Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Perfect.’

After that, they became friends. Or rather Mosse’s father became a subordinate of Nathan Parker. And Parker took care of the sergeant’s son. He helped him get into military academy, had him promoted, and covered his ass when necessary.’

‘Meaning?’

‘In short, Frank, Mosse is a bit of a psycho. He goes in for meaningless violence and gets himself in trouble. At the Academy, he once almost killed a classmate with his fists and later stabbed a soldier over a woman at an amy party in Arizona. During the Gulf War, a soldier was tried for threatening him with an M-16 to stop him from going ballistic on a group of defenceless prisoners.’

‘Quite a guy!’

‘A creep is more like it. But things were smoothed over every time. Thanks to guess who?’

‘General Nathan Parker, I presume.’

‘Correct. That’s why I told you to be careful, Frank. Those two are the Devil squared. Mosse is Parker’s henchman. And I’m sure he wouldn’t think twice about using him.’

‘I know, Coop. Thanks. I’ll be expecting your e-mail.’

‘It’s already sent. Take care, my friend.’

Frank hung up and stood in the middle of the room, his head leaning to one side. The information from Cooper added only names, dates and facts to what he already thought about those two. They were bad enough in broad daylight. They would be vicious at night.

The intercom buzzed. He got up, turned off the radio and went to answer.

‘Mr Ottobre, there’s someone coming up to see you.’ The doorman was speaking English and sounded embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier but… please understand… I…’

‘Don’t worry, Pascal. It’s okay.’

Who could it be that had so upset the doorman?. Someone knocked just then. He wondered why they didn’t ring the bell. Frank went to open the door.

He found himself in front of a middle-aged man, about his height, clearly American. He bore a vague resemblance to Robert Redford, with darker hair. He was tanned and elegant but not pretentious. The man was wearing a blue suit and his shirt was open with no tie. He wore a Rolex but the strap was leather, not one of those massive blocks of gold so common in Monaco. The man flashed him a natural grin. He was a real person, not a celebrity. No PR at any price. Frank liked him on sight.

‘Frank Ottobre?’

‘Yes?’

‘Glad to meet you, Mr Ottobre. I’m Dwight Bolton, United States Consul in Marseilles.’

Frank stopped a second in surprise, then shook the outstretched hand. This was an unexpected visit. His face probably betrayed his thoughts, because the envoy’s eyes lit up in amusement. And his grin shot up on one side, creasing his face.

‘I’ll leave, if you’d rather. But if you can get over my title and invite me in, I’d like to speak to you.’

Frank collected himself. The man was certainly charming. He pointed to his bare chest. Strangely enough, he was not ashamed of showing his scars to a stranger. And in any case, Bolton gave no sign of noticing them.

‘Sorry. You took me by surprise, but that’s okay. As you can see, I always receive my country’s diplomatic corps dressed like Rambo. It’s patriotic. Come on in, Mr Bolton.’

The consul stepped forward. He turned to someone in the hallway behind him, a tall bluff man with a gun under his jacket and letters stamped on his forehead – FBI, CIA or DEA, but certainly not the Salvation Army.

‘Could you wait for me here please, Malcolm?’

‘No problem, sir.’

‘Thanks.’

Bolton closed the door. He took a few steps and stopped in the centre of the room, looking around.

‘Not bad. Great view.’

‘Yeah. I’m a guest in this apartment. I guess you already know why I’m here.’

Frank made his declaration to avoid wasting time. Before arriving, Bolton must have gleaned all the information on him that he needed. Frank could imagine his secretary placing a folder with his name and résumé on the desk.

Frank Ottobre. Square peg, round hole.

The folder must have passed through so many hands by now that Frank no longer cared. All he wanted Bolton to know was that there was no reason for embarrassment and useless verbal gymnastics between them.

The consul understood and seemed to appreciate it. Bolton had the decency not to pretend that Frank was an easy guy to like, knowing that admiration and respect were an acceptable alternative.

‘Please sit down, Mr Bolton.’

‘Dwight. Call me Dwight.’

‘Okay, Dwight then. Call me Frank. Do you want something to drink? Nothing fancy, though. I’m not very well stocked right now,’ he said, going out on to the terrace to retrieve his shirt.

‘Can you manage a Perrier?’

No alcohol. Good. As Frank passed him on his way to the kitchen, Bolton sat down on the couch. Frank noticed that his socks were the same colour as his trousers. The man liked to match. Meticulous but without overdoing it.

‘I think so. No frills, okay?’

Bolton smiled. ‘No frills.’

Frank came back with a bottle of Perrier and a glass and handed them to him without ceremony. As Dwight poured the sparkling water, Frank went to sit on the other couch.

‘You’re asking yourself what I’m doing here, right, Frank?’

‘No, you’re asking. I think you came here to tell me.’

Bolton looked at the bubbles in his glass as if it were champagne. ‘We have a problem, Frank.’

‘We?’

‘Yes, we. You and I. I’m heads and you’re tails. Or vice versa. But right now, we’re two sides of the same coin. And we’re in the same pocket.’

He took a sip of water and placed the glass on the coffee table in front of him.

‘First, I want to say that my visit is only as official as you want to make it. I consider it completely off the record, a friendly chat. I must admit that I expected a different sort of person. Not Rambo necessarily, but Elliot Ness perhaps. I’m glad I was wrong.’

He picked up the glass again, as if he felt more confident holding it.

‘Want me to explain the situation, Frank?’

‘Might not be a bad idea.’

‘Well, I can tell you that Allen Yoshida’s death only accelerated something that Arianna Parker’s had already set off. You know that General Parker’s here in the Principality, don’t you?’ Frank nodded. Dwight continued, showing relief and at the same time concern that he was already informed. ‘We’re lucky you just happened to be here. It kept me from the embarrassment of insisting that one of our representatives be included in the investigation, because you already were. The United States has an image problem right now. For a country that decided to assume the leadership of modern civilization, as the one and only true superpower, we got a sound beating with 9/11. They hit us where we were strongest, where we felt invincible: at home.’

He looked out through the open French doors at the city. The first shadows of evening were starting to settle.

‘And then this mess happens… Two Americans killed just like that, right here in Monaco, one of the world’s safest countries. Ironic, eh? Doesn’t it feel a little like a rerun? And now we’ve got a broken-hearted father who has decided to take matters into his own hands. A US Army general who intends to use the same terrorist tactics we’re fighting elsewhere for his own ends. As you can see, we’ve got the makings of another big international fiasco.’

‘So?’ Frank looked at Bolton, impassive.

‘So, you have to catch him, Frank. The killer. You have to. Before Parker does. Before the local police. In spite of the local police, if need be. Washington wants this case to be the pride and glory of America. Whether you like it or not, you have to take off your Elliot Ness shirt and turn into Rambo.’