by David Hewson
As they slowly passed, Falcone, to his own amazement, found himself crying out, “Soverintendente! Soverintendente!”
The couple stopped. Nic Costa turned and stared at him with a quizzical look.
“In bocca al lupo,” Falcone shouted, with a sudden and entirely involuntary enthusiasm.
“Crepi il lupo!” Maggie Flavier cried back joyfully at him.
And then they moved on.
In the mouth of the wolf. Foreigners always found it a curious way to wish someone good luck. He was impressed that Maggie Flavier knew the correct response. Let the wolf die.
The wolf had hung around Nic Costa long enough, Falcone thought as he watched them disappear into the mist.
11
Gianluca Quattrocchi wore his finest dress uniform with a white carnation in the collar, determined to look his best at this final glittering event before his return home. He had already rehearsed in his head the report he would give to his superiors. Of the uncooperative intransigence of the American authorities, unable to relinquish their grip on the case sufficiently to allow the Carabinieri to do their job. Of the meddling of the state police, constantly obstructing and interfering with Quattrocchi’s investigation. He would single out Falcone by name, in the knowledge that to do so would get back to the higher echelons of the state police and perhaps earn the man the reprimand he deserved.
There was, for Gianluca Quattrocchi, a point at which a failed case turned from a mystery demanding solution into a disaster requiring containment. The death of Allan Prime and the sequence of events that had followed now fell entirely in the second category. It would be for the American authorities to pursue whatever slim, time-consuming half-leads and connections they could find in the financial affairs of the two dead men involved in the dotcom bubble of Lukatmi. The Carabinieri had neither the time nor the resources to become involved in such work, not least because any resulting case would surely be tried in America and benefit the Italian authorities not one whit.
This was not the outcome Quattrocchi sought. He had, for a while, genuinely believed that the Canadian professor, Bryan Whitcombe, who had pressed himself upon the Italian authorities with such adamant enthusiasm, might hold some insight into the case. That idea had waned lately, and he’d even begun to find the man somewhat creepy. Whitcombe had turned up for tonight’s premiere in a garish white suit and taken to bearding starlets with his lascivious gaze. The man had even announced to the media that he intended to write a book on the affair of “Dante’s Numbers,” as he had dubbed it. According to that morning’s papers, an outline for the work was now being hyped around American publishers by one of the book world’s more notorious agents. Law enforcement work often had unforeseen consequences. The elevation of Bryan Whitcombe to the status of unlikely media star was one he could never have predicted.
None of this did much for Quattrocchi’s mood as he sipped his free champagne. He began quietly to plan his exit from the proceedings so that he might miss the screening altogether, merely returning for the closing ceremony. Then he saw Gerald Kelly, a man for whom he felt no affection whatsoever, stomping towards him like a bulldog intent on its victim.
“We need to talk,” the American snapped. “Somewhere private.”
Quattrocchi followed to an empty area close by the lake and listened. As he did so he felt the bitter taste of envy rise in his throat.
The SFPD captain was right to tell him of this development. He was in charge of the Italian investigative team. Falcone should have come to him first with this news, and allowed Quattrocchi to pass it on to Kelly.
The American finished with the suggestion Quattrocchi join him and Falcone for the interview with Simon Harvey after the premiere.
“Of course I’ll be there,” Quattrocchi insisted. “We’re joint investigating authorities in this case. It would be highly improper to commence without me.”
Kelly glared at him. “You know, I never got around to saying this to your face until now. But this is our country, not yours. We interview who we like, when we like, and I don’t care whether that pisses you off or not.”
“And Tonti? What do you propose with him?”
“I’m feeling generous. And I don’t want this freak show getting any worse. He’s a sick old man. He’s not going anywhere. He can turn up with his lawyers at Bryant Street in the morning. No reporters. No leaks. Not a word to anyone.”
The maresciallo nodded at the pack of photographers now corralled into a specific section of the secure area by the stage outside the screening tent. “You think they’ll be happy with that?”
“I don’t care what they’ll be happy with. That’s the way it’s going to be.”
He stalked back into the crowd.
Americans amazed Quattrocchi. Their incapacity for a little common deviousness from time to necessary time was quite bewildering.
He found Roberto Tonti in the center of a group of movie company executives. The man looked more gaunt and haggard than he had two weeks before. His eyes were invisible behind sunglasses as usual. His grey hair appeared stiff and unreal. The director was finishing a cigarette as Quattrocchi arrived. Immediately he lit another and said nothing as the suits around him gossiped and argued.
Quattrocchi got next to him and said in Italian, “Tonti, it is important we talk.”
“I doubt that very much.”
The Carabinieri officer nodded at the men around them. “Do they speak Italian?”
There was a slow, shallow intake of breath, then Tonti replied, “They’re producers. Most are still struggling with English and it’s their native tongue.”
“Listen to me well. Once this premiere is over, it is the intention of the San Francisco Police Department to arrest you on suspicion of fraud and conspiracy to murder.”
Tonti took a long drag on the cigarette, looked at him, and said nothing.
“They have a witness,” Quattrocchi persisted. “A member of your … tontine. He has already told them of your arrangement. The man has agreed to make a statement, doubtless in return for some kind of immunity.”
“Who?” Tonti demanded.
“This is not an appropriate time.”
“I wish to avoid embarrassment this evening. You must understand that.”
“Of course. All the same …”
“Shut up. I am thinking.”
Gianluca Quattrocchi fell silent. There was something chilling in the authority of this man. Something decidedly odd.
“What do you have to offer me?” Tonti asked at last.
“You’re an Italian citizen. If you give yourself up to my authority, I can arrange these matters through our courts, not theirs.”
“You don’t understand Americans. They don’t like to lose.”
“Captain Kelly is feeling sentimental. He will invite you for an interview tomorrow morning. Were you to leave the country tonight after the premiere and arrive in Italy in due course … It would not be difficult. A private jet would have you in Mexico in a couple of hours. After that, what could the American authorities do?” Quattrocchi coughed into his fist, praying none of this conversation would ever go any further. “Extradition proceedings take years. You will receive much fairer treatment in your native country, surely. If you plead guilty to some minor financial transgression, we can spin things out for a long time …”
“I’ll be dead before summer turns.” Tonti spoke with a matter-of-fact certainty.
“Then die in Rome, where you belong. In bed. In your home, not some prison cell in California.”
“Without a name I shall not agree to this.”
“I cannot …”
“Without a name I shall go to the Americans this instant. I shall tell them everything, and inform them of your approach and your offer. Perhaps they can better it.”
Quattrocchi’s temper had stretched to breaking point. The premiere would begin in a matter of minutes.
“I believe they have an appointment with Simon Harvey,” he muttered. �
�I did not tell you this.”
“Of course, Maresciallo. This is kind of you.”
“No. Merely practical.” He tried to fathom the expression in the man’s haggard features. “So we have an arrangement?”
“How could one deny the Carabinieri?” the director replied effusively. “It would be impertinent, no?”
Gianluca Quattrocchi did not expect thanks from this individual. Nor did he anticipate or enjoy condescension.
“I shall endeavour to make your time in Rome as comfortable as possible,” he replied stiffly, aware that he was speaking to the long, thin back of Roberto Tonti as the director turned to the suits and evening gowns, the mayhem of the premiere of Inferno.
12
They watched the movie from the darkness of the VIP seats at the front. Not long after the start he felt her head slip onto his shoulder, her hair fall against his neck. Costa turned his head a degree or two and stole a glimpse at Maggie Flavier. On the screen she stood five metres high, the ethereal beauty Beatrice, Dante’s dead muse, offering hope as the poet faced the horrors and travails of Hell’s circles, just as the idea of the unworldly Madeleine Elster had appeared to bring solace to the lost and fearful Scottie. For most of the movie, the real woman behind Beatrice was fast asleep against him, mouth slightly ajar, at peace. He scarcely dared breathe for fear of waking her. However loud the commotion on the screen, she seemed oblivious to it all, slumbering by his side like a child lost in a world of her own.
He felt happy. Lucky, too. And like her, he scarcely took any notice of the overblown cinematic fiction that had brought them there. Costa’s thoughts turned, instead, to the events of the past few weeks, and the growing conviction that the roots of this genuine drama lay, somehow, in the fairy tales these people created for themselves.
The conspiracy had sprouted from the ability of men like Roberto Tonti and Dino Bonetti to invent some fantastical story out of dust. Costa still failed to understand how that trick had come to shift from a desperate marketing ploy into a murderous actuality, but the seeds were there from the outset in the way those involved danced between one world, that of everyday life, and another in which fiction posed as fact.
Maggie was an unwitting part of that fabrication. In ways he didn’t wish to understand, it had damaged her.
This dark, unsettling thought dogged him as the movie finally came to an end. Costa was about to nudge her gently awake as the lights came up. There was no need. Her head was off his shoulder even before the waves of applause began to ripple around the audience.
By the time Roberto Tonti was striding onto the stage with Simon Harvey by his side, most of the audience was on its feet. In the way of things, Costa found himself following suit. Maggie rose next to him. He leaned down and asked her when the cast would join Tonti on the platform.
She had to cup her hand to his ear to make herself heard over the din. “This is Roberto’s moment. We were all told that. He’s the director. We’re just his puppets, remember?”
It still seemed unfair, Costa thought, half listening to Harvey run through a fulsome tribute to Allan Prime, followed by a lengthy homily about Tonti’s determination to see the project completed. The years of struggle, the script revisions, the financial difficulties, the threats, the tragic events of recent weeks. Above all, said Harvey, the fight for artistic and creative control, without which the movie in its present form could never have been conceived, least of all made.
It was florid hyperbole delivered with a straight face. Within the space of the next thirty minutes, either Harvey would be making a statement to the SFPD incriminating Tonti in the conspiracy that had brought about at least four deaths, or Falcone would be handing over the audio evidence to justify his arrest and interrogation on those same charges. One way or another the riddle would be brought to some kind of resolution.
Then Harvey stepped back. Awkwardly, with a pained, sick gait, which a cynical part of Costa’s mind felt might be faintly theatrical, Tonti shuffled to the microphone. He stood there alone, listening, only half-smiling, to the wall of clapping hands, catcalls, and whistles of the crowd.
It was tedious and artificial. Costa was becoming impatient, wishing for an end to this show. As he fought to stifle a yawn, something caught his attention.
A woman was walking towards Roberto Tonti from the far side of the stage. In her hands she held a gigantic bouquet of roses, carnations, and bright, vivid orchids.
Costa blinked, trying to convince himself this was not some flashback out of a dream, or a night in front of the TV in the house on Greenwich Street.
She was of medium height and wore a severe grey jacket with matching slacks and a white shirt high up to her neck. Her build was full, almost stocky; her hair was perfect, dyed platinum blonde, unyielding, as if held by the strongest lacquer imaginable. As she turned to present the flowers to Tonti, Costa could see that the wig — it could be nothing else — was tied back into a tight, shining apostrophe above the somewhat thick form of her neck.
In spite of the weather she wore a pair of black plastic Italian sunglasses, so large they effectively obscured her features. Yet Costa knew her. She was the character from Vertigo. Kim Novak as Madeleine Elster. Or rather a fake Madeleine who posed as the doomed wife Jimmy Stewart’s Scottie came to love and hoped to save.
It also occurred to him that she matched exactly the description of the woman calling herself Carlotta Valdes who had visited Allan Prime in the Via Giulia, ostensibly to create a death mask.
He found himself fighting to get through the cordon around the stage. Maggie gasped as he clawed his way forward.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Stay where you are. Don’t go near the stage.”
He pressed forward and the large hand of a security guard shoved him hard in the chest. Costa fell backwards. He stumbled and found himself guided by Maggie back into a seat.
“Nic,” she said, exasperated, “you can’t go up there. Roberto owns that stage. No one’s going to take it from him. Those bouncers wouldn’t let God himself through unless He had a pass.”
The crowd was still on its feet, whooping and cheering.
“There’s something wrong,” he muttered, and dragged out his Rome police ID.
She gazed at the plastic card in his fingers and said, “Well, that’s going to work, isn’t it? For pity’s sake, what’s the matter?”
He struggled to his feet and wondered, for a moment, whether he was going mad. The woman was gone. Roberto Tonti stood on the stage, with Simon Harvey a few feet behind him. The ailing director held the gigantic bouquet and waved and nodded to the joyful, over-the-top roar of the crowd.
“Five minutes of this,” Maggie whispered into his ear, “and we’re out of here. I promise.”
He prayed more than anything she would be proved right.
The tall, gaunt figure on the stage mouthed something into the microphone. Costa knew what it was. A single word in Italian, an exhortation, a command.
Silenzio.
13
Once upon a time, in a land far away …” Roberto Tonti began.
He clutched the bouquet to his emaciated chest, then he removed his sunglasses and tried to squint at the audience beyond the blazing floodlights.
“You come to me for stories.” The old man’s voice sounded distant and hollow and sick. “Children begging for gifts. Did you get them?” The noise of the audience diminished slightly. Tonti waited. He took hold of the microphone and, in his hoarse, weak voice, tried his best to bellow, “Did you get them?”
The strained sound of his words, the accent half American, half Italian, carried into the night with a deafening clarity. The space inside the tent turned abruptly silent.
“Did you appreciate the cost?” he croaked. “Allan Prime. A wretched actor. A weak man. Nothing to be missed. He died. Why not? Where’s the loss?” He spat out his words. “See what I must work with? See how I make something precious out of clay? What do you want of m
e? What else do you expect?”
Maggie murmured in Nic’s ear, “I can’t take this anymore …”
She slipped away from him, and still he couldn’t tear his eyes from the stage.
Simon Harvey stepped towards the director. Tonti stopped him with a single magisterial glance.
A low murmur of disquiet and astonishment began to rise up from the crowd.
Tonti reached into the bouquet of flowers and withdrew something that stilled every voice in the room. A small black handgun emerged from the orchids and the bloodred roses. He cast away the bouquet, held the weapon high for the benefit of the camera rigs hovering over the stage, wandering around him like robotic eyes, fixated on a single subject.
“Watch me,” he said to the giant, peering lenses. “Focus, always, always.”
Costa scanned around the crowd. Gerald Kelly was at the edge of the platform with a group of uniformed officers, holding them back for the moment.
Tonti’s skinny, weak arms waved, as if beseeching them for something, some kind of understanding.
“Listen to me. Listen! This once I tell you the truth. Some impertinent hack once asked Fellini …” The tip of the black barrel caressed his cheek, like a thoughtful finger. “ ‘Che cosa fai?’ What do you do?”
“Enough, Roberto …” Harvey said, and took another step closer. The gun drifted his way. The publicist froze.
“Fellini answers … ‘Sono un gran bugiardo.’ I am a big liar. Pinocchio writ large. See my nose! See my nose!”
Tonti was clutching his own face, laughing, and the movement brought about a spasmodic cough that briefly gripped his frail frame.
“Fellini, Hitchcock, Rossellini … Tonti, too. This is what you demand of our calling. That we are liars, all, and the more distance we put between your dreams and the miserable mundanity of your sad little lives, the better we lie, the happier you are.”
The man’s voice was cracking with emotion, and it was impossible to say whether it was anger or grief or some deep-rooted sense of fear.
