Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

What will become of me, Vibo?

The man pictures the cemetery in Cassis, the large cypress tree, the row of graves of people who were never their family, only their nightmare. There are no pictures on the headstones, but the faces of those inside are painted on the walls of his memory.

‘I think you’ll go home. And so will I.’

Oh.

A muffled exclamation, a simple monosyllable. A call for freedom, sunlight, the motion of the waves in the sea where men dive and come up as children again. Tears fall freely from the man’s eyes, running down his face to drop on the crystal case where he is leaning. Wet, ordinary tears devoid of nobility.

The affection in his eyes is boundless. For the last time, he looks at his brother’s body wearing another man’s face and sees him as he was, as he should have been: identical to him, a mirror in which he can see the reflection of his own face.

He takes a few steps back from the coffin before he is able to turn his back on it. He returns to the other room and stands for a moment in front of the long row of machines and recording devices that create music.

There is only one thing he can do now. It is his only escape and the only way he can once again defeat the bloodhounds that are after him. He thinks he can hear their paws scratching frantically on the other side of the metal door. Yes, there is only one thing left to do and he has to do it quickly.

He takes out the Zeppelin CD and puts in another heavy-metal disc, chosen at random, without even looking at the name of the band. The man puts it in the player, presses START, and the tray moves silently into place.

He raises the volume to the maximum with an almost angry gesture and imagines the musical impulse generated by the laser coursing through the plug and socket, running along the cables, as in a cartoon, reaching the Tannoy speakers that are unnaturally powerful for the tiny room, and climbing up to the tweeter and woofer…

Suddenly, the room explodes. The rhythmic fury of the heavy-metal guitars seems to glue itself to the steel walls that resonate and vibrate at their command. The thunder that the music is imitating blocks out the other voices. The man leans his hands on the wooden surface and listens to the beating of his heart. It pulses so hard that he feels that it, too, is about to explode in the amplified throb of white noise.

There is only one thing left to do. Now.

The man opens a drawer under the wooden surface and puts his hand inside without looking. When he takes it out, he is holding a gun.

‘Got it!’

Gachot, the bomb specialist, a tall well-built man with a dark moustache, got up from the ground with surprising agility. Frank could see that his Special Corps uniform was stretched over solid muscle; this man didn’t spend his time sitting at a desk exercising his jaws.

Gachot backed away from the metal door. Taped over the lock was a box the size of a cordless phone with a small antenna and two wires, one yellow and one red. The wires went from the device to a hole in the door under the wheel.

Frank looked at the plain and simple detonator. He thought of all the idiotic things you see in movies, in which the device to set off an atomic bomb that can destroy an entire city and kill millions of people always had a red display that counted down the seconds to the final boom. Of course, the hero always managed to defuse the device with only one second left, after agonizing endlessly, along with the audience, over whether he should cut the red wire or the green. Those scenes always made Frank smile. The lives of millions of people depended on whether or not the hero was colour-blind.

The reality was different. There was no need to visualize the countdown with a detonator linked to a timer, simply because there would be no one watching when the bomb exploded. And if someone actually had to be present, he couldn’t care less about the timer.

Gachot went up to Gavin. ‘I’m ready. Maybe you should have the men clear out.’

‘Is there a risk?’

‘There shouldn’t be a problem. I just used a little C4 and that’s manageable. It’s enough for what we need to do, I think. The effects of the blast should be limited. The only risk is with the door: it’s lined with lead. If I made any miscalculations and used too much C4, there might be some splinters flying. I’d say it’s better if everyone goes into the garage.’

Frank admired the caution of the bomb specialist, trained to defuse bombs as well as make them. He had the natural modesty of someone who knew how to do his job, although Gavin said he was smarter than the Devil.

Smarter than the man on the other side of this door, thought Frank.

‘And is the room upstairs safe?’

Gachot shook his head. ‘No problem, if they keep away from the stairway into the laundry room. The rush of air will be limited, but it will come out through the front windows.’

Gavin turned to his men.

‘Okay, you heard him. We’re going for fireworks. We’ll wait outside but right after the explosion, we rush in through the hall door and down the stairs to keep the shelter door under our control. We have no idea what will happen. He’ll probably be a little stunned by the explosive, but he’ll have a number of options.’ The sergeant counted them off on the fingers of his right hand. ‘Number one, for the optimists among you, he throws away his weapon and comes out with his hands up. Frankly, knowing what we do, I’m not expecting that scenario. Number two, he comes out armed, planning to take down as many men with him as he can. We don’t want any casualties or even wounded. If that’s the case, we shoot to kill, whatever he’s carrying, even if it’s a pencil sharpener.’

He looked at his men one by one to see if they had absorbed what he had just said. ‘Number three, he doesn’t come out. Then we teargas him out. And if he comes out fighting, we do the same as in number two. Okay?’

The men all nodded.

‘Good, now divide into two groups. Half of you go upstairs with Toureau. The others come with me, to the garage.’

The commandos walked away with the silent step that was their way of life. Frank was impressed by the efficiency and professionalism of Gavin and his men. Now that he was absolutely in his element, the lieutenant moved easily and rapidly. Frank imagined them sitting in the van, transported back and forth, the butts of their M-16s on the floor, chatting about nothing and waiting. Now the wait was over. They were about to go into action and each now had the chance to give some meaning to all the time spent in training.

When all the men were gone, Gavin turned to Morelli and Roberts. ‘You’d better keep your men outside. If we have to move, I don’t want too many people down here getting in each other’s way. All we need is for one of your men to get hit in the head by one of my men’s bullets, or vice versa. That wouldn’t be good for anyone. And who’d help them then, the desk boys?’

‘Got it.’

The two policemen went to tell their men the situation and give instructions. Frank smiled to himself at Gavin’s sarcasm. He had plenty of experience of FBI people giving orders without ever being in the firing line.

Now only Gavin, Gachot and Frank were left in the room. The bomb specialist was holding a remote control, slightly bigger than a matchbox, with an antenna just like the one on the detonator hanging from the door.

‘Whenever you’re ready. Just give the word,’ said Gavin.

Frank stood in silence, mulling it over. He stared at the small gadget Gachot was holding. It looked even smaller in his huge hand and Frank wondered how he managed to handle that kind of object with its tiny parts.