, there was the young man in the leather jacket, about twenty metres behind, bending down to adjust his shoe-laces.

  Zen swung left and walked down past the Mamertine prison to Via dei Fori Imperiali. He paused to light a cigarette. Twenty metres back, Leather Jacket was lounging against a railing, admiring the view. As Zen replaced his cigarettes, a piece of paper fluttered from his pocket to the ground. He continued on his way, counting his strides. When he reached twenty he looked round again.

  The young man in the leather jacket was bending to pick up the paper he had dropped.

  The only thing he would learn from it was that Zen had spent xzoo lire in a wine shop in Piazza Campo dei Fiori that morning. Zen, on the other hand, had leamt two things: the man was following him, and he wasn't very good at it. Without breaking his pace, he continued along the broad boulevard towards the Colisseum. This, or rather the underground station of the same name, had been his destination from the start, but he would have to lose the tail first. The men he was planning to visit had a code of etiquette as complex and inflexible as any member of Rome's vestigial aristocracy, and would take a particularly poor view of anyone arriving with an unidentified guest in tow.

  Without knowing who Leather Jacket was working for, it was difficult to choose the best way of disposing of him.

  If he was an independent operator, the easiest thing would be to have him arrested on some pretext. This would also be quick – a phone call would bring a patrol car in minutes – and Zen was already concerned about getting back to the house before six o'clock, when Maria Grazia went home. But if Leather Jacket was part of an organization, then this solution would sacrifice Zen's long-term advantage by showing the tail that he had been burned. He would simply be replaced by someone unknown to Zen, and quite possibly someone more experienced and harder to spot. Zen therefore reluctantly decided to go for the most difficult option, that of losing the young man without allowing him to realize what had happened. It was not until the last moment, as he was passing the entrance, that it dawned on him that the perfect territory for this purpose was conveniently to hand.