Michael Dibdin - End games

‘So Giorgio wanted to kill you. Good for him. Nevertheless, it’s clear that he also failed in this admirable endeavour. How did you talk your way out of it?’

Invigorated by the mere thought of coffee, Mantega overlooked these gross insults.

‘By offering him the chance to make a lot of money. Giorgio used to distribute drugs in this area, acting as an agent for one of the Reggio clans. Then he started using the product himself and the reggiani found themselves a new distributor. He had a costly habit to maintain, and whatever money he made on small local jobs went on crystal meth. That’s why he needed the Newman kidnapping to replenish his funds.’

‘But he didn’t even try to bring that product to market,’ Zen objected.

Mantega nodded dejectedly.

‘I know. I can’t understand it. Anyway, I knew he must be almost out of money, so I offered him the chance to co-operate on a hoax to prise a fortune out of these Americans who are searching for the tomb of Alaric. According to my sources, they are using a form of technology that can penetrate the surface of the earth to a certain depth and then analyse the results in order to reveal the presence of any structures or objects that may be buried there. So all we have to do, I told Giorgio — who was standing there with a knife in his hand, ready to cut my throat — is mock up something that will look to the radar like it might be a subterranean tomb. But when the Americans start digging, they’ll find that the supposed tomb has already been opened and contains nothing but boulders and rubble from the Busento in its winter spate. Che palle! Someone got there before them. Which is when I get in touch. Yes, I say, the treasure of Alaric was indeed discovered just a few years ago, but those responsible are having great difficulty selling it, being just a little local firm. What would you like and how much are you prepared to pay?’

The officer who had left returned bearing a tray with their coffees. Both Zen and Mantega emptied their plastic cups in one go.

‘And you expect them to believe you?’ Zen asked.

Mantega laughed for the first time. He sensed that he was gaining the upper hand in the exchange, besides which the caffeine, on a painfully empty stomach, kicked in like a rugby full back.

‘At the time, I was more worried about Giorgio believing me! Which he did, so at least I’d saved my life. But since you ask, dottore, I think that our story might very well be believed as long as it’s properly presented, which task will be in my capable hands. Treasure hunters don’t want to think that they’ve wasted years of their lives and millions of their money chasing the end of the rainbow, so they come preselected for a certain amount of credulity. Besides, what have we got to lose? If they don’t bite, we can walk away.’

‘And if they do bite?’

Mantega gestured largely.

‘We’ll offer them some decent fakes. It’s been done before, you know.’

Zen let his head sink into his hands. He looked utterly defeated.

‘All right, so that’s how you’re proposing to fool them,’ he said. ‘How are you proposing to fool me?’

This was the moment that Mantega had been waiting for.

‘You called me silly,’ he said, a little edge in his voice, ‘but I’m not silly enough to try and fool a man like you. I may or may not succeed in fooling the treasure hunters, but that’s just a sideshow, a means to an end, which is to fool Giorgio and hand him over to you.’

By now feeling fully empowered, Mantega allowed himself to crumple up and fold forward, his body language mirroring that of his opponent, always a good move in tough negotiations.

‘Giorgio wanted to kill me!’ he cried in an emphatic but muffled voice. ‘He broke into my house in the middle of the night, woke me from sleep and threatened to cut my throat! Thank God my beloved wife and sons weren’t there. But that man is a maniac, dottore. If he did it once, he may do it again. I won’t sleep soundly until he is serving a life sentence without the possibility of parole for killing Pietro Calopezzati, and you are the only person who can achieve that. So what I’m proposing, Dottor Zen, is that you release me to act as the mediator between Giorgio and the Americans in the hoax that I’ve outlined. At some point in the ensuing negotiations, I will arrange a meeting at which Giorgio will be present and communicate the details of the time and place to you in advance, giving you plenty of time to prepare your men to move in and arrest him. What do you say?’

Shortly before noon the next day, Achille Pancrazi set off for Reggio di Calabria, seat of the regional government and of the Museo Archeologico Nazionale. He covered the two hundred kilometres in a little under an hour and a half, parked in a side-street near the museum and then killed the remaining time in a bar over a coffee and a shot of the local spirit flavoured with bergamot, the pungent, inedible citrus native to that part of Calabria. Professor Pancrazi did not normally drink before lunch, but today he felt a need to fortify himself.

At a quarter to two precisely he arrived at the museum and proceeded to the office of the assistant director he had spoken to earlier by phone.

‘I apologise for being late,’ he said once the ritual greetings and embraces had been concluded. ‘Roadworks on the autostrada. I was stuck in a tailback for almost an hour.’

The director smiled wearily.

‘After a while, you begin to wonder why the damn thing wasn’t built properly in the first place.’

Pancrazi returned an equally weary glance, but no reply. Both men knew perfectly well why the A3, like most high-investment construction projects in the south funded by the Italian government, hadn’t been built properly in the first place.

‘Anyway, I do hope it’s not too late,’ Pancrazi added apologetically. ‘You people must be wanting your lunch, but I can manage perfectly well on my own. As I said on the phone — ’

‘No, no! For you, professor, no problem at all. Please come with me.’

The director led him out into the main galleries, then down several flights of stairs and through various doors to the basement, which housed the museum’s reserve collection and workshops. They traversed long lanes flanked by rows of tall metal shelving on which the artefacts were stored, eventually reaching a more brightly lit area where four men in blue overalls were chatting.

‘Ready for lunch, boys?’ the director said. ‘Me too. Let me introduce Professor Achille Pancrazi from Cosenza University.’

There were polite murmurs and handshakes all round.

‘What was it you wanted to inspect again, professor?’ the director remarked. ‘Those pinakes whose authenticity and origin are still in dispute, I believe.’

‘Exactly,’ said Pancrazi. He shrugged with a certain embarrassment. ‘I’ve been asked to give a paper about that type of artefact in Stockholm next weekend and I realised yesterday that the topic of your recent find is almost certain to come up, so I’d better have another look to be sure I know what I’m talking about.’

‘Of course, of course. Marco will show you where they’re currently being stored. And then I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave you to find your own way out. Shame you couldn’t make it down here in time for lunch.’

One of the workmen led Pancrazi along the racks to a section where the thin terracotta votive tablets dedicated to the cult of Persephone in the Greek city of Locri were stored.

‘Listen,’ Pancrazi whispered conspiratorially. ‘This may take some time, and of course smoking is not allowed in here. Is there somewhere I might go and have a puff if the need arises?’

‘ Ma certo, professore!’

The man led him over to a door in the outer wall. Above it was a lighted sign reading ‘Fire Exit’.