More movement at the hatch. Baldassare himself now appeared, one arm around his wife, the other around his daughter, all three weeping helplessly. It was both too joyful and too painful for Cesco to bear. He’d structured his life never again to be vulnerable to such strong emotion. Yet now he felt only envy.
Sirens in the distance. A stream of police cars and fire engines began bumping up the track. To stay here would make for some difficult interviews. He’d have to go through his history again. Knowing the police, his identity was certain to leak. If he left right now, on the other hand, he could be back in Cosenza in half an hour. Hire a taxi out to the villa for the Harley then swing by the apartment for his things. From there he could head wherever he wished, and start over. As for his past coming out, Baldassare owed him big right now. An email asking him and his team to keep quiet about his involvement should do the trick.
He bowed his head, hunched his shoulders and hurried down to the bottom gate. He climbed it by its hinges, trod down the barbed wire on top, careful of his new shirt, then lowered himself on the other side. He waited until the road was clear then hurried across it into a fallow field at whose foot the Busento sedately ran, the sound of its burbling like gentle laughter at the downfall of yet another fool of Alaric.
II
The silver Range Rover was parked against a low stone wall on the hilltop directly across the Busento valley from the smouldering farmhouse.
‘Well, that went well,’ said Tomas.
‘I spent hours setting up that fucking ceiling,’ grumbled Guido. ‘How did they get out in time?’
‘Our good friend Cesco Rossi,’ said Tomas.
‘That little fuck,’ said Guido. He popped the last of his salami and cheese sandwich into his mouth, only to realise he had something else to say. He chewed it down to manageable size then swallowed it away. ‘I told you those brats wouldn’t have the balls to off the bitches,’ he said. ‘Never work with virgins. That’s what I say.’
Tomas shrugged. ‘We used what we were given.’
‘You think they’ll talk?’
‘They never have before. Why start now?’
‘That American cunt will. And she’s seen our faces now.’
Tomas looked sideways at his brother, searching for signs of reproach. It had been Tomas’s decision to let Carmen Nero live that first day; his decision to go out bareheaded that same morning too, once it had become obvious that she and Rossi were on their way to the farmhouse. He’d hoped to intercept them before they got there, lest the GPS on their phones lead the police straight to them after they’d disappeared. He’d planned to drive their van on a few kilometres to set up a murder–suicide. And, even in Calabria, you could hardly drive around wearing balaclavas. ‘What choice did we have, oh my brother?’
‘I’m not saying we had a choice,’ said Guido hurriedly.
‘I’m glad to hear that.’
‘Every decision you’ve made, it’s been absolutely the right decision.’ He smiled ingratiatingly at Tomas to make sure his apology had been accepted. Relieved, he crumpled up his sandwich’s wrapping and tossed it out the window. ‘We’ve just had shitty luck, that’s all.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Tomas.
Ever since the Suraces had come to see them, asking to run a survey in their meadow, it had been one crisis after another. Tomas had done his best but the truth was they had failed. Their leverage over Judge Mancuso was gone. The Critelli brothers were almost certainly now facing long stretches – if indeed they ever left prison again. And they were not the kind of men to entertain arguments about bad luck, however justified. Nor to let failure go unpunished.
Tomas gestured at Guido to set off for home. He had some serious thinking to do.
III
Lamezia Terme was only a short hop south of Rome. Zara spent the flight marking essays on her laptop. On landing, she went directly to her car-rental booth. The clerk gave her keys, a map and her bay number, which she promptly forgot. She walked along the line of cars, pressing the key fob until a scarlet Renault hatchback gave a satisfying clunk and its lights flashed orange. She stowed her bag in the boot then took out her printed copy of her hotel reservation to punch its address into her phone’s satnav. Then she heard footsteps approaching fast and she whirled around to see the man from the café striding towards her, a pair of bags slung over his shoulders.
‘You,’ she said.
‘Me,’ he agreed. He stopped a pace short of her, reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet, took out his identity card for her inspection. ‘Dov Mandel at your service. The minister told you to expect me, yes?’
‘You’re Dov? But… what was that absurd pantomime at the café?’
‘I needed to know if I could trust you.’
‘Trust me?’
‘Not to blab about what you’re doing here to the first good-looking man who asked you. And you did okay. Not brilliantly, but okay.’ He opened the Renault’s rear door, tossed his bags onto the seats. He plucked the car key from her hand before she realised what he was doing then took her hotel booking form too. ‘Nice,’ he said. He opened the driver door, got in, pushed back the seat. ‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘But… are we allowed to be seen together?’
‘Allowed!’ he laughed. ‘It’s just for the drive up. I need to brief you on some shit.’
‘I’d better drive,’ she said. ‘You’re not named on the—’
‘Just get in, will you?’
She climbed in the passenger side, belted herself in. He reversed so sharply out of their parking spot that it flung her against her straps. He thrust the Renault into gear and roared away, hitting speed bumps like he was trying to use them to take off, screeching around a pair of roundabouts then out onto dual carriageway.
‘Brief me on what, exactly?’ she asked. ‘I’m only here for a look around.’
‘Is that what the minister told you?’
‘Yes. Why?’
He gave a grunt. ‘Fucking politicians,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand. What’s going on?’
‘You need to get something in your head right now,’ he told her. ‘You’re not here for a look around. At least, you are. But you can’t think of it that way. You’ve been asked to do this by your government. That means you’re here on a mission. And being here on a mission puts you in jeopardy, whether you like it or not.’
‘A mission!’ She laughed, a little uncertainly. ‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘No. I’m not. I’m really not.’ He squinted at the road ahead until he saw a turning. He indicated and took it, driving along a residential street that ended in a development of unfinished houses that loomed around them like ghostly ruins. He bumped across deep ruts left by heavy machinery and came finally to a halt. He switched off the engine, released his seat belt from its buckle, then turned in his seat to face her. ‘I need you to listen to me very carefully,’ he told her. ‘In our line of work, what you’re actually doing in a place means nothing. What matters is what the locals think you’re doing. Tell me this: how many years in jail do you think an Italian court would give you for plotting to steal the Menorah and the other temple treasures?’
‘But… that’s crazy,’ she protested. ‘That’s not why I’m here.’
‘I know that,’ he said, with exasperation. ‘And you know that. But why would they believe you? If they catch you sniffing around Alaric’s tomb, they’ll assume the worst. Because that’s what people do. Even if you can convince the police, you can always count on some shit-stirring newspaper columnist or politician on the make to denounce you as an agent of the Jewish state. They’ll make your presence here an affront to national pride. And then the government will have to act, even if they know it’s bullshit, because nothing generates outrage like an affront to national pride. Besides, you’ll be great leverage for them. They’ll offer to exchange you for a spy of their own, or for concessions on some trade deal or other. And if our guys say
no, if they disown you, the Italians will lock you up without a qualm until they reconsider.’
She stared at him, hoping that he was pulling her leg. But his face was stony. ‘Lock us up without a qualm, you mean,’ she said.
‘Afraid not. My job gives me diplomatic immunity. Does yours?’ He studied her closely, nodded with satisfaction when he saw dismay bloom in her eyes. His own expression immediately softened. ‘I’m not telling you this to scare you,’ he said. ‘I’m telling you to make you listen. To make you careful. Nothing bad is going to happen. You know why not? Because you’ve got me looking out for you, and I’m the best there is at this, though I say so myself. I’ve run over two dozen missions now, and not one of them has ever gone even slightly wrong. That’s because I’m trained, I have experience, I see problems early. You don’t. You need to remember that. Understand?’
‘I guess.’
He shifted closer to her in his seat. In the confined space, it made her uncomfortably aware how little she knew about this man, how far out in the middle of nowhere they were parked. ‘You guess?’ he said. ‘You guess? What the fuck does guess mean?’
‘I’m just saying Avram never said anything about—’
‘You’re Israeli, yes? How old? Forty?’
Her cheeks burned. ‘Thirty-three.’
‘So you’ve served in the army?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well consider yourself back in service. I’m a lieutenant colonel, which makes me your commanding officer. And I’m not going to have a blemish on my record because you refuse to take this seriously. Because you get careless, because you say something stupid, because you miss a cue I’ve given you.’
‘I don’t even—’
‘I’m still talking.’
‘But I—’
‘I said I’m still talking.’
She instantly fell silent, her heart thumping, flooding her system with adrenaline that burnished everything around them with a peculiar sheen, his complexion and the gleam of his teeth and the whites of his eyes. She became exquisitely aware of his nearness, his breath upon her face, the mix of cologne and sweat. ‘It may be that I need to make contact with you in public places,’ he told her. ‘If that happens, I may have to couch things like they’re suggestions. They won’t be suggestions. You need to remember that. They’ll be orders. Orders from your commanding officer. So you’ll obey them, even if you don’t fully understand them, even if they make you uncomfortable. Do you understand?’
‘I… Yes.’
‘Yes what?’
She frowned in puzzlement. ‘Yes, sir?’
‘Don’t fucking call me sir,’ he said. ‘Not ever. Not out loud. Think it in your head, yes. Think it all the time. But not out loud. You understand?’
‘Yes… Yes.’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘That’s better,’ he said. He glared at her a few moments longer with a look of revulsion on his face, as if it disgusted him even to be in same car as her. She felt herself shrinking into her seat, ugly and small and useless. Then suddenly he broke into a smile, as if tossing a treat to a pet corgi – and to her shame she couldn’t help herself, she smiled weakly back at him. He grinned and belted himself in once more. Then he turned the ignition back on and screeched into a violent U-turn, as if nothing at all had just happened.
Chapter Twenty
I
There was nothing the matter with Carmen. Nothing physical, at least. Nothing other than having spent a good chunk of her day in mortal terror. She refused all offers of medical help and insisted on being taken directly to Cosenza police station so that she could give her statement while her memory was fresh and her anger hot. The station was in chaos, however. Dozens of ’Ndrangheta suspects had been arrested that afternoon and were being processed. Her escorting officer parked her in reception while he went in search of someone with decent English. She never saw him again. An hour passed. She asked at the desk. A kindly young woman made her a cup of mint tea and tried valiantly to take her statement, but her English simply wasn’t up to it, so Carmen volunteered to write it all down herself. Once she’d started, it all came out – not just what had happened that day, but the truth of the Surace murders too: how she’d in fact remained conscious throughout, witnessing the men in balaclavas as they’d murdered Vittorio and Giulia Surace, the grotesque conversation they’d had.
The office door opened abruptly. The ispettore walked in, holding her purse, which he returned to her with a show of gratitude and deference. They held an awkward conversation, translated as best as the woman officer could manage. Carmen asked about her phone and passport. Neither had been found, but he promised to send them on if they turned up. In the meantime, could he show her some mugshots for her two escaped abductors? She looked through several pages of photos, but saw neither. He asked whether she’d come back in the morning to work with a sketch artist. She agreed. He thanked her, then asked her not to talk to anyone yet about what had happened, as operations were ongoing and further arrests planned. She agreed to this too, then returned to her statement, finishing it – with a kind of bitter satisfaction – with an account of how Cesco had gone to the Suraces’ farmhouse last night and burned it down.
Her bravado was by now wearing thin. She felt a reaction coming on. She signed her statement, took a copy for herself, then left. Night had fallen. It had turned cold and gusty. It began to spit with rain as she walked, then turned suddenly into such a deluge that she had to run the last fifty metres for the sanctuary of her lobby. She dripped freely on the stairs as she made her way to the apartment, only to hesitate on the landing.
What if Cesco was still here? What if he was inside?
The door was locked. She listened a moment at it then opened it quietly and poked in her head. The place was empty. Sometimes you just knew. She called out anyway. Then, leaving the door ajar just in case, she checked each room in turn. His clothes and bag were gone, his duvet flapped out neatly over his bed. His keys were on the bedside table, but not her phone. There was no note, no apology, no effort at explanation or excuse. She told herself she was glad that he hadn’t tried to defend the indefensible. And yet, inside, she ached.
II
The road from Lamezia Terme to Cosenza ran north alongside the coast for much of the way, long dark strips of nothingness punctuated by quaint fishing villages with drab accretions of industrial estates and modern apartment blocks. Dov grew bored. He searched the radio for music to drum his fingers to. ‘Your plan,’ he said.
‘My plan?’ asked Zara.
‘The minister told me your first step was to hook up with some American woman.’
‘Yes. I was trying to write her an email at the airport. Only I kept being disturbed.’
‘You haven’t sent it, then? You need help?’
She shook her head. ‘She posted a picture of her apartment on my message board. I was planning to bump into her in the morning.’
He slid her a look. ‘Seriously? That’s easier than an email?’
She flushed a little. ‘I can always send one if this doesn’t work.’
‘You know what she looks like, then?’
‘Everyone on our discussion board has a profile photograph. Anyway, I’m hoping that she recognises me. I’m fairly well known in our community.’
‘A celeb, huh. Who’d have thought?’
The radio pipped the hour. An announcer read the news. There’d been great excitement in Cosenza that afternoon, it turned out. A dramatic hostage rescue and dozens of Mafia arrests. Dov scowled. It meant the police would be out in force. Sure enough, when they reached Cosenza, the night sky fluttered blue. But they made it to Zara’s hotel without alarm. It was large and modern, with a car park to its rear and a restaurant on its ground floor open to anyone, not just guests. He found an empty bay in the shadows then reached into the back to unzip his bag and take out a burner phone and its charger. ‘This is for contacting me,’ he told Zara
. ‘My number’s already programmed in. Don’t use it for anything else, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Text me your room number the moment you’re in.’
‘Where will you be staying?’
‘You don’t need to know that. Now go on in. Don’t talk to anyone you don’t need to. Order room service then get an early night. Tomorrow’s a big day. Understand?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good.’ He watched her fetch her bags from the boot then go inside. She had a nice walk. He took a fresh shirt, underwear and toiletries from his overnight bag and packed them into his laptop case. Ten minutes passed. His phone pinged. Zara was in room 512. He pulled on a baseball cap and dark glasses, slung his laptop bag over his shoulder then went around the front to enter the restaurant that way. It was large, dimly lit and almost empty. He ordered a beer and a cheeseburger then sat in the darkest available booth.
On a mission this delicate, Dov couldn’t afford to leave a trail. That made accommodation awkward. Hotels insisted on seeing a passport, booking websites required a credit card. Avram had given him 5,000 euros in cash for incidental expenses, but even that would mean having to meet someone to hand it over. And he could hardly sleep in the Renault, not with the police on high alert.
His burger arrived. He squeezed a couple of sachets of ketchup onto the chips then scoffed it all down. He grabbed his laptop bag again then found the stairs and walked briskly up to the fifth floor, keeping his head down from the cameras. There was a tray on the floor outside Zara’s room, a half-eaten tagliatelle in a creamy sauce and the smears of chocolate dessert. He checked both ways to make sure the corridor was empty, then knocked. Footsteps padded on carpet. ‘Who’s there?’ asked Zara.
The Sacred Spoils Page 18
