I stayed put. “We’re not going anywhere until you start talking about this fucking operation.”
She leaned over and took my face in her hands.
“I give the orders, honey, and don’t you ever forget it,” she whispered. “Now peel your pretty tush off the chair and come with me. I’ll tell you everything outside.”
I gave in. She was no walk in the park, but having her close might be to my advantage.
We headed toward San Michele, where we expected to be spotted and tailed by Balakian’s men. Marmorato and Pitta followed at a distance. When we got to the church we didn’t notice anybody, not even on our way to Neuperlach. Balakian had called off his scouts.
Marino blamed me. “You slipped out of sight and they’ve decided not to trust you,” she kept repeating. She made me long for Martina and Gemma. One look and they’d shut up, whereas this broad didn’t know her place.
I was sure there was another reason for Balakian’s indifference, even if I couldn’t figure out what it was. I hazarded a guess.
“If Paz Anaya Vega managed to discover my name isn’t Attilio Sforza but Giorgio Pellegrini, maybe they figured it out too.”
She dismissed the thought with a nervous wave of her hand. “We created your cover down to the last detail, and the Spaniard moves in circles that have no points of contact with Balakian’s organization.”
“Then the problem is you,” I pointed out in the futile hope she’d get lost.
“Tomorrow morning you’ll contact the intermediary, break the news about me, and return to following procedure.”
Yessir, you bitch, I thought as she threaded her arm in mine. We looked like a couple whispering sweet nothings, when in fact Angela Marino had finally decided to tell me the truth.
When she was through, I pointed out that we both stood to gain a lot if we pulled off the operation successfully. She a big promotion, me immunity for life.
No one knew if Serj Balakian actually existed or if he was an artfully assembled myth. What was undeniable was that the organization had been operating for at least twenty years and offered a truly unique—and therefore highly expensive—service: it created new lives. Just like any federal witness protection program, they provided identities, places of residence, professions, and more, depending on the needs of their clients.
The difference between their outfit and government agencies was that they didn’t protect good people but criminals who had chosen to cut ties with their past, their accomplices, their “families”—people who could afford it.
I was enthralled. The idea was pure genius, but in order to work it relied on the help of corrupt cops and officials in several countries. In the halls of Interpol word had it that the organization was led by their colleagues. Italian investigators suspected that the program had been developed inside structures created by various governments to handle ex-war criminals, terrorists, and high-ranking officials from Iraq, Libya, Syria, and any other shithole that had something the world powers were itching to get their hands on. A hodgepodge of collaborators, informers, relatives, lovers, and witnesses who had to be relocated elsewhere.
And they made a fuss about granting me immunity!
“If the press got its hands on a story like that, people wouldn’t look at you the same way.”
After a huff of disappointment, the cop seized on the opportunity to launch another pointless salvo.
“Buratti and his friends would never have made a comment like that. They understand that there are levels of vice that the media is incapable of confronting. Even for quote-unquote public opinion, that’s a step too far.”
Hot air disguised as a higher order of rationale.
“You’re no saint either,” I retorted, riled. “I didn’t see you all shook up when you ordered me to kill those fools in Vienna.”
She stopped and looked me dead in the eye. I should have kept my mouth shut; when certain things spill out just because you have your nuts in a knot, you’re immediately labeled unreliable. A threat. Someone they’d be better off eliminating if they really wanted to feel at ease.
I lowered my gaze so that she knew I knew that I’d acted like an idiot, and she went back to walking and talking as if nothing had happened.
“You’re right, I’m no saint, but the situation is so compromised that we can’t afford not to get our hands dirty. Besides, us non-saints are what people like you need. Without me you’d already be serving life.”
The operation assigned to Marino by the heavies at the Ministry of the Interior was seriously dirty: infiltrating a new “client” with the aim of identifying several of the outfit’s members, capturing them, then forcing them to say where they’d hid a guy who’d gone on the lam.
“So, who’s the target of the operation?”
“His name’s not important. But we’re counting on him to transform the latest scandal into an historic occasion to clean up some circles that think they’re untouchable.”
“Sorry, but it sounds pretty slippery to me.”
“All you need to know is that we’re looking for someone, and in order to find him we have to tear down Balakian’s organization. Be glad you know that much.”
The Dottoressa had woken up early and gone to take a shower. Obviously, she’d slept in my bed, and I’d taken the most uncomfortable couch in all Munich. I wondered if she’d slept with one eye open, worried that I’d suddenly turn up with the worst intentions.
She entered the kitchen wrapped in a large towel. A smaller one covered her wet hair. I noticed that she had pretty feet and slender ankles adorned with gold chains. She went to the window and studied the street.
“Get up,” she ordered. “We’ll get breakfast and then go to the intermediary’s.”
I didn’t say anything. I wanted her to turn around and look at me. When she did, I gave her one of my irresistible looks. She noticed but decided it was of no interest. I should have expected as much.
To spite her, I took my time. I jerked off slowly, fantasizing about Toska, my new landlady. I’d make her pay for the humiliation I’d suffered for too long at the hands of Dottoressa Marino. Between the two women, the differences in age and beauty were clear, but I could content myself.
It wasn’t a particularly cold day. The uptick of two degrees made it pleasant to stroll the streets of that neighborhood, outlying yet dignified, like almost all of Munich. It’s a city I could live in—middle class and attentive to decorum. But Italy is something else entirely.
Marino settled on a German chain store that served awful coffee. I made do with an anonymous brand of tea and a multigrain croissant. The Dottoressa ordered a cappuccino and toast with mixed-berry jam.
She was in a bad mood, absorbed in god knows what kind of super-cop thoughts. She didn’t snap to until I informed her that Miss Bones had walked in. The woman placed her order at the counter and walked over to our table carrying a tray. Coffee, veal sausage, Bretzel, and orange juice.
She sat down, smiled, mumbled hello. Then she dug into her breakfast.
“May I introduce Ms. Daniela Sileo,” I said, tetchy about the embarrassing situation that had cropped up.
“There’s no need, I already know her,” interrupted the woman in Italian. Her accent hurt my ears. “I’m only here to get some answers, Mr. Sforza.”
“Shoot,” I said, stealing a glance at Marino. All she had to do was keep her mouth shut this once.
“Why did you fall off our radar?”
“You want the truth?”
“Please.”
“Because I had to retrieve Daniela in total safety, and to show you and your boss that I’m good, that if I want I can shake off the best of them.”
She tightened her thin lips into a faint smile. Or was she frowning?
“You’re a man who doesn’t care for lectures. I get it. But in our book, that’s not an admirabl
e quality.”
I leaped to correct her.
“All I wanted was to show you that I can adapt to your level of security. It won’t happen again.”
“Does Ms. Sileo want to use our services too?”
“Yes,” I replied, flashing my sweetheart a smile.
“The price will increase considerably.”
“How much are we talking?”
“Six million dollars.”
I looked at Marino, who signaled her consent.
“Agreed,” I answered.
“How long will it take to come up with the money?”
“A couple days.”
The woman nodded, satisfied.
“You’ll deliver it to Attorney Charents the day after tomorrow, at ten sharp, then we’ll come collect you.”
I’d been involved in crime too long to trust her.
“That seems unreasonable,” I objected. “It seems fairer to me if we deposit half. The other half we’ll give you once you’ve delivered us to safety.”
“You have to follow our procedures to the letter,” replied Miss Bones, sipping her coffee.
“There’s just one hitch: you could change your mind and keep the money.”
“Our service is based on trust,” she pointed out, leaning toward me. “If you’re not prepared to place blind trust in our resources, maybe we should reconsider our relationship.”
I was about to respond when Marino delivered a sharp kick to my right shin.
“You’re perfectly right,” I hastened to say. “I just needed a little time to get used to the idea.”
“Leaving behind the criminal mindset isn’t easy for people like you, Mr. Sforza,” continued the woman. “But you have to realize that we’re the only ones who can offer you a shot at a new life with Ms. Sileo, an honest life. Once it’s done, illegal behavior will not be tolerated.”
“What does that mean?” I asked. “We never talked about that before.”
“Because we had yet to decide whether or not to accept your candidacy. But now we need to be clear. The most important thing is that you are both aware that we cannot imperil our existence because of crimes our clients commit. Understood?”
“I’m not sure.”
The woman had run out of patience. “And I thought I’d been clear: we physically remove anyone who gets out of line.”
She turned to Marino. “Once you’ve dropped off the money, you must go back home and await our arrival. Don’t move for any reason.”
“Agreed,” mumbled the cop.
The other woman stood up. While she was putting on her long overcoat and adjusting her gray felt hat, I asked her if she knew our final destination.
“I don’t know anything,” she answered. “My colleagues and I only have to deliver you to another branch of our organization.”
She nodded goodbye. “Till soon, messieurs,” she said, a touch formal, then added: “There are better places to have breakfast in Munich.”
We waited for her to leave before conferring.
“With that face, it shouldn’t be hard to identify her,” considered Marino, who was already planning our next move.
I shrugged. “What does it matter if we know the name of some gofer? If you want to find out where they’ve hidden the guy you’re after, we have to piece together the whole organization. Which means we have to trust them to ‘protect’ us for god knows how long.”
“If we want to stop the outfit from reorganizing in the future, we have to identify most of their affiliates anyways.”
The cops can’t abide the existence of a “company” that effective. Especially if its partners are hiding behind their uniforms.
“And the money?” I asked with a pinch of malice. “Where are you going to come up with six million dollars?”
“We’re constantly sequestering piles of cash. You know that. And not all of it ends up on the books.”
“The dirty war against crime comes at a price,” I rejoined ironically.
She ignored me. She took her phone and exited the place. I watched her through the glass as she talked. Barked orders, more like it. She signaled me to join her.
“The money will be here tomorrow night along with a team of agents. Things are beginning to get serious.”
“What are they coming for? Not to follow us, I hope. It won’t take long for these guys to realize what’s up.”
“For now they’ll stick to photographing the individuals that come to get us.”
“Some comfort. Balakian’s men are cops—or were cops. They know how to defend themselves.”
“But our people are better. They won’t be made.”
Continuing the conversation was pointless. A waste of time.
“See you tomorrow night,” I said, walking off.
She ran to catch up and grabbed my arm. “Where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?”
“That’s my fucking business,” I said, wriggling free. “I don’t have the slightest intention of having you around until we go see Attorney Charents.”
“I think you better get used to the idea. I won’t let you disappear again and jeopardize the entire operation.”
I put my mouth to her ear. Her scent was intoxicating, and I whispered: “I need my space, understand? Otherwise I’ll lose my mind and blow the whole thing up.”
“If a whore is what you’re after, a couple of hours should do you.”
“No, I need a woman with strong moral fiber, someone irreproachable. I get off on leaving indelible memories, and whores don’t have memories.”
She looked at me in disgust. For the first time I’d managed to disturb her. The unflinching and incorruptible super-cop had seen an uncensored side of my personality and from then on she’d look at me different. For the worse, that much was clear, but at least I could be sure that she’d be more careful around me. She’d keep within her bounds and not push me, because I wasn’t just some crook you could take for granted. I was hard to define, frightening.
“I could give a flying fuck about your needs,” she said with swagger. “You’re going to have to get used to my company.”
I smiled. I wanted to see Toska Köhler but I knew that Marino would have gone to great lengths to stop me. I felt better now, in any case. I could stand the wait.
We went back to the Park Café for lunch. The Dottoressa withdrew with Sergeant Marmorato for twenty minutes while the other cop, Pitta, kept an eye on me.
In the afternoon we went shopping at the supermarket near the house, like a regular couple.
“Get what you want,” she said brusquely. “You owned a restaurant; you must know how to cook something.”
The cop didn’t know that I had once served a young woman trenette with pesto laced with aspirin. She too had decided to make things difficult for me. My guest was allergic, and the meal wasn’t exactly to her liking.
Old times, other circumstances. Cooking had always been a pleasant way to pass the time, even if I didn’t have a flair for it. I knew more about wine and liquor. I’m good at managing a restaurant, balancing the books, attracting clients, making them want to come back. Occasionally I argued over the menu with the chefs. Chefs think they’re artists and believe people will order any dish they attach some extravagant name to. Some I fired, but more often than not we came to an agreement.
To feed the lady cop I zeroed in on a frozen rack of lamb from Scotland, which I roasted in the oven with spring onions, thyme, and lard, and paired with a 2011 Lemberger.
It turned out better than I’d expected, but the Dottoressa didn’t have much of an appetite. She contented herself with a couple bites.
When she went off to bed I heard the distinct sound of a key turning in the lock and a chair being placed under the doorknob.
Small satisfactions while I awaited better days.
&n
bsp; One million dollars in hundred-dollar bills weighs twenty pounds. The problem was volume. We needed two large suitcases, which were delivered to us the following evening in a hotel parking lot on the west side of town. We got there by taxi after an exhausting subway transfer and long stretches on foot. Marmorato and Pitta were like two retrievers—they kept trailing behind then running ahead to sniff out possible suspects.
By a stroke of luck, we seemed to have lost Balakian’s men at Harras Station. We managed to board the train just before the doors closed. Out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a guy in a dark wool hat, who hadn’t made it on board, staring intensely in our direction. Just my impression. When you know you’re being tailed, it feels like everyone is following you.
A couple of thirty-year-olds climbed out of a black station wagon parked in a dark corner. The woman was thickset but surprisingly nimble. The man, on the other hand, was tall and high ranking. Two operatives from the team that the ministry had sent to Munich at the behest of the pretty Dottoressa. They removed the suitcases from the trunk and handed them to us without saying a word.
We carried the bags to reception and asked them to do us the courtesy of calling a taxi. There was no need to play hide and seek. On the contrary, we wanted them to see us enter the house with the money.
An hour later I was seated on the couch, curiously examining the two large suitcases. I was tempted to ask Marino to let me see the bills, all identical, all neatly wrapped in convenient stacks of ten-thousand dollars, but I was sure that she’d deny me the pleasure.
She noticed my interest.
“Obviously there are tracking devices inside and they’ve already been activated.”
Obviously. It was a terrible idea.
“If they find them, we’re dead.”
“That won’t happen. They won’t find out.”
I had ideas of my own about how to pull one over the next guy, but at the moment I wasn’t the one giving orders. “Anyway, despite what it might look like, I’m not interested in the money,” I pointed out. “I want to get back to my old life. Open another restaurant, rest on my laurels, amuse myself with a mistress, make friends in the right circles.”
Blues for Outlaw Hearts and Old Whores Page 12
