Michael Dibdin - Blood rain

Zen smiled sourly. So that’s how they had decided to pitch the story. But why was there no mention of Alfredo Ferraro, the ROS agent whom he had shot? And why hadn’t he been named as the ‘presumed killer’? He was sure that Roberto Lessi, the other ROS man, had identified him in that final moment before he leapt from the window, but there was no mention of this in the article. This was both good news and bad. Good, because it meant that they were not going to be coming after him openly, with arrest warrants and extradition orders. Bad, because it meant that he didn’t have the slightest idea what they were going to do.

The ferry had docked in Valletta at just after six o’clock that morning, following a night which from Zen’s point of view had been extremely eventful. Following the intervention of the English football supporters, the ROS agent had been placed in one of the lifeboats hanging from cradles along both sides of the main deck. At Zen’s suggestion, Norman had moved his beer supply to a nearby bench, and when the supposed Liverpool supporter finally regained consciousness, it had been made clear to him that the alternative to lying low and keeping quiet was another dose of whisky

‘And, frankly, I’m not at all sure that whisky should really be your drink of choice, Roberto,’ Norman had added, brandishing the bottle as if unaware that it was in his hand at the time. ‘To be perfectly honest, I don’t think you can handle it. I’m not sure you’ve got the bottle to deal with the hard stuff. Seems to go straight to your head. Personally speaking — and this is just my opinion, with which you may well disagree, as is your right — but personally, for what it’s worth, I think you should stick to beer.’ With which he split open another can of Nastro Azzurro and handed it to the still only partially conscious ROS agent with a significant grin.

Meanwhile the Carabinieri launch had come alongside, and two of its crew, armed with machine-guns, were searching the ferry for their missing colleague. Aurelio Zen was in a feigned clinch with Stephanie at the time, having explained the realities of the situation through the Italian-speaking Glaswegian. Stephanie clearly didn’t believe a single word of this rigmarole, assuming that this Italian was just trying to get into her pants. But she was prepared to play along, up to a point, and so when the Carabinieri officers passed through on their sweep of the boat, all they saw was a horde of drunken English football hooligans, two of whom were necking.

Had they persisted, the truth would no doubt have emerged in time, but by then dawn was breaking and Malta was in sight. A coastguard cutter closed in on the ferry and its escort, and over a very powerful loudspeaker demanded to know just what the Italian police thought they were doing, trespassing in Maltese waters. At this point the Carabinieri acknowledged defeat, withdrew to their launch and sped off northwards. Unfortunately Norman had also passed out, exhausted by the stresses and strains of the night’s adventures, and when Zen reluctantly disentangled himself from Stephanie’s embraces and went to inspect the lifeboat where the ROS agent had been stowed away, he found it empty.

Nor did Lessi put in an appearance when the passengers disembarked in the imposing harbour at Valletta, but this was hardly surprising. He could not arrest Zen on foreign soil, and since his identification papers were now at the bottom of the Mediterranean, he was not in a position to enlist the help of the Maltese authorities either, even if they had been disposed to be helpful.

On the quayside, Zen said goodbye to his seriously hung-over British friends and kissed Stephanie, who surprised him by putting her tongue in his mouth and then starting to weep again. He then changed some money and, after a discussion in very fractured Italian with a taxi driver, had himself driven to a small hotel at the top of the old town.

For a moment he thought he had hired a suicidal maniac, since the driver proceeded to turn out of the port area and start driving on the left-hand side of the road. But if he was mad, everyone else seemed to share his madness, and the short journey passed uneventfully. At the hotel, Zen took the one remaining room, a small single at the rear of the premises, overlooking what had once been a small internal courtyard and was now a deep, dank shaft filled with air-conditioning ducts, rubbish and cooking smells.

There had been no obvious sign that his taxi had been followed, but he knew that it wouldn’t take them long to find him. His Italian identity card had been enough to get him through passport control, but he had to fill out an entry card which would now be on file. He was officially registered as having entered the country, and it was far too small a country to hide in, particularly for someone with no friends and who didn’t speak the language.

His best hope, he reckoned, lay in that entry card. Persons leaving Malta legally would have to complete a similar exit card, which would also be filed. If a search for ‘Zen, Aurelio’ turned up no such card, it would naturally be assumed that he was still in the country. The resulting confusion might just be enough to buy him the time he needed. But first he had to find a way to leave the country illegally. With a heavy heart, he lifted the phone and dialled a number in Rome.

There was no answer, so he left a message.

‘Gilberto, it’s Aurelio. I’m in it up to here, and I don’t even know who with, but they don’t mess about. I can’t say any more on the phone, and I can’t give you my number, but I need help desperately, and after what happened in Naples you owe me, you son of a bitch. I’ll call again every thirty minutes until I get you. Don’t let me down, Gilberto, and none of your stupid jokes. This is deadly serious. And I mean that literally’

He took his shoes off and lay down on the bed, but with his head and shoulders propped against the wall. After a sleepless night on the ferry, exhaustion was starting to overcome the adrenalin which had kept him going thus far, but he could not afford to sleep until his arrangements were made. He turned on the television and watched a documentary about tree frogs until the thirty minutes had elapsed.

There was still no answer from Gilberto’s home phone. Since his recent legal problems, the Sardinian no longer had an office number, and Zen was wary of calling him on his cellphone, knowing how easily such calls can be intercepted. In the end he tried anyway, only to discover that Gilberto’s telefonino was either switched off or out of range. Back on TV, the tree frogs were mating.

It was another two hours before Gilberto finally responded, and he when he did he initially sounded distinctly flippant.

‘I thought you weren’t speaking to me, Aurelio.’

‘I’m speaking to you now.’

‘So what’s the story this time?’

‘I don’t trust stories any more. I’m too old.’

‘It’s no fun growing old. But as someone said, the only alternative is dying young.’

‘Can we stop pissing around, Gilberto? I’m in serious trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘I can’t tell you over the phone. We must do this on a strict need-to-know basis.’

‘All right, what do I need to know?’

‘First, I’m in Malta.’

‘Never been there. Are those Knights still around? I seem to remember that you had trouble with them some years back.’

‘Will you please shut the fuck up and listen, Gilberto?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Second, I need to leave as soon as possible, ideally this evening.’

‘I’m not a travel agent.’

‘Yes, you are, because the third thing is that I need to travel clandestinely. No tickets, no passport control.’

Gilberto whistled.