Wu Ming - 54

Zollo walked along the pavement.

Pagano stayed where he was, scratching his head.

‘What’s going on, Stiv? Where are we heading?’

Zollo stopped.

He had that look on his face that frightened the life out of you.

‘We’re going back to France.’

‘But how? On the train?’

Steve Cement waved the banknotes around.

‘With these. Be sure and stay behind me, because if you do anything dumb, I’ll shoot.’

He was serious. Extremely serious.

Pagano hurried to join him.

The warehouse was enveloped in summer haze. Ettore, sitting on the rocking chair, let the two men approach him. You could tell in an instant that they were foreigners.

When they opened their mouths there was no doubt about it.

‘You’re the one who brought the American television from Frosinone to here, isn’t that right?’

The answer was implied. Ettore didn’t waste his breath.

In many years of trafficking and smuggling he had learned to size people up at a glance. The guy standing in front of him fell under the category of people like himself. He could smell them a mile off. The ones who are neither bosses nor workers.

‘And you must be the one who was looking for it.’

Zollo nodded.

‘I have to get to France by three tonight. Without crossing at a border post.’

Ettore stroked his moustache.

He wasn’t a cop. He could smell them a mile off too. He was a hunted dog like so many others. And usually people in a hurry are willing to pay well.

‘Big place, France.’

‘I just need to get across the border.’

‘Menton?’

‘Sospel.’

‘Are the police after you, or is it some people you’ve swindled?’

Zollo ignored the question, took a couple of wads of notes from his pocket and threw them in Ettore’s lap.

‘There’ll be the same amount again once we get there.’

Ettore counted the money. ‘French francs. Clean?’

‘Won in the casino.’

‘That’ll do fine for the journey. Are you carrying any other goods? I’ve got to know what sort of risks I’m taking.’

Zollo hesitated.

‘The risks are high. That’s why I’m paying decent money. If you don’t feel like doing it, I’ll go elsewhere.’

Ettore looked at the bag that Zollo was clutching.

‘Is that all the luggage here?’

‘Yes. There are two of us. There’s the boy as well.’

Pagano waved in greeting, but his gesture looked thoroughly ridiculous.

Ettore weighed up the pros and cons. It was a hefty amount of money. A round journey. He knew the smugglers’ route, he’d taken it on other occasions.

And getting to Sospel was easier than getting to Menton.

He wouldn’t mention it to Bianco. The owner didn’t approve of night transports. That cut out the other guys in the company. It wasn’t wise to take the journey alone, without anyone watching out for your back. That guy with all the money looked as though he was in difficulties. Serious difficulties. Better to take the due precautions.

He got up and walked to the telephone.

‘Are you ready, Robespierre? We need you tonight. Come to the warehouse straight away, we’re going in an hour. I don’t give a fuck about the bar, didn’t you say you needed some cash? Well, there’s a fair bit involved, enough to settle your debts and a bit more. We’ll be back tomorrow. Ok, get a move on.’

Ettore came out of the cage that served as an office and planted himself in front of Zollo, who had lit his umpteenth cigarette in the meantime.

‘Sorted. We’re off in an hour.’

He went out to the back and opened the padlock of an iron box.

He took out a Thompson and two Lugers, wrapping them in a blanket.

Before closing the box he hesitated for a moment, and then picked up a couple of hand grenades.

Life had taught him to heed his forebodings.

Chapter 48

Bologna, 2nd July

The tram was half empty. Pierre went and sat down at the back and slid open the window.

A fair amount of cash, Ettore had said. How much?

A risky journey. Where to? What for?

Pierre had skipped the questions to hurry to the meeting, but before jumping into the truck he would want some answers.

Risk meant: red-hot goods or a high likelihood of a check of some kind, customs perhaps. A fair amount of money meant enough to pay off his debt with a good bit left over. A hundred thousand? That was three times his monthly wage.

Pointless hypotheses. Better to wait.

Once it was empty, his brain found itself occupied by a new tenant.

Had Angela already spoken to Montroni? What had they said? Pierre imagined her cold, determined, as he had seen her after Fefe’s death. What would she have told him about the hospital file? Would Montroni suspect him? Would he take his revenge? Without a doubt, Angela’s departure was a kick in the pants for his uncertainties. The enemy wouldn’t leave him alone. The enemy was very powerful. The trip to Genoa had come at exactly the right time. Ettore’s money even more so.

The first right things at the right time that had happened to him since the start of the year. It could be a good sign. A reversal of a trend. Better not to have any illusions.

Angela. It’s strange to think about a person so close to you whom you might never see again. You feel a void opening up, but not in the future, which is almost always a void. It’s the past that seems to deepen, to pass once and for all, to become a photograph.

Even before he met her at the Certosa, Pierre knew that Angela wanted to leave. He had given her Fanti’s contact in England.

He had done it because she needed it more than he did. Strong as she was, she was still a woman on her own, an adulteress, without a job, with nowhere to go.

But he had done it for himself as well. To allow a thread, however slender, to bind him to her, the only one that she wouldn’t sever in an instant. If she decided to go to London, he would know where to find her. Fanti would pass on news from him. He could write to her.

A sudden jolt stopped his thoughts mid-flow. He had to get out.

He found Ettore, who was carrying two petrol cans to the lorry. ‘Here I am.’ ‘Perfect. Help me fill her up, and we’ll set off.’ ‘Where are we going?’ ‘France. Just over the border.’ Good guess. ‘And how much are we being paid?’ ‘I haven’t done the sums yet. For you it’ll be around about 80,000.’ ‘Fine. You want me to help you load?’ ‘No, don’t worry, no point.’ ‘No point? So what are we carrying?’ Ettore pointed towards a big guy who was walking towards them. ‘Him.’ Pierre took a closer look. There was something familiar about the man. Where had he seen him before?

. The cretin with the pigeon!

Zollo came and stood in front of Pierre’s disbelieving eyes.

An image of the boy bent double to vomit, on the ship going back to Yugoslavia, flashed through the American’s mind. Between his legs, the cage with the bird in it. The funnel inside his brain was suddenly blocked with thoughts.

Zollo didn’t like coincidences. He didn’t try to guess. He didn’t want to. He raised an eyebrow slightly. He took a step forward.

He said, ‘Cary Grant has never been to Yugoslavia in his life. You’ve never spoken to him. He told me himself. You’re a klutz.’

He walked towards the lorry.

Ettore finished checking the tyres. ‘We’re going on a long journey, it’s better if we swap names.’

The American nodded. ‘Zollo.’

‘Bergamini.’

They shook hands.

‘Is he coming with us?’ asked Zollo, pointing to Pierre.

‘Yes. He’s my helper.’

‘Can he be trusted?’

Ettore pointed towards the warehouse, where Pagano was trying to catch the air pump that he had inadvertently switched on, as it fought like a snake.