Pagnan rubbed his eyes with his index fingers. He started to feel tired. Remained silent for a good ten seconds.
“And if I say no, you'll go to Guo?”
“Who knows. After all, I'm holding his nephew hostage, and you have fuck all.”
“Right. My stupid pride.”
“Come on, don’t start to buckle now,” Mila comforted him.
“If I give you what you ask for, will you promise to work with me?”
“Cross my heart.”
13.
From Mila Zago’s journal.
A pass from Tuzzolino splits the defence in half.
Double step forward, John Parco lifts his stick up to his shoulder and releases a slap shot. Low to high. Right to left.
The puck enters the upper corner of Paolo Della Bella’s goal.
Three.
The fans are delirious.
Hodegart. The Asiago hockey stadium.
Ice hockey playoffs, game one: the Asiago Lions against the Milan Vipers.
We lead three-nil.
I love watching the guys play by instinct, scoring one goal after another against the usual opponents, the ones who ordinarily defeat us.
I love Veneto, I love my land. Write that in your folder, Dr Berton. Many people didn’t even know that the Seven Communities plateau existed until the mayor and townsfolk of Asiago asked for a referendum on whether they should be annexed to Trentino Alto Adige. And the result was a “no”!
9.30pm. I'm sitting on the stands with a Benetton ski overall, Asolo hiking boots with Vibram soles, a red and yellow scarf proudly displaying a lion’s mane; I'm here to support the Asiago Ice Hockey guys.
Every time I go up to Enego to train and breathe the clean air I come here on Saturday evenings. With a plastic cup full of mulled wine to warm me up in the cold air of the Hodegart, I shout along with the two thousand other supporters until I'm hoarse. I watch the boys darting along on the thin ice, scrapping once again with their fiercest rivals, the Milan Vipers. North east against north west. A healthy sporting rivalry.
Hockey makes me go hog wild. Because it's the perfect end to an evening. An unexpected dessert prepared with natural ingredients, all good stuff from the plateau.
Add this to your folder as well, Dr Berton.
I drink in the adrenaline rush that Parco’s goal gives me.
As faces turn progressively redder and the hot VOV and brandy cocktails flow down the fans’ throats, as Strazzabosco is sent off for tripping an opposition forward and the red-and-yellow spectators explode in a surprised, frustrated “Ooh” replete with blasphemies and the customary insulting of the referee, I settle down in the cold of the Hodegart and think about my plans. And once again I repeat to myself that it's the right thing to do.
I just bought the specs. Face-hugging, built-in video camera, yellow Polaroid corrective lenses, 20 gigabyte memory, 640x480 resolution, USB connection to download the .mpeg movies.
I can shoot movies from my perspective, and there's a ten-hour battery life. Unbelievable.
When I’m done recording what I'm interested in, I’ll edit it all into a single file.
Maybe you're wondering why. Are you, Dr Berton? I don’t think you really need to know.
Let’s put it like this: I'm on the side of the good guys and I'm going to kick the bad guys’ asses in a way they'll understand. An eye for an eye, sister. End of story.
It is a little like playing hockey. There are rules. But here everybody needs to stick to them. Not like in the Italian law courts.
The rules of my game say that if you shoot, I shoot; if you kill, I kill; if you inflict a wound, I inflict a wound; if you cross the line, I remember. My memory doesn’t have an expiration date.
Are you following, Doctor?
Are you aware that the inquiry you're leading will end up nowhere?
Anyway, if you still believe in judicial process and the legal system, good for you. I quit.
And you can’t prevent me from doing it my way. Sure, you can try to catch me, if you want. But you won’t. Believe me. You don’t know who I am. Yet. Still, let me give you a suggestion. Take a half day from time to time and come to Hodegart.
Now I’ll return to the game. I want to see how many we'll score in the second half. Promise me that sooner or later you'll come watch a game.
Or whatever.
Keep safe. Speak to you soon.
Yours, Mila.
14.
The road before her was a dark snake crossing a terrain hardened by winter frost. Sparse blades of grass dotted the fields; the rays of a huge orange sun, still high above the horizon, cast iridescent reflections onto the canvas of a cold, blue sky.
Mila was inspecting the plains from the top of the old abandoned furnace. A shelter made of irregular bricks in the middle of nowhere. An enormous dinosaur of a thing, perforated by tunnels and old combustion chambers. On two sides, a huge smokestack, a guard of honour, like the antennae of an insect.
About six hundred yards away, directly in front of her, Pagnan’s old farmhouse squatted like a block of stone.
Standing next to her Mule was looking towards it, shaking his head in disbelief.
They had just climbed a crumbling staircase with two heavy tennis bags full of weapons and other bits and bobs, risking falling and breaking their necks.
The Ford Focus was parked next to the wall furthest away from the road, a green tarpaulin draped over it.
Mila shouldered her M501 Beretta. The perfectly shaped muscles in her back rippled under her black spandex halter-top as she placed the rifle on its cradle. With dextrous fingers, she mounted the Zeiss Diavari ZA zoom lens.
Mule kept staring at her with an expression that showed his discomfort. He broke the silence with what sounded like an admission of guilt.
“Mila, I don’t think I can help you.”
“I'm not surprised. Don’t worry, I wasn’t counting on you. It'll be more than enough if you can just shut up. It's not too far. It'll be like shooting clay pigeons.”
“This doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye on you.”
“Whatever you like,” replied Mila. She masked her hatred of him with a yawn.
Mule raised his hip flask of whisky to his lips. He couldn’t understand how Mila could wear nothing but a vest. It was damned chilly.
“Aren’t you cold, dressed like that?”
“Cold is a state of mind,” replied Mila.
“Fancy a sip?” he asked pointing at his flask.
“No, thanks.”
“It's a Lagavulin, you know. Single malt, very peaty; the drink of connoisseurs. It'll warm you up like hell.”
“I don’t want to mess with my balance at the moment. I need to focus, and that's not going to be easy if you keep on talking bullshit. Please, shut up.”
“What else is in your bag?” he asked.
“Wait and see.”
Mule grinned. He waited. Looked out from the roof of the abandoned furnace where they loomed over the landscape like vultures waiting for corpses to tuck into.
It was 3pm. Exactly.
The black BMW Series 5 drove past the furnace and parked in front of the farmhouse.
Pagnan got out of the car, dressed in black. He had slept like a baby; he felt he deserved it after the discussion with Mila and Mule that carried on until dawn. He was wearing a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers. Someone had told him they were back in fashion, although he'd forgotten who.
Pretty Boy sprang out from the driving seat, his long jet-black hair waving in the wind and wearing the usual outfit: hiking boots, jeans, a blood-stained vest and the ever-dependable blue apron that made him look like a cowherd from South Tirol. Pretty Boy never changed his clothes.
As soon as his extremely expensive shoes touched the ground, Pagnan dug his phone out of his pocket. He dialled while Polenta, Tripe and the Newbie, all in black as well, wriggled out from the car and walked towards the farmhouse.
Mule picked up after two rings.
“We're all set.”
“Well done. Let me talk to Mila.”
“OK.”
“All under control, Mila?”
“I have you perfectly framed in my zoom lens. If I squeeze the trigger now, you're dead meat.”
Pagnan gave her the finger.
“Can you see this?” he said.
“Well enough for you to lose it in a couple of seconds.”
“Hee hee!”
“Right, hee hee.”
“What's Mule doing?”
“He's holding a Desert Eagle in his right hand and aiming it at my head. I hope he doesn’t fire it. I’d die but he’d be deaf for the rest of his life.”
“OK. Well, don’t fuck up. Kill the Chinese on my signal.”
“What's the signal?”
“Guo getting out of his car. I don’t give a fuck about the others. They can dance the twist for all I care. OK?”
“OK, old man. Take it easy.”
“Don’t call me old man.”
“OK, old man.”
“Fine, let’s stop this right here. Let me talk to Mule.”
“Here he is.”
“Mule, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Good. Keep an eye on her.”
“You bet, boss.”
“I’ll see you at the farmhouse once it's all over.”
Pagnan ended the call.
His men dragged Zhang Wen out of the car by his arms and legs. Where his hands had been severed, he was still wearing the bandages Mila had put on. They'd gone red but the laces she'd fastened around his armpits had prevented him from dying of blood loss.
The sight of his corpse-like face was quite something. Emaciated, sunken by pain and hunger, a macabre mask foreshadowing death, the grim reaper ready to welcome him. Trash, hanging from his torturers’ hands. An exhausted, tormented scarecrow figure. Pagnan’s men placed a thick rope around his neck, the other end secured to one of the posts in the wooden fence surrounding the farmhouse.
The chill hit his skin and made him shiver. He didn’t seem human anymore. Pagnan looked at him, satisfied, scratched his ball-sack and spat on the ground.
Meanwhile Pretty Boy and the Newbie had gone into the house and opened one or two of the ground floor windows.
With Polenta and Tripe standing behind him like reprobate guardian angels, Pagnan studied the clear sky and the uncultivated field in front of him. He assumed what he felt was a tough-guy stance and kept staring towards the horizon.
He was lost in contemplation of that distant vista when his phone started buzzing, persistently. Considering the timing, “bad” didn't describe the half of it. That sound was a real irritation. Still, bad timing or not, he decided to pick up. Maybe some small talk would help ease the mounting tension, take his mind off things.
As soon as he recognised the number he regretted accepting the call. But he'd already pressed the button. Too late.
“Mr Pagnan?” A thin, high-pitched voice, like an annoying, tiresome child's. More importantly, it wasn't Benny Marcato’s voice, even though his name had appeared on the mobile’s display.
“Sorry, but... who are you?” replied Pagnan, rankled by the surprise.
“I'm Dr Livia Baldan, calling on behalf of the Mayor of Muson. I'm contacting you in order to–”
“I got it!” roared Pagnan. “I've already agreed everything concerning the riding stables with the Mayor. Everything's all set, his damned speech is safe as houses, what else do you want?”
“I wanted to make sure that–”
“Well, you made sure,” said Pagnan in a tone of voice that didn’t brook a reply.
“I apologise, I didn’t mean to bother you.”
“Apologies aren't enough, Dr Baldan. I'm here dealing with an issue that's been keeping me awake nights and you call me on my mobile about some triviality. Are you taking the piss? I already talked with the Mayor, like I said, so coordinate with him and leave me alone, or I’ll get downright abusive.”
“OK, OK, don’t get annoyed, Mr Pagnan.”
“Don’t get annoyed? What the fuck are you on? Of course I'm going to get annoyed, you stupid asshole. I'm standing here talking to you while I should be focussed on solving a problem the size of Prato della Valle. And that's the biggest square in Europe, for your information. So stop fucking with my concentration!”
Silence.
“Have a nice day!” and, without saying anything else, he cut the connection.
This was his land; nobody could tell him what to do here. Deep in thought once again, he spotted the dark shapes of two cars at the bottom of the road. He took out a packet of Marlboro from the inside pocket of his jacket. He lifted it to his mouth and extracted one with his lips.
He narrowed his eyes to combat the sun's glare. The cars were getting bigger as they drove along the dirt road.
He breathed blue-coloured smoke towards them.
He added his scorn to it.
“Very good,” said Guo, satisfied with how things were going. After a lot of hurdles, everything was finally getting easier. It was a matter of keeping the faith.
He was on the phone with Arturo Lasalandra, the president of the provincial SME confederation, fine-tuning the details of his speech at the round table on cultural integration.
“Mr Guo, please allow me to congratulate you on the meticulousness of your speech. We'll do really well, I'm sure.”
“Thank you, President. As Kongzi would say, ‘If you need a helping hand, take a look at the end of your arm’. Your association is the hand, Mr Lasalandra, and it is what the arm needs – and I am only its humble appendage.”
“What a beautiful quotation, Mr Guo. I think we understand each other perfectly and we'll do a great job together.”
“Of course we will. Now, if you would please forgive me, I need to take care of some business. But we'll be thoroughly prepared for the day after tomorrow.”
“Wonderful. See you Thursday then.”
“See you on Thursday, President, and thank you again.”
“Thank you.”
The black Jaguar was advancing smoothly, like a ship in a sea of sand. Snug in the back seat, Guo switched his phone off and sighed. The warmth from the air conditioning made the atmosphere most pleasant.
He was thinking about the stupid Italian laowai. Dirty foreign scum who hadn't yet grasped how little chance they had of survival. Sooner or later the great 14K Triad would subjugate them. And not only that. They were gullible and fell for everything he told them. He was no more than a speck in the great design of Sky, Earth and Man. He was ready to sacrifice his own and his nephew’s lives to the Triad if necessary. In the name of a greater good, transcending the lives of individuals lost in the mists of time.
That’s why how the day was going to end didn’t matter too much. What really mattered was that he did his best to honour his number, 415, and his role as the White Paper Fan.
Pagnan was the final obstacle to their insidious takeover of the area. They'd stolen along the streets, a silent predator, relentless and lethal, devouring everything in its path one small bite at a time: bar after bar, shop after shop, restaurant after restaurant, until entire cities fell, one after the other.
He was getting close to the farmhouse. He had surprise on his side, a surprise that would cause quite a bit of strife for Pagnan and his men. He stretched his legs enjoying the warmth of the car while the Jaguar drove the last few yards to the meeting point.
Mila watched the car approaching.
She knew that hitting the target was possible, but it wasn't going to be a walk in the park. It was six hundred yards away and she wasn't actually a professional sniper, although she had the skills to make the shot.
The challenge was that she'd have to fire one bullet after another without missing. The Chinese would take cover the second they heard the first shot coming in from behind them. Their cars were most likely bulletproof, so s
he needed to hit them fast and cause maximum damage before they could dive back inside.
Mule kept fidgeting with his Desert Eagle. He was staring at Mila, his eyes half closed, completely numb with the cold.
Mila waited.
She saw the two dark Jaguars parking in the farmyard. Pagnan was waiting outside, trying to look hard. Behind him Polenta and Tripe. To the side, a little to the right, Mila spotted Zhang, tied to the fence like a dog.
She concentrated and adjusted her zoom lens.
She saw the driver of the first car and the man who was riding shotgun get out. Four men from the second car. None of them was Guo.
Shit! Guo had to be the first she shot.
What if he'd decided to stay home?
“I can’t see Guo,” she said.
“You think he shat his pants and decided to stay safely tucked up in his lair?” grunted Mule, who couldn’t wait to put an end to this interminable waiting around.
“I don’t think so. Let’s see if he comes out. I have the feeling he'll be trying to screw us over.”
“I don’t trust that old asshole.”
“And for once, we agree.”
15.
BOOM! The first shot.
The bullet took nearly half a second to cover the distance to its target. Its flight ended in Guo’s back.
The Chinaman bent forward, his sunglasses flying in a gentle curve that ended in the mud of the farmyard.
His henchmen didn’t have time to draw their weapons before a second shot split the sky and a bullet went through Guo’s leg. The old man fell on his knees as a big, dark hole spurted blood all around him.
“Mila!” he screamed.
Uzis and automatics appeared in the hands of his men. The former started pounding the air in short, deadly bursts. The latter started hurling bullets towards the windows of the farmhouse.
As soon as he'd heard the first shot, Pagnan had run towards the house.
Tripe and Polenta were slower and didn’t take advantage of the element of surprise. They failed to move right away. Luckily, the Newbie and Pretty Boy joined in the action from behind the windows with their pump-action Maverick Mossberg .12s.
The Ballad of Mila Page 12
