Michael Dibdin - End games

A harsh laugh.

‘Clasped in prayer, if you like.’

Achille Pancrazi knew immediately what had happened, but his first thought was for himself. God almighty, what would Reginella say when she heard? She had always despised and hated southerners, to the extent of initially refusing to allow her son to visit his father in Calabria. Achille and Emanuele had joined forces on that issue once he became old enough to take a stand on his rights and responsibilities, and they had prevailed, mocking her irrational fears, telling her that everything was different now, that it was time to wake up and stop behaving like a typical paranoid northern racist. They’d prevailed at the time, but now Reginella would exact a terrible revenge.

And why on earth was this happening to someone like him anyway? He knew that the gangs sometimes took relatively small fry, pharmacists or accountants, to keep their earnings up on a percentage basis, but it had never occurred to him that he might be on their list. All right, he was a university professor, but the pay was miserable even before the outrageous sums withheld under the divorce settlement that his ex-wife’s butch lesbian lawyer had imposed. Just look at my bank statements, he felt like saying. I may have an impressive-sounding title, but the truth is that I’m just scraping by.

‘It’s not about money,’ the man said, as though he had been reading Achille’s thoughts. ‘Just a little professional help. Things you can arrange quite easily and will cost you nothing but a little time. In return, I personally guarantee as a man of honour that you will get your son back, safe and unharmed.’

‘When?’

‘Once you have done what we ask.’

‘Yes, of course, only… You see, he’s due back at the weekend.’

‘Back where?’

‘To his mother. She’ll kill me if he’s still missing when she finds out what’s happened.’

The man laughed again.

‘Maybe we should have taken her as well!’

‘Could you do that?’ Achille found himself asking.

‘I’m not interested in your domestic problems. But it’s essential to our agreement that it remains private. If you or your wife or anyone else informs the authorities, then Emanuele will be returned to you one piece at a time, wrapped in plastic food bags. Do you understand?’

‘I understand.’

‘When we wish to contact you, we shall call your home number on your son’s mobile. If I suspect that either number is being monitored by the police, out come the skinning and butchering knives. The same if you fail to follow our instructions to the letter and on time. Are you still following me?’

The man’s patronising tone made Pancrazi really angry for the first time.

‘I’m not stupid, you know!’

‘I hope not. What we want is some old Roman treasure.’

‘Treasure?’ breathed Pancrazi faintly.

‘Gold cups, diamond jewellery, what do I know? But it has to be genuine, the real thing, good enough to pass examination by an expert.’

‘What period are we talking about here? Late republic? Early empire?’

‘How the fuck should I know?’ the man shouted.

‘Of course,’ murmured Pancrazi mildly. ‘Not your area of competence.’

There followed a silence so long that Pancrazi began to think that the man had left as silently as he arrived, until he spoke again.

‘Alaric.’

‘What about him?’

‘When did he live?’

‘Late fourth to early fifth century, roughly. The exact dates are a matter of some dispute, but a recent paper by Schondorf suggests that — ’

‘Okay, the stuff has to be older than that.’

‘And where am I supposed to get it?’

‘Not my problem, professo. But that’s what you teach, isn’t it? What you profess. The people who run the museums must give you a chance to handle the merchandise once in a while. Well, take that chance, use your wits and wait for me to call.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘We borrow the sample for a few days, then return it to you and you take it back to wherever you got it.’

‘What guarantee do I have that you’ll return it?’

The man laughed once more.

‘None whatever. But if you don’t deliver within the next forty-eight hours, your son will be returned to you in convenient bite-sized chunks. Simmer slowly in a good tomato sauce and you’ll have yourself a meal. You might want to invite your ex-wife. There’ll be plenty.’

Except for the looming presence of Natale Arnone, in full uniform and fingering the automatic pistol in the white holster attached to the diagonal strap across his ample chest, the scene of Zen’s first interview with Nicola Mantega was identical to that of the previous one with Maria. The atmosphere, however, could not have been more different. The two principals had both removed their ties and unbuttoned their shirts. The air was a broth of smoke, spent breath and body odours, seasoned with fear.

‘You’ve been a silly boy, Mantega,’ Zen said quietly. ‘It goes without saying that you’re a total waste of space from a moral and legal point of view, but I have to deal with that every day in my job and by now I’m hardened to it. What I can’t tolerate is sheer carelessness, perhaps because it calls into question my own reason for living. Evil is one thing, but a drunk driver who persistently takes blind corners on the wrong side of the road disturbs me.’

Mantega sat hunched in his chair like a resilient stuffed toy. He knew how this game was played. Zen gestured to Arnone.

‘Again.’

The young inspector crossed the room to the bank of electronic equipment and pressed a button. Mantega’s voice issued from the loudspeakers attached to the computer terminal on Zen’s desk, the recording of the call he had made on Tom Newman’s mobile to the house in San Giovanni in Fiore where Giorgio’s calls were received.

‘You crazy bastard! What do you think you’re doing? Newman’s son just told me that his father’s dead. Well, that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned! I trusted you, Giorgio, and now I feel betrayed. It’s all very well for you, lying low with your friends out of harm’s way. I’m the one the cops are going to put through the mincer. If they do, and I still haven’t heard from you, I’ll tell them everything I know. Names, numbers, dates, times, places, the lot! And don’t think you can blackmail me with that video. That was about a kidnapping. This is manslaughter at the very least, and probably murder. I had nothing to do with that and I’m sure as hell not taking the blame. I don’t owe you anything and I shall take all necessary measures to protect my own position, so get in touch by tomorrow at the latest. If you don’t, all bets are off, and you’ll find out just what I’m — ’

Aurelio Zen came to stand directly over Nicola Mantega.

‘So did he?’

Realising that silence and inertia would no longer do, that a move was required, Mantega glanced up at Zen with an expression of polite confusion.

‘Did who do what?’

‘Did Giorgio get in touch with you?’

‘No.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Zen commented. ‘Giorgio is certainly evil and possibly mad, but he isn’t stupid and doesn’t want to be associated with imbeciles. And who shall blame him?’

Mantega hung his head and stayed silent.

‘All right,’ sighed Zen. ‘As you so aptly put it, all bets are now off.’

‘I have a right to legal representation.’

‘You are a lawyer, Signor Mantega. Were, rather, as a result of that spectacular bit of silliness nine years ago, but no doubt the old skills are still there.’

‘I want an independent witness present to represent my interests and to report any illegal pressure on your part. If you deny me my legal rights, the judges will throw the case out.’