Conor Fitzgerald - The Namesake

‘I don’t buy online,’ said Blume.

‘How very Italian of you,’ said Massimiliani. ‘But some advanced Italians do trust their credit cards to the web, especially since they invented those ones you top-up with credit. So, Dutch and German logistics companies have moved in and are opening new warehouses in Milan, and the Flachi are there ready to provide for them. Amazon has just opened business in Italy. It’s a growing market.

‘What has this to do with Curmaci?’ asked Blume.

‘We have no idea. That is why it would be nice to leave him in peace and watch developments. After all, Curmaci’s not the person you want. Not really.’

‘Are you asking me to leave him alone?’

‘I wouldn’t advise you to go anywhere near him to begin with. Not without backup. But he’s probably not the person you want.’

‘No boss is ever at the scene of a hit — or only very rarely. The fact he was in Malaga means nothing,’ said Blume. His head was throbbing again, and he realized he had not eaten all day and it was now… he pulled out his phone… two o’clock. The cold air from the air-conditioning was tunnelling into his eyes like two mini whirlwinds, while the rest of his body roasted.

‘From what I hear,’ said Massimiliani, ‘it makes no sense for Curmaci to have ordered the hit on Arconti’s namesake.’

‘From what you hear?’

‘I am not an intelligence analyst, Blume. I don’t think you quite get what I do. Basically I just monitor and report, I don’t explore. I have too many subjects to go into the details on them all.’

‘Try this,’ said Blume. ‘Suppose Curmaci orders an execution that breaks several rules of Ndrangheta etiquette and draws a lot of unwelcome attention to himself, he could manipulate the event so that it would look like a deliberate action against him, couldn’t he? Think about it. The act insults other ’ndrine in Milan and Rome, angers the command in Calabria, endangers Curmaci’s own family, galvanizes investigators, gets the press interested in an organization that is pathologically committed to secrecy. If he asked a friend to carry out that act, the friend — a real friend — would refuse and tell him it was a stupid and self-destructive request. But an enemy posing as a friend might agree to it, seeing it as a way of undermining him. It is so much to Curmaci’s disadvantage that as soon as he claims it was done to harm him, everyone will believe him.’

‘Christ, do you always think like that? I mean, I knew you had a devious mind, but maybe you’re just obsessing about Curmaci at this point? Could it be you need to justify what you did with that transcript?’

‘That’s a possibility,’ said Blume. ‘But maybe his actions are for internal consumption. He wants people to see he has internal enemies, and he wants the internal enemies to declare themselves.’

‘If you’re right, then he must be mighty pleased with you. That false confession by his wife will help him play the role of plot victim even better. What about Konrad Hoffmann, how does he fit in?’

‘Like a gift from God,’ said Blume. ‘Hoffmann appears on the scene, demanding that Megale tell him about a murder Curmaci committed years ago, and threatens him with the result of some inquiry he has been conducting. Megale calls Curmaci, and Curmaci comes up with the idea. He tells Megale to tear a Madonna in half, sign his name, write a message on one half, and send Konrad to Calabria where he’ll meet a man with the other half. That way, they get Konrad not only off their case, but out of the country, into Calabria, exposed and alone. Curmaci pockets the other half of the Madonna.’

‘Why bother with the other hal f?’ asked Massimiliani. ‘All they need to do is to get Konrad to come down to Calabria, and disappear.’

‘If I were Curmaci…’

‘I’d say you and he must be twins separated at birth. You’d have it that Curmaci has been feigning persecution in preparation for an attack. He’s constructed a casus belli for himself.’

‘ Casus foederis,’ corrected Blume.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, it’s Konrad’s influence. He liked to boast about his Latin. Curmaci had constructed a false plot against himself and a pretext for action. The enemy posing as a friend, the person responsible for the murder of the Milanese insurance agent, could easily be Tony Megale. Perhaps he thinks his father has succession plans that favour Curmaci.’

‘He’s not really his father,’ said Massimiliani.

‘What?’

‘Tony Megale is almost certainly not Old Megale’s real son.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s all open-source intelligence, Blume. Court reports, newspaper stories, and even a few TV programmes from the 1990s. There was a whole scandal. They say it is one of the reasons Tony went to Germany, though I think he just went for the money and opportunity. I thought you knew about it.’

‘No. I didn’t think to look into him. Just Curmaci. Tell me the story.’

Massimiliani told him about Tony Megale’s alleged abduction and adoption. As he listened, Blume’s initial annoyance at having overlooked this aspect of the story gave way to a sense of satisfaction at how well it all fitted. Tony, not quite a bastard son, but not far from it, not the natural heir and successor, feared Curmaci, who had exploited him.

The autostrada curved westwards again, back to the coast. He had never entirely outgrown his childish excitement at catching the wink of blue water when the road he was on came close to the sea. But the sea here could only be glimpsed through the empty floors of the incomplete concrete apartment blocks that framed and monumentalized the failure of the south.

A sign for Lamezia Terme appeared, and Massimiliani slowed down. ‘I’m going to pull in just before the entrance road to Via dei due Mari. There should be a car waiting for me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you can take this car, head across to the east coast, see if you can’t catch up with Hoffmann. There is an APB out on that camper. No reports of any sightings, though.’

‘You’re not going to the east coast to help me look for him?’

‘Of course not. The operations centre is in Reggio, but maybe I’ll see you in a few days in Polsi, just after the Ndrangheta holds its summit meeting.’

‘Polsi? The sanctuary itsel f?’

‘Yes, madness, I admit, and not my idea. It’s a new policy, a sort of annoy-the-fuckers-till-they-do-something-stupid policy. The authorities are holding a mass and then a celebration in Polsi, claiming back the sacred site for the forces of law and order, as it were. And it’s going to be done in front of some BKA observers, whom I’ll be looking after, and some German journalists. The police from Reggio Calabria and the Locride area are going to go to the same church used the day before by the Ndrangheta for its summit. All in dress uniform. The idea is to celebrate the Archangel Saint Michael, who’s the patron saint of the police and…’

‘Patron saint of the Ndrangheta. I never liked that coincidence,’ said Blume. ‘Who’s behind the idea?’

‘The questore of Reggio Calabria. He comes across as mild-mannered and reasonable but he’s a hard-nosed aggressive bastard.’

‘Good for him.’

‘Maybe,’ said Massimiliani doubtfully. ‘He went on TV and said the police weren’t going to share their patron saint with a bunch of cut-throats and bandits. He said it was time to reclaim the Madonna of Polsi from the criminal overlords. He’s got strong Catholic beliefs, the questore. If you ask me, he’s a bit too keen on the afterlife.’

‘He’s a hero,’ said Blume.

‘I thought you’d be a bit more cynical than that. Are you a big Catholic, too?’