‘Earth, earth, earth,’ she told him.
His eyebrows shot up in surprise then stayed there in thought. To live and work in Jerusalem was to suffer daily reminders of the perplexing core of Jewish faith. Their first temple laid low by the Babylonians, their second by the Romans. How could this have happened to God’s chosen people? How could His sacred treasures have been looted and lost? For many centuries Jewish theologians had wrestled with this conundrum, devising ingenious explanations that typically ascribed it to God’s inscrutable plan – one that would culminate in His triumphant return at the end of days. One of these, the Apocalypse of Baruch, explained away the loss of the temple treasures by claiming that they’d never left Israel at all, but had instead been buried by an angel in the desert outside Jerusalem, and that their recovery would signal not just the restoration of Jerusalem but the start of the Apocalypse. Earth, earth, earth, it went. Hear the word of Almighty God. Receive these things which I commit to you, and guard them until the Last Times.
Kaufman nodded soberly. ‘I thought you no longer believed in all that.’
‘I don’t,’ she admitted. ‘But think how many others do. And how far they’ll go to make it happen.’
II
Carmen’s heart thumped like a beaten rug at Baldassare’s question. ‘Why is it a mystery that they let me live?’ she asked. ‘Surely they’d have needed a reason to kill me, not the other way around.’
‘No,’ said Baldassare. ‘Forgive me, but no.’
‘Then how come I’m still here?’
‘Exactly,’ he said.
They gazed at each other for several seconds. There was no meanness in Baldassare’s expression, but no softness either. Yet Carmen had too much at stake to yield. ‘You’ll need to explain,’ she said.
He nodded. ‘I have dealt with the Calabrian Mafia for many, many years,’ he told her. ‘My first big case as a lawyer, I worked on the team that prosecuted a man who set off a car bomb in a crowded market to protest the arrest of one of his bosses. Nineteen people dead, including five children. You should have seen him in the interviews. It was his job, he didn’t care one jot. If anything, he was proud of what he’d done – a soldier who’d successfully performed a hard duty. Later on, another group of them slaughtered fifteen members of a single family gathered in a Cosenza restaurant for a funeral lunch, including a four-year-old boy who somehow survived the first fusillade and took refuge behind a counter. They dragged him out by his ankle and shot him through the head.’
Carmen felt sick. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because these are the same men who let you live last night. The same kind of men, I should say. And such men don’t let anyone live. Not if they might talk.’
‘How could I talk? I told you, I was unconscious the whole time.’
‘Yes. But how could they know that? How could they know for sure? Unconsciousness is the easiest thing in the world to feign. And if you were so obviously unconscious why bother with ketamine? The injection might even wake you. Also, they taped your wrists, ankles and mouth, so why not your eyes too, to make sure you couldn’t see? Another thing. I can understand people driving around with adhesive tape in their car. But what kind of person drives around with ketamine and a syringe?’
‘I thought you said they were Mafia.’
‘Yes. And it would make sense if they’d taken a hostage. But they took no one hostage, as I understand. They killed your two friends but let you live. And I want to know why. Though I must confess I do have one idea.’
‘Which is?’ she asked, her voice betraying her with its croak.
‘I think they let you live because you are young and pretty and – most importantly of all – American. We have a history here in Italy of young, pretty American women involved in murder investigations. Everything goes crazy. On TV, it is non-stop. News crews fly in from around the world. Our leaders grow embarrassed over the lack of progress. They demand results, no matter the cost. We duly flood the area with officers, we arrest everyone we see, we search every building within twenty kilometres. So, then, if I am an ’Ndrangheta killer, I am going to think very carefully before killing a young and pretty American woman.’
‘Well, then. There’s your answer.’
‘Yes. Except now a different puzzle. If you were unconscious the whole time, how would they know you were American?’
‘Maybe Giulia said something. Maybe they looked in my purse. My passport was in there.’
‘It was in there?’ he frowned. ‘Are you saying it’s gone?’
‘No. That wasn’t what I meant at all.’
‘Then you have it still?’
Carmen’s face burned. ‘I don’t know. I haven’t checked yet.’
Baldassare frowned. ‘You were the victim of a terrible assault and you haven’t even checked your purse?’
‘I only just woke. It hadn’t occurred to me.’
‘Yet your phone is on the charger.’
‘I had to check for messages. I thought people might be worried.’
‘Ah. Of course.’ His chair creaked as he sat back. ‘Then perhaps you should check now.’
‘For my passport?’
‘Just to be sure.’
‘Of course.’ She reached for her purse and went through the charade for him, feigning relief over her plastic and cash, horror at her missing passport.
‘You’re quite sure you brought it down with you?’ he asked.
‘I take it everywhere.’
‘Could it have fallen out?’
‘I keep it zipped.’
He leaned forward, resting his weight once more upon his knees. ‘So they take your passport from your purse, yet leave your cash and credit cards. How very odd. Can you think why they might have done that?’
‘No.’
‘Here’s a thought. Do you think maybe it was because they didn’t want you leaving the country for a while?’
She swallowed. ‘Why would they want that?’
‘So that you couldn’t go somewhere you felt safe, to tell us what you knew.’
‘Except that I know nothing.’
‘Yes. Of course. I keep forgetting. You were unconscious the whole time.’ But then he looked at her lying there and sighed. ‘You must think me a terrible bully, after what you have been through, to press you like this. But I have good reasons, I assure you. Reasons you would understand and sympathise with, if I could share.’ He fell silent again. ‘What if I were to speak to your consulate, to arrange for you to fly back anyway? Would you tell us then?’
‘Tell you what?’ she said desperately. ‘I don’t know a thing.’
He nodded sadly. ‘Let me tell you a story. One story, and then I go. It is about that restaurant massacre I mentioned. It was of a family called the Carbones, headed by a man called Federico who once owned the villa I now use for my headquarters. We took it as the proceeds of crime, you see, because he was a Mafia boss himself, the right-hand man of a charmer called Luca Critelli, who used to run the ’Ndrangheta here, until his own sons had him gunned down for holding them back. Anyway, this man Federico Carbone. He inducted his own two sons into the ’ndrine when they were just fourteen, but when it came to his grandchildren he finally baulked. His eldest were twins, you see. Giovanni and Claudia, the apples of his eyes. And the violence of the Critelli brothers came to sicken him, so that he couldn’t bear the thought of his grandson Giovanni being inducted too, making vows to such men. He made contact with me, therefore, and promised to turn pentiti in exchange for immunity. I agreed. He was as good as his word. His information enabled us to arrest the brothers and their top lieutenants. We still needed his testimony to convict them all, however, but the day before the trial opened, he put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.’
‘What? Why?’
‘The trial broke down. We had to let the Critellis go. After the funeral, Federico’s immediate family went together to that Cosenza restaurant I mentioned. That’s where the gunmen go
t them. They killed them all, including the four-year old. The only bodies we never found were those of the twins. That was how we learned. People working for the Critelli brothers had taken them hostage a couple of weeks or so before. They’d made a deal with Federico to let them go if he killed himself before testifying. So that’s what he did. Then they murdered his whole family anyway.’
Carmen felt sick. ‘The twins too?’
Baldassare nodded. ‘We arrested a man down in Reggio the following year, for something else. Sometimes, truly wicked men get the urge to clear their consciences. It’s astonishing to watch. So it was with him. He told us about his involvement in numerous murders, including the twins. He owned a boat, you see. He was paid to sail it up to Paola one night, where three men were waiting. They had two bodies in the boot of their car. A boy and a girl. They carried them aboard, along with old engine blocks and lengths of chain to dump at sea. They sailed them out then came back empty.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because I need you to understand something. You cannot – you absolutely cannot – trust such men. They have no honour, no kindness, no mercy. They promised Federico that they’d let his family live if he killed himself. Yet they murdered them all anyway. Because that is who they are. They will say anything to get you to do what they want. They will weep and plead and swear on their mothers’ lives. And good people like yourself will believe them, because you want to. But, the moment it suits them, they will betray their vows without a qualm, and mock you for having believed them too. So whatever they promise you, I swear…’ He stopped unexpectedly, he stared down at the floor. Half a minute passed. To Carmen’s astonishment, his shoulders began to hump. She reached out to touch him only to stop shy. He shielded his eyes with his hand, took out a tissue to dab them dry. ‘My job,’ he said, as he put it away again. ‘The things I see. The things I do. It takes a toll.’
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘And if there was anything…’
He nodded several times. She could see the weakness pass, a new hardness take its place. ‘Do you mean that?’ he asked. ‘Because there are things you can do.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Like what?’
‘My colleagues in the police are still collecting evidence, as you can imagine. They will need to take your fingerprints, in order to exclude them. Your DNA too. And another statement, with an official translator this time.’
‘Another statement? But I know nothing.’
‘Even so. Just in case. Also, we’ve found reconstructions to be surprisingly helpful. We can find another blue Fiat pickup to drive you through Cosenza at the same time of day, to see if it jogs memories.’
She frowned at him. ‘You want to make it look like I’m cooperating. Even though it’s dangerous for me. Because it’s dangerous.’
‘I’m trying to solve a murder,’ he replied. ‘The murder of your friend and her father. Don’t you want that too?’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘You’ll never be safe while these men are free. Nor at peace.’ He took out his wallet then set a business card on her bedside table. ‘You’re a good person. I can tell. Too good to keep your silence. The time will come when you need to talk. Don’t go to the police when that happens. It pains me to say this, but they’re too badly infiltrated. What they learn, the ’Ndrangheta will soon learn too. No. When the time comes, this is the number to call.’
III
Cesco was a naturally quick learner when it came to his scams. A year and a half pretending to be an assistant professor on sabbatical had given him enough knowledge about Alaric and the Visigoths to fool almost anyone he met. But Carmen Nero wasn’t almost anyone. She was a doctoral student writing a thesis on Galla Placidia, the Roman empress taken hostage by Alaric while she’d still been a teenage girl, before going on to marry his brother-in-law Athaulf and later becoming Rome’s de facto regent. He’d never bluff her for long without a serious refresher. His first act on returning to Cosenza, therefore, was to find himself a cafe with Wi-Fi where he speed-read papers on Galla Placidia herself, on Alaric’s other contemporaries, on fourth-century Roman coinage, on ground-penetrating radar, fibulae and Gothic burial practices. He grew so absorbed that he lost track of time until a waiter came to stand beside his table, tapping his foot. Cesco looked up. The cafe that had been empty on his arrival was now so full for lunch that it was either order something more or leave. He settled up then squatted on the pavement outside to use their Wi-Fi for one final task, searching for and reserving a suitable apartment.
There was a greengrocer next to the cafe. He bought four oranges and a bunch of grapes then set off. The hospital was undergoing a major refurbishment, its buildings all sheathed in scaffolding and green safety netting. A statue of Padre Pio was draped with votive rosaries, and candles and flowers lay around its base. Cesco looked them over. A cheerful bouquet of tulips would have been perfect, had they not already started to wilt, so he took the half-dozen red roses instead, despite their romantic overtones, then refreshed them by flicking them with crushed diamonds of water from a nearby fountain.
There were signposts on every corner. Unfortunately, thanks to the building work, they kept sending him the wrong way. But finally he found reception. He let it slip, while asking for Carmen’s room, that he was one who’d found her and the Suraces the night before. A small crowd quickly gathered. He told them the story with a self-deprecating humility designed to win admiration as well as directions. A charming young nurse volunteered to take him to the second floor, then point him onwards. He gave her a red rose from his bouquet in thanks; her blush put a spring into his step. Then he passed a man with a ravaged face clutching a young boy against his side, and suddenly he felt like shit.
Two burly men pushed through the swing doors ahead, either side of a short, bearded and familiar-looking man struggling to keep up with them, giving him the hurried splayed stride of a man walking barefoot across hot sand. He looked instantly familiar yet still it took Cesco a moment to realise who he was. The moment it came to him, his heart went into overdrive. He stepped back against the wall and dropped his eyes, blanking his expression until they’d passed. Even so, he sensed the bearded man turning to stare at him, as if somehow half recognising him too. But he didn’t stop, and soon enough their footsteps faded, and the relief of it made Cesco sag against the wall. He gave himself another minute before heading to the loos to splash water on his face. Then he put himself back into character and went in search of Carmen.
Chapter Nine
It was only a few minutes after Baldassare had left that Carmen received a second visitor. Her saviour from last night peered through the glass panel in her door, and then knocked. She beckoned him in, glad of a friendly face. He came to her bedside to present her with two paper bags of fruit and a small bouquet of red roses. ‘How beautiful,’ she said, holding them to her nose to breathe in their scent. ‘You’re so kind.’
‘I couldn’t have you leave Calabria thinking us all barbarians.’
‘I’d never think that. But thank you anyway.’ She looked around for somewhere to set everything, before clearing space on her bedside table to lay the roses flat, along with the two bags, which contained respectively four plump oranges and a bunch of grapes that hadn’t yet decided whether to grow up green or purple. ‘I’m so glad you came. I never thanked you properly last night. You saved my life. Maybe literally.’
‘I made a phone call, that’s all. How could I do less?’ He noticed Baldassare’s card. ‘So it was him,’ he murmured. ‘Mr Mafia himself.’
‘Don’t let him hear you call him that. Mr anti-Mafia, if you please.’
‘What did he want?’
‘Oh, this and that. Another statement, for one thing, only with a proper translator.’
‘Hey!’ protested Cesco.
‘Forgive me,’ she smiled. ‘I should have said an official translator.’
‘That’s more like it.’ He settled himself into Baldassare’s chair and gazed at her with
an unsettling directness. It had been so dark last night, and she so groggy, that she hadn’t really taken notice of his looks. Now that she did, she found herself liking what she saw, in particular the startling blue eyes that Giulia had told her of, accentuated as they were by his Mediterranean complexion and long black hair. Indeed, so blue were his eyes that she found she couldn’t quite look directly into them. ‘I can’t believe how much better you look,’ he said. ‘Last night, you were grey like an English winter. And how I hate an English winter!’
‘I’m sorry to have put you through it, then.’
‘Oh,’ he grinned. ‘But that’s the thing about England, though, isn’t it? The sun always comes out again, and then it’s the only place in the world you want to be.’ He gazed at her a moment longer, until it became almost intrusive, then suddenly reached for one of the bags of fruit he’d brought. He rummaged through it for an orange, dug his thumb so deep into its navel that juices squirted over his trousers. ‘You must tell me the moment you feel tired,’ he said, brushing the juice away. ‘I know what visitors are like. They never take the hint.’
‘Not at all. I like company.’
‘And in case I forget to ask later. Is there anything you need? Anything at all? You were poor Giulia’s friend, after all. That makes you my responsibility.’
‘I’m fine, honestly.’
‘You English. Always so polite. Nothing to cause trouble.’
‘I’m American,’ she told him. ‘Causing trouble is what we do best.’
He laughed and peeled off a chunk of skin and pith that he tossed at the bin, only to miss by a wide margin. ‘How about money? I hate to be so blunt, but if those monsters stole your purse or—’
‘They didn’t.’
‘A translator, then?’
The Sacred Spoils Page 9
