Michael Dibdin - End games

The surgeons at Cosenza hospital were attempting to sew the severed portion of Francesco Nicastro’s tongue back on to the root, but it was uncertain whether he would ever have any feeling or control over it. His father Antonio, the sole wage-earner, was awaiting his turn for an operation to restructure his knee, but it appeared unlikely that he would be able to work again. In short, whatever the outcome of the case, the family was ruined. Zen had spent an hour interrogating the two detectives who had questioned the boy in the first place, but both Corti and Caricato swore that Francesco had been interviewed alone and that neither of them had told anyone but their immediate superiors what the outcome had been. In the end, Zen believed them, but someone must have talked. Zen was privately inclined to think that Francesco’s brother might have mentioned it to a friend — perhaps the third boy who had been playing near the path when il morto appeared — in all innocence, as a way of demonstrating what an idiot his sibling was and thereby bolstering his own status.

Natale Arnone entered with yet another coffee and some pastries. He also informed Zen that the two Americans who had been instructed to appear that morning had arrived half an hour before, adding that the older one didn’t seem too happy about being kept waiting.

‘Oh, and Signor Mantega was on the phone again last night. Used the same public box as he did before, the one that’s now tapped. Two calls. One was to a mobile phone, no reply. The other to a landline that’s been traced to a house in San Giovanni in Fiore.’

Zen looked up wearily.

‘And?’

‘A man answered. Mantega asked to speak to someone called Giorgio. The man said he wasn’t there. Mantega left instructions to have Giorgio contact him. I was just wondering if you wanted any immediate action taken.’

‘Well, add both numbers to the intercept list, naturally.’

‘That’s already been done.’

‘Who owns the property?’

‘Dionisio Carduzzi, sixty-eight years old, retired carpenter, no criminal record.’

Zen sighed.

‘All right. Have the place watched, but discreetly. See if the Digos boys can stage some sort of utility repair job requiring them to dig up the street near by. They’re to note and if possible photograph everyone who comes and goes, take vehicle details and so on. But tell them to err on the side of caution. I don’t want any more mutilation of innocents. Judging by what happened last night, this Giorgio is a ruthless sadist and evidently jumpy. After my press conference later this morning, he’s going to be even jumpier.’

He pushed the mound of papers on his desk aside and made a brief phone call to the pathologist who had conducted the post-mortem examination on the corpse found the day before, then another to the Questura’s press officer with instructions to set up a news conference for ten o’clock. After that, he told Arnone to bring on the Americans.

It was immediately clear when they entered that Arnone had been understating Martin Nguyen’s mood. No sooner was he through the doorway than he launched into a barrage of protests and veiled threats, most of which Tom Newman chose to leave untranslated.

‘I turn up here of my own free will for the meeting requested by you during our encounter last night,’ Nguyen concluded, ‘and you keep me waiting for over forty minutes! What time do you people get in to work, anyway?’

‘I have been at work since four this morning.’

‘Are you night shift? Let me speak to the day guy.’

‘An incident has occurred which demanded my attention. I apologise for the inconvenience and am glad to say that I shall not detain you for long, Signor — ’

He looked defeatedly at the name written on the folder he had opened.

‘Nguyen,’ Tom supplied.

‘Precisely,’ said Zen. ‘You’re staying at the Rende International Residence, I believe?’

‘How do you know that?’ demanded Nguyen.

‘All hotels have to report the names and passport details of their guests to the police,’ Tom muttered. ‘It’s standard procedure, nothing personal.’

Martin Nguyen sighed impatiently.

‘Since you already know, why bother asking?’

‘And you’re planning to remain there?’ Zen asked.

Nguyen shrugged.

‘Perhaps.’

‘For how long?’

‘A week at least. Possibly longer. Why?’

‘And what is the purpose of your visit to Cosenza?’

‘Business.’

‘Could you be a little more specific?’

‘I’m executive-producing a significant property for a major-player American movie company. It’s just about to go into production, and key scenes will be shot in and around this city. Luciano Aldobrandini, of whom you may perhaps have heard, is directing and he’s on track to initiate shooting shortly. Up until his disappearance, Peter Newman was acting as our representative on the ground, liaising with the local contractors, getting the necessary permits and so on. Since his skill sets are no longer available to us, I have been tasked with the additional challenge of performing his role.’

Zen’s face was as expressionless as the frescoed image of some minor saint who was being martyred in some unspeakable way but, thanks to his steadfast faith, remained at peace with himself.

‘Signor Newman appears to have spent much of his time with a notary named Nicola Mantega. What was the subject under discussion when they met?’

‘I couldn’t say. Pete never mentioned the name, but that’s normal. He was a self-starter, made his own contacts. We didn’t expect detailed reports as long as he got results.’

Zen considered this in silence for a moment.

‘And what about you, Signor, er — ’

‘Nguyen,’ Tom interposed.

‘What about me?’ the other man demanded.

‘Have you been in touch with Mantega since your arrival here?’

‘No.’

‘Do you plan to be?’

‘What business is that of yours?’

Zen gazed for some time at the window, as though there was something of vital importance to be glimpsed through the luminous screening of the blinds.

‘Signor Mantega is an interesting man,’ he remarked blandly. ‘He specialises in arranging deals between crooked businessmen and corrupt politicians. One therefore asks oneself why your company should have required his services.’

Nguyen’s face hardened.

‘Are you in fact asking yourself, or are you asking me?’

Zen pretended to consider this for a moment.

‘Well, since you put it that way, I suppose I’m asking you.’

‘Then I want a lawyer present,’ Nguyen replied curtly.

Zen sighed in a weary way.

‘I have no time for that nonsense. I’ve had a hard night, signore. I was simply hoping for your cooperation in providing some background to the case that concerns me now. But, to be honest, recent developments have rendered your status entirely peripheral and your resulting interest to me minimal. I therefore invite you to take your leave.’

After witnessing the initial confrontation, Arnone had remained standing in the corner of the room throughout. With a sweep of his hand, Zen signalled him to escort Martin Nguyen out, then turned to face Tom Newman.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said.

The spiny dorsal fin of the coast slipped past unnoticed beyond the vast expanse of glass shielding the saloon. Luciano Aldobrandini lay embedded in a winged leather recliner, naked except for a black thong, watching his personal recut for DVD of the film which had won him the silver at Venice back in the 1960s. It should have been the gold, but Visconti’s people had packed the jury.

All things considered, it had held up pretty well, he thought. Artless and unsophisticated, of course, and given to crude over-emphasis at times. He would make it very differently now, but it was questionable whether the result would necessarily have been an improvement. Primitive though it was in many respects, the original had a raw, driven quality to it, a sense of energy to burn, amounting to sheer recklessness at times, that now felt very, very precious.