Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

‘Claude, how many men are at Jean-Loup’s house?’

‘Three. Two outside and one inside.’

‘Level of experience?’

‘Excellent.’

‘Okay. Phone them back and tell them what happened. Tell them that the subject’s been informed and he knows that we know. The agent inside is in great danger. Tell them to enter very cautiously and shoot if they have to. And tell them not to shoot just to wound. Is that clear? All we can do is get there as quickly as possible – I just hope it’s not too late.’

Frank and Morelli left the room, leaving Bikjalo and Raquel in shock behind them. Pierrot was slumped like a ragdoll on the chair, crying desperately with downcast eyes, contemplating the ruin of his shattered idol.

The man slowly hangs up, ignoring the furious, pleading voice on the other end. He smiles a gentle smile.

So the moment he was expecting has arrived. He is somehow relieved; he feels a sense of liberation. The time of furtive steps along walls under the cover and protection of shadow is finished. His face has been unveiled. The man is not the least bit worried – he is simply more vigilant than ever before. Now he will have enemies by the hundreds. Many more than the bloodhounds that had been chasing him so far.

His smile widens. It will all be useless. They will never catch him. The long hours of training that he forced on himself as a sacred duty are seared on his mind like the branding of a slave.

Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I know a hundred ways to kill a man, sir. The best enemy is not the one who surrenders, sir. The best enemy is a dead enemy, sir…

Suddenly, he recalls the imperious voice of the man who forced him to call him sir. His orders, his punishments, the iron fist he used to rule every instant of their lives. As if it were a movie, he visualizes their humiliation, their fatigue, the rain on their bodies, trembling with cold. A closed door, a patch of light getting smaller and smaller on their faces in the dark, the sound of a key being turned in a lock. The hunger, the thirst. And the fear, their only real companion, without the consolation of tears. They were never children, they were never boys, they were never men: only soldiers.

He recalls the eyes and the face of that hard, inflexible man who terrorized them. But, when it all happened that blessed night, it had been fairly easy to overpower him. His young body was a perfect fighting machine and the other man was heavy with age and disappointment. He could no longer fight the force and ferocity that he himself had created and strengthened, day after day.

He had surprised him while he was listening with closed eyes to his favourite record, Stolen Music by Robert Fulton. The music of his pleasure, the music of his rebellion. He had immobilized him with a neck hold, tight as a factory clamp. He had heard his bones crunch in his grasp and had been astonished to discover that, after all, his tormentor was only aman.

He remembers his question, asked in a voice that was not fearful but simply surprised when he felt the cold barrel of the gun against his temple.

What are you doing, soldier?

He remembers his own answer, loud and clear and cold in spite of everything, at the sublime moment of his rebellion, the moment in which all wrongs are righted, all injustices overruled.

I do as you taught me. I kill sir!

When he pulled the trigger, his only regret was that he could kill him only once.

The smile leaves the face of the man who has lost a name borrowed a very long time ago and who is once again nothing more than someone and no one. Names are no longer necessary. Only men and the roles they are forced to play: the man who flees and the man who chases, the strong man and the weak man, the man who knows and the man who is ignorant.

The man who kills and the man who dies…

He turns to observe the room. There is a man in uniform sitting on the couch with his back to him. He sees the nape of his neck rising above the couch, the line of his short hair on his lowered head as he examines a pile of CDs on the coffee table.

The sound of John Hammond’s acoustic guitar is coming from the stereo. The floating sensuousness of the blues re-creates the Mississippi Delta, evoking a lazy summer afternoon, a world of humidity and mosquitoes so far away that it might not even exist.

The man in uniform had some excuse to come into the house, overwhelmed with the boredom of a task that perhaps he finds pointless, leaving the other two cops in the street, victims of the same boredom. He was fascinated by the number of records on the shelves and started to talk about music with a presumption of competence that his words showed to be false.

The man stands looking at the back of the defenceless neck of the man on the couch.

Just sit there and listen to the music. Music doesn’t let you down. Music is both the journey and the destination. Music is the beginning and the end of everything.

The man slowly opens the small drawer of the telephone table. Inside, there is a knife, sharp as a razor. As the man raises it and slowly moves towards the other man sitting with his back to him, the blade reflects the light coming in the window.

The head of the sitting man is bent and he nods it slowly, following the rhythm of the music. His closed mouth hums what he thinks is an accompaniment to the voice of the blues singer.

When he covers that mouth with his hand, the hum goes up an interval and grows more acute. No longer an attempt at singing, it becomes a mute chorus of surprise and fear.

Music is the end of everything…

When he slits his throat, a red spurt comes out so fast that it hits the stereo. The lifeless body of the man in uniform slumps down, head to one side.

There is noise at the entrance of the house. Men are approaching stealthily, his alert, well-trained senses can feel them even without a sound.

As he cleans the blade of the knife on the back of the couch, the man smiles again. The blues ballad, melancholy and indifferent, continues to pour from the speakers that are now spattered with rust and blood.

Frank and Morelli left the Rascasse at full speed, racing down Boulevard Albert Premier. Their Mégane, with its sirens blaring, had joined several cop cars coming from Rue Suffren Raymond. There was also a blue van with tinted windows in which the crisis unit was sitting in combat fatigues. Frank had to admire the efficiency of the Monaco Sûreté Publique. Only minutes had passed since Morelli had sent out the alarm and reinforcements were already arriving.

They turned right on Sainte-Dévote and drove along the harbour towards the tunnel, more or less the route of the Grand Prix in reverse. No racing car had ever driven down that road as urgently.

They emerged from the tunnel at great speed, leaving behind the beaches of Larvotto and heading towards the road that passed the Country Club and continued on to Beausoleil.

Frank had indistinct glimpses of curious onlookers turning their heads as the cars passed. The sight of so many emergency vehicles racing together through the streets of Monte Carlo was rare indeed. In the entire history of the city, the crimes that required so many police could be counted on one hand. The layout of the city was such that there was only one road that entered Monte Carlo and one road that exited, which made it easy to seal one side or the other. No one with half a brain would let himself get caught in that kind of trap.

At the sound of the sirens, the civilian cars pulled over and stopped obediently to let the police pass. Despite their speed, Frank felt like they were driving at a snail’s pace. He wanted to fly, he wanted to… The radio on the dashboard crackled and Morelli leaned over to pick up the mike. ‘Morelli.’