Wu Ming - 54

‘But I haven’t enough money to stay here for two months!’

Robinson shrugged. ‘You haven’t given me enough money to risk my skin.’

Pierre didn’t know what to reply. He was there now, take it or leave it.

He helped push the boat back into the water.

He saw Robinson rowing towards the open sea. The night gradually swallowed him up, like an ink stain.

Chapter 37

Naples, 16 April

The port of Naples was a vast marina for military vessels. Nato Command for Southern Europe: all orders for the Allied bases from Portugal to Turkey came from here.

Zollo watched the city moving away beyond the parapet. Luciano had been right: choose this city as a retreat. Who would ever have imagined that the biggest drug-trafficking operation in the world would have its nerve centre right in the backyard of the Allied armed forces? And the great thing about it was that not a single gram of heroin came out of Naples. At least not wholesale. It came from the Middle East through the Balkans. From there it reached Sicily and Marseilles, where it was refined and cut for the first time. Then New York, America.

Luciano, the brains, the big capo , touched nothing, saw nothing. Every so often he collected his takings and received emissaries from the American families. The racecourse served as a public relations office, and provided him with an army of freelance office boys.

And then there was the betting and the cigarettes, but that was all just small change. A top-up. Luciano sold electric appliances.

A long way from their days in New York, when a spruce dandy, with a little dog in his lap, rained sweets on the poor children of the district. The days of rackets and brothels: whores to suit every pocket, from the poor man to the Wall Street agent. ‘Lucky’, who had, in a single night, eliminated the competition with bursts of machine-gun fire. But transforming exile into one of the most profitable businesses in the world had been a masterstroke. Zollo couldn’t help admiring the old snake.

Turning bad luck into profit. Resurgence. That was the example to follow.

The ferry manoeuvred its way between torpedo boats, destroyers and battleships, heading for the open sea.

The trip to Sicily would be instructive, even if it promised to be a trip to the zoo. The island where his parents were born was inhabited by cavemen, but it had the most efficient refineries in the market. He was going to inspect them. Their journey passed through Yugoslavia: bought goods. Finally Marseilles.

The plan was starting to take shape. Luciano had assigned him the task of checking the Sicilian bases, and overseeing the buying and selling of the heroin: a sign of absolute trust. Zollo was counting on this for a hefty pension.

As he prepared to go undercover he ran through the details of the plan once more. A matter of time and quantity. On his previous trips he had already set aside twelve kilos. He had found a safe hiding place for them. Even if someone discovered them, they could never be traced back to him. Otherwise, Luciano would eat him for lunch. The opportunity had presented itself by chance: no one would find the packets where he had put them. A meticulous skim: about one kilo every fifty. He had done it well. One more job, the last one, the most consistent, and he would be guaranteed whisky, sun and women until the end of his days. He would leave them all standing, and disappear for good, bye-bye everyone, from Steve Cement. He had also thought of faking his own death: a terrible car crash. There was no shortage of places to vanish into.

He had contacted the buyers, in France. This last trip took it to fifteen kilos. A skilful hand would double that and turn them into a mountain of money.

But who would ever suspect him? Steve, general dogsbody to Don Salvatore Lucania, aka Lucky Luciano. Impeccable Steve. Clean-Work Steve. No, no one imagines anyone cheating Luciano while standing elbow to elbow with him, right in the lion’s mouth. If they had had an inkling, the blame would have fallen on those swinish Slavs.

He came downstairs and walked into the restaurant. As the barman poured him a whisky, he contemplated his image in the mirror behind the bar. His eyes were black holes in his pale face: his face said that no one would stop him. He raised his glass and, all alone, toasted a better future.

Chapter 38

Gramovac (Split), 17 April

Gramovac. A miniature village in the hills behind Split, eight kilometres from the capital, the road that Vittorio Capponi cycled down each morning. Pierre had walked it on foot, an hour and a half through pastures, vines and twisted olive trees.

Just as his father had described it to him. Poor but dignified houses, twenty at most, red-tiled roofs and dark olive green window frames. The church, tiny, in bright stone, a simple arch supporting two bells on top of the façade. On the other side of the little square the only sign of life, two old men sitting by their front doors. Voices roll faintly up the street. The café looks like someone’s house, a cross between a bar and a village shop. Above the door, words painted in red.

Pierre would have liked to roll up under the oak tree that shaded the square and sleep for hours, after his sleepless night, exhausted from his journey, his stomach still drunk from the waves. But the tension wouldn’t leave him in peace.

Now the old men were watching him. A man came to the door, adjusting his beret. With the right music and a couple of six-guns, he could have been in High Noon . But noon had passed some time ago, and the only reason for Pierre’s hesitation was a linguistic one: Professor Fanti had assured him that everyone in Split understood Italian, and yet it seemed strange to address these people as though they were strolling along the Portico del Pavaglione. Not that there was anything strange about them: shirt, trousers, shoes, all normal enough, perhaps tailored in a way that would raise a smile in Bologna. And yet the sky seemed to have a different blue, and unimaginable smells seemed to carry on the air.

‘Hi,’ he said finally, after crossing the little square. ‘I’m looking for Vittorio Capponi. ’

The wrinkles deepened on the man’s tanned face. Eyebrows, head, shoulders and arms: his whole body said no, the name meant nothing.

‘What did you say?’ asked one of the old men.

Pierre smiled, Fanti had not been mistaken. ‘I’m looking for Vittorio Capponi, where is he?’

‘Cappone? I don’t know, don’t know him.’

Don’t know? Twenty houses in the village and they don’t all know each other? The old man spoke Italian, but he must have been a bit befuddled. Or perhaps he came from a nearby hamlet where there wasn’t even a bar, and he had come here for a chat and he’d never seen Vittorio Capponi; his father worked in Split, he had never set foot in the bar. Pierre rummaged in his jacket and pulled out the piece of paper with the address.

‘Where? Dove? Where?’ he asked tapping the paper with his hand and holding it out to the man with the beret. The man beckoned him to follow and set off under the beating sun. A herd of sheep cut across the main street, a fast white torrent driven by the cries of two grimy small boys, and slipped into a narrow side street. The man with the beret stopped at the next junction and pointed to a house halfway down the alley. Pierre thanked him with his voice and his eyes, and the man muttered something in reply, plunged his hands into his pockets and turned back towards the café.

There was no one home. Nothing strange about that: everyone would be at work at that time of day. Nothing to worry about, he would wait, he needed to sit down, just for a moment, even on the ground or on a rock, as long as it was fixed and motionless.