Giorgio Faletti - I Kill

Hudson McCormack, the young lawyer, took absolutely no pleasure in arranging the destinies of others: he wanted only to control his own. His ideal life was on the ocean, sailing. The wind in his hair and the sound of the prow cutting through the waves; the freedom to choose the route, any route, according to the moment.

He threw his cigarette butt into the sea. To do what he wanted, he needed money. Lots of money. Not an enormous amount, but a substantial sum. And there was only one way to get it in a hurry: by circumventing the law. That was how he put it. A slight euphemism. Not breaking the law, but circumventing it. Walking along the edge, on the margins, so that he could turn around quickly if someone called, showing his good-boy face and answering ‘Who, me?’ with innocent eyes. He could not deny that there was a risk involved, but he had weighed it up carefully. He had examined the question up and down, front and back, and decided that the risk was, all told, acceptable. There were drugs involved and that was not to be taken lightly. Still, this case was special, very special, as cases involving mountains of money always are.

Everyone knew where drugs were produced and refined and what they were used for. Entire countries based their economies on different kinds of powders, which cost less than talcum powder where they were produced but went up 5,000 or 6,000 per cent once they reached their destination.

The various comings and goings of these operations were part of a horrific war, no less ferocious and well-organized because it was underground. There were soldiers, officers, generals and tacticians who remained in the shadows but were no less capable and determined. And liaising between the various armies were people who had turned money laundering into a professional calling. The business world was not sophisticated enough to turn its back on someone who came with three or four billion dollars, if not more.

Hudson McCormack was not a big enough hypocrite to hide his head in the sand. He knew that what he was doing was a legitimate part of the shit that was destroying the planet. He did not intend to shirk from his own implacable judgement. It was only a question of stimuli, of weights on the scales. For the moment, what he wanted was on one side and had much greater weight than any argument he could put on the other.

He had carefully assessed the situation during long evenings at home, poring over the facts with the same coldness used to analyse the balance sheet of any legitimate company. He believed that he had foreseen everything. He had even made a list of things that were unforeseeable. The possible events and outcomes that couldn’t be known.

In the best-case scenario, he would have enough money to soothe his conscience and get the boat he wanted. Then he would sail around the world, free as the wind. In the worst-case scenario – and he knocked on wood – the consequences would not be that bad. In any case, they would not be enough to ruin his life completely.

He had left himself several outs, which put acceptable limits on the risks. As acceptable as a risk of that kind could be. Everyone has a price, and he knew he was no different. Still, Hudson McCormack was neither corrupt nor greedy enough to raise the price to a rash level that he could not support.

He was pulling the strings. In a very short time, his fee would be deposited into a Cayman Islands bank account, where the first half was already credited. He thought about the person who had made the deposit for him, his client Osmond Larkin, who at that moment was sitting in jail in America.

The man disgusted him; his revulsion had only grown with every meeting. His cruel eyes. His attitude that the world owed him something. His arrogant tone, always smarter than everyone else, turned Hudson’s stomach. Like anyone who thought himself clever, Osmond Larkin was also stupid. Like every cunning person, he could not keep from showing it off, and that was why he was in jail. Hudson would have loved to stand up and tell him so, and then leave the room. If he could have had his way, he would even have violated professional secrecy and told the investigators everything.

But he couldn’t do that.

Besides the risks he had already taken, that option would mean pressing the remote and turning off a TV showing a magnificent yacht cutting through the waves with a handsome man at the tiller.

No, there was nothing he could do. Despite his aversion to Larkin, he had to deal with certain unpleasant things if he was to get everything he wanted. Not everything, he said to himself, but a lot and without delay.

He walked back towards the sponsor’s cruiser. The boats were lost in the darkness. Only the larger ones had on their service lights, reflecting in the water.

He looked around. The wharf was deserted, the bars closed, their plastic chairs piled atop the outdoor tables, the umbrellas down. It seemed strange. It was summer after all, despite the late hour, and summer nights always had impromptu actors onstage. Especially summer nights on the Côte d’Azur. He remembered what Serena had told him about the serial killer. Was that why he was the only person on the pier? Maybe nobody wanted to wander around and chance running into the killer. When people are afraid, they generally seek the company of others in the illusion of protection. In that sense, Hudson was a real New Yorker. If he allowed himself to think like that, he would never leave his apartment.

He heard the engine of an approaching car and smiled. Serena had finally made it. He imagined the girl’s nipples hardening at his touch and he felt a pleasant, warm sensation and a satisfying bulge under his zipper. He would think of some excuse to get her to let him drive. An intriguing image came to him as he waited, of him driving the convertible past the pine trees along the dark haute corniche, the wind in his hair and a lovely New Zealander bent over his lap with his cock in her mouth.

He moved towards the city lights on the other side of the wharf to meet her. He did not hear the steps of the man coming up from behind, for the simple reason that they were silent.

But the arm that encircled his throat and the hand that covered his mouth were made of iron. The blade of the knife, striking him from above, was precise and lethal.

It cut his heart in two.

Hudson’s athletic body doubled in weight and suddenly fell limp in the arms of his killer, who held him effortlessly. Hudson McCormack died with the sight of the castle of Monte Carlo in his eyes, without the satisfaction of one small, final vanity. He never knew how well his white shirt set off the red of his blood.

From her balcony, Helena responded with a smile to her son’s wave as he walked out of the courtyard with Nathan Parker and Ryan Mosse. The gate clicked shut and the house was deserted. This was the first time in several days that they were leaving her alone and she was surprised. She could see that her father was following a plan, but she was unsure of the details. She had walked in on her father and his thug in the midst of a conversation that had stopped suddenly as she entered the room. Ever since her involvement with Frank, her presence was considered suspicious, even dangerous. The general hadn’t even considered the idea of leaving her alone with Stuart for an instant. So now that she was left at home, anguish was her only companion.

Before going out, on her father’s orders Ryan Mosse had removed all the phones and locked them in a room on the ground floor. Helena didn’t own a mobile phone. Nathan Parker spoke to her briefly in the tone he used when he would not accept ‘no’ as an answer.

‘We’re going out. You’ll stay here, alone. Need I say more?’ He interpreted her silence as an answer. ‘Good. Let me remind you of just one thing, if I have to. Frank’s life depends on you. If your son isn’t enough to bring you to reason, maybe the other one will be a deterrent for anything you want to do.’