Michael Dibdin - Dead Lagoon

Zen yawned loudly and lit a cigarette.

‘Save me the speeches.’

Dal Maschio looked at him intently.

‘You’re good at sneering, aren’t you?’

There was no reply. Dal Maschio nodded.

‘It’s all right. I understand. I used to feel the same way myself. It’s a way of protecting yourself against feeling, against action. If you admitted your identity as a Venetian, born and bred in these islands, speaking this dialect and conditioned to the core by those experiences, you would not only have to admit all the pain and pride which such an admission would bring with it, you would also have to act to preserve and defend those values. You would either have to be prepared to fight, or to admit your laziness and your cowardice. Much easier just to avoid the issue by sneering.’

‘You said you were going to tell me about Durridge. Either do so, or fuck off out of here.’

Dal Maschio shrugged and smiled.

‘As I say, the Croats were an inspiration for everyone in the separatist movement, but their successful struggle had a special significance for us Venetians. The Dalmatian coastline of the new Croatia was of course the first and last outpost of the Venetian empire. Its beautiful and historic towns were all built by our forebears, and one day, perhaps, our flag may fly there once more. However that may be, the Croat and Venetian peoples cannot be indifferent to each other. So when I was approached by one of the Croatian delegation with a proposal which promised to be mutually beneficial, I was naturally inclined to look on it with favour.’

Abandoning his pose, he walked round the chair and sat down in it, crossing his legs.

‘They wanted Ivan Durridge, or rather. I’d never heard of the man, but my Croatian contact filled me in. Durridge was a Serb, from Sarajevo, and he was responsible for some of the worst atrocities committed during the war. I won’t attempt to list the things he did. Some of them are too obscene to mention. I was shown pictures and eye-witness reports by the survivors. Can you imagine a woman and her daughters having their eyelids cut off, being repeatedly raped and then forced to watch their sons and brothers impaled? That was the least of crimes, and here he was living in luxury on his private island in the lagoon!’

He jabbed a finger peremptorily at Zen.

‘And as if all that wasn’t enough, he was also gunrunning for the Bosnian Serbs in the current conflict. That’s why the investigation into his disappearance was hushed up by the secret services. You remember the scandal over the Gladio organization which was set up to sabotage a possible Communist takeover after the war? Gladio had arms caches all over Italy, yet only a few have come to light. With things changing so rapidly here, the secret service chiefs wanted those dumps cleaned out as fast as possible, and of course they weren’t averse to lining their pockets at the same time. Ivan Durridge satisfied both requirements. He took the guns off their hands and paid money into the Swiss bank account of their choice in return.’

‘How much money did the Croatians pay you?’ Zen demanded.

Dal Maschio shook his head sadly.

‘You may find this hard to believe, Zen, but it wasn’t actually about money. It was about establishing credibility and goodwill with a potential ally and trading-partner in the federal and regional Europe of the future.’

‘And it didn’t bother you that all those fine words cost a man his life?’

Dal Maschio got to his feet again and walked towards Zen, waving his arms to emphasize his words.

‘That had nothing to do with us! The plan was to fly Durridge up to Gorizia, then “accidentally” stray over the border and land him at a prearranged spot just inside Slovenia. The Croatian commandos who had immobilized Durridge before I landed the helicopter would then drive him to Zagreb, where he would be put on trial for his war crimes. That’s what I was told was going to happen, and that’s what I believe.’

He sighed.

‘Unfortunately Durridge had other ideas, and maybe he was right. He’d been pretty badly beaten up by the time I got there. Gavagnin said he reckoned they would have killed him if it hadn’t been for that phone call from his sister. They held a gun to his balls while he talked to her, but that made them realize that they needed him alive and functioning until we took off, to prevent the alarm being raised. Unfortunately once we were airborne they made the mistake of relaxing their vigilance. The next thing we knew, Durridge opened the door and jumped out.’

Dal Maschio shrugged.

‘As I’ve said, I wouldn’t do it again. The stakes are too high to fool around with stunts like that now. On the other hand, I’m not ashamed of what I did. The Croats are our ideological and political allies, and Ivan Durridge was a war criminal.’

‘While you’re just a common criminal,’ said Zen, tossing his cigarette butt into an ashtray.

‘I’ve never been charged with any criminal offence, much less convicted of one. And I never will be.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘Mere bravado,’ exclaimed Dal Maschio contemptuously. ‘If you had any solid evidence against me you wouldn’t be standing here making empty threats, you’d have me under arrest. But there’s nothing to connect me or any member of the movement with the Durridge kidnapping, apart from an unsubstantiated statement by some taxi skipper.’

‘How did Giulio Bon get hold of Durridge’s boat?’ demanded Zen.

‘He found it cast adrift in the lagoon.’

‘One of your helicopters appears in the air traffic control records as flying from the Lido to Gorizia on the day Durridge vanished. The route passes over both the ottagono and Sant’Ariano. Is that supposed to be a coincidence?’

‘Neither more nor less of a coincidence than the fact that the road to Verona passes through Padua and Vicenza,’ Dal Maschio returned promptly. ‘I was flying from the Lido to Gorizia. Which way did you expect me to go, via the Po valley?’

‘Why were you going in the first place?’

‘I was delivering a cargo of fish to a restaurant in Gorizia owned by a friend in the Friulano separatist movement. It was a genuine order, and I have the waybills and invoices to prove it.’

Noting the expression on Zen’s face, he laughed.

‘You’ve got nothing against me but scraps and rags of circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t serve to convict a known criminal, let alone the city’s mayor elect. And thanks to the Questore’s prompt response to our article this morning about your disgraceful treatment of Contessa Zulian, your mandate for action expires in just a few hours. Francesco Bruno evidently has a very acute sense for the prevailing political realities. Face it, Zen, you’re beaten.’

He stepped forward suddenly, gripping Zen’s arms.

‘But if only you will, you can convert that defeat into victory! You’re one of us, Zen! You know you are! And we’re the winning team. Already now, and increasingly in the future. We’ve got the little people with us already, because we speak the language they understand. Now we need to get the professionals on board, the educated middle class with managerial skills. People like you!’

Zen shook himself free.

‘What are you doing in Rome?’ cried Dal Maschio. ‘The regime you serve is morally and financially bankrupt. It’s exactly the same as working for the KGB after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The centre can’t hold any longer, Zen. The periphery is where the action is. In the new Europe, the periphery is the centre. It’s time to come home. Time to come back to your roots, back to what is real and meaningful and enduring.’

Zen turned away.

‘Save the rhetoric for your meeting.’