Wu Ming - 54

‘A plain leather wallet, long and flat. Inside: my passport, two hundred-dollar bills, a bit of loose change in lire, and. I don’t remember anything else, Major.’

‘Fine, Mr Kaplan, forget it ever happened. With the help of our agents in Trieste, it will be as though you never lost your wallet. And please note that I am not saying this out of national pride, or to give you some kind of pointless reassurance, you see —’

‘Could you pass me that piece of paper for a moment?’ Cary asked with perfect timing. If he let him loose on that subject he’d be off again, at least half an hour’s tirade on the efficiency of His Majesty’s agents. Then he had noticed something. On the back, someone had reproduced a signature hundreds of times. The handwriting looked the same as the poem. The signatures were almost identical, with small variations here and there, as though to the writer were trying to find the most elegant way of writing his name.

Cary narrowed his eyes and tried to decipher the scribble. Then he asked for confirmation.

‘This is an interesting piece of information, Major. Your friends won’t mind having a name to start off with, will they? What do you think it says?’

Dyle studied the piece of paper as though it were the Rosetta Stone.

‘Hmm, let’s see, Carlo. Carlo Alberto Rizzi, I would say, yes, that’s it, Carlo Alberto Rizzi. There’s no doubt about it. Things are looking up, Mr Kaplan. By this evening, we will have found your wallet.’

In the meantime, the Triestine poet Carlo Alberto Rizzi would search fruitlessly for a patriotic poem in the pockets of his duffel-coat, finding instead a leather wallet, 200 dollars and the British passport of Mr George Kaplan.

Chapter 50

Port of Bar, Montenegro, 28 April

A mixture of fish, naphtha and sweat. The smell of the port. Since he had learned to walk, he had grown up on the docks, cadging a few cents from the longshoremen and listening to the sailors telling their fantastic tales. The smell of grim and boastful men, trawlers, barnacles clinging to the piers of the bridge. Even when he had had his first fuck, the youngest whore he had been able to afford. And that smell was still there as he weighed down the feet of those poor bastards, deaf to their pleading and the promises of all the wealth in the world.

He climbed down from the ship, feeling sick. It wasn’t seasickness; he was disgusted with the endless shit jobs he had done in his life. To discover that what he was best at was settling other people’s scores in exchange for decent wages, a clean suit and a matching tie. His tour of the Sicilian refineries had been enough to stir old grievances in his belly: now here he was in a lousy little harbour frequented by the worst kind of human scum that the asshole of the world could shit on to the earth. Another job for Steve Cement.

Just one thing kept his mind alert: determination. The last task was completed. Lyonnese Toni was waiting for him in Cannes, to buy his drugs.

Walking towards the three shady figures at the end of the bar, he thought about what Luciano had said: ‘I commend myself to you, Steve, I want everything done just as it was before. And if they balk at the price, tell them to fuck off, and their mothers too. And take care, ok?’

The three faces showed a complete set of all the things that a blade can do to a human face. Only their sloping moustaches partially hid the damage. They were wearing stinking jackets and sailors’ berets made of rotten wool. They emanated that smell .

He stopped in front of them and looked straight at them without batting an eyelid.

‘Bulatovic.’

The man in the middle nodded to him to follow him. Zollo walked behind them.

They escorted him to a tavern with the sound of music and laughter coming from inside. About thirty men were crammed into the place, and an old man was wheezing away on the accordion in a corner at the back. Some of the patrons were soldiers, with long beards and uniforms loosened because of the heat. The smoke from cigarettes and hubble-bubbles created a dense fog, and beyond it Zollo could just make out the one who was supposed to be his man. On previous journeys he had dealt with intermediaries, but this time the packet of heroin was a very big one: the boss himself had bothered to come here to receive it.

Mikhail Mehmet Bulatovic was sitting at one of the smoky tables. Two ugly great brutes were standing behind him. The three guys from before were actually rather pretty in comparison.

Bulatovic was wearing a suit at least twenty years out of date, and was badly shaven, as though his tough skin had put up furious resistance to his razorblade. The kind of character that Zollo deeply loathed. A megalomaniac bumpkin who thought he was the Tsar of all the Russias just because he had some cop in his pocket and sold drugs at the head of a gang of cutthroats. No rules.

These were the kind of people who kept the wheels of the international drugs trade in motion. Tens, perhaps hundreds, of provincial little Caesars in pursuit of cash and glory.

Bulatovic nodded to him to sit down on the other side of the table. Murderer’s eyes, grey and expressionless. Zollo had never seen eyes like them. He held out a rough hand and took his seat. He was offered a glass of brandy which he barely sipped.

One of the men from the port said, ‘Mikhail don’t speak ’Talian, says it fascist language. I do, I made war against ’Talians. You speak, I translate.’

‘I want to know where to pick up the goods, and where to deliver the payment.’

This was quickly translated.

Bulatovic uttered a few words.

‘He says the day after tomorrow in Dubrovnik. At the docks. You check the goods, then you pay.’

Zollo nodded.

‘He say also that you in great danger here. Mikhail has many enemies, people who want to get their hands on his business. You understand? He got to keep everyone in their place. He spend money to pay soldiers, and to defend your way of life. If he don’t check everything, his enemies kill you for ruining his business.’

The usual shitty stuff. The tribal elder had stepped forward, just to tighten the rope.

Zollo got to his feet.

‘Tell him the price is the same as it was the other times. I’ll look after my own back. Ok?

The guy translated and Bulatovic went on staring at him for a few seconds, as though weighing something up.

Zollo felt like a cavalryman defending his scalp against the Indians.

He turned on his heels, not wild about the idea of turning his back on these people. Before he left he spat on the floor.

As he walked towards the ship he wondered how long it would take for them to come after him. The tavern door closed behind him.

And here they were.

He stopped and calmly lit a cigarette.

It was the two bodyguards.

They were clutching.45 calibre Lugers. Scrap metal.

He didn’t like trials of strength. They were just rhetorical gestures to show whose cock was the hardest. But that was how these people were, they spoke an ancient language.

He drew his Smith and Wesson, complete with silencer, and shot them both in the left kneecap before they had time to take aim.

He finished them off with a flurry of kicks and the jack-knife he kept in his pocket.

By the time he got back to the tavern his jacket was creased and he had a bloodstain on his sleeve. Bulatovic and the interpreter sat petrified at the table. It was the same colour as they were; they looked as though they were part of a single wooden sculpture. Zollo walked over to them, his face unchanged. The drugs dealer heard a plop in the glass in front of him. As his brandy turned red he saw two ears floating in it. Zollo murmured, ‘Now you know who’s hardest.’ He turned to the interpreter. ‘See you in Dubrovnik.’ This time he looked over his shoulder as he left.