No Mortal Thing: A Thriller (46 page)

Their presence showed respect for him.

Outside the front door there was a line of cars, models from the Fiat, Lancia and Alfa production lines that were now discontinued. The men were all of an earlier generation. Their own sons had demanded greater affluence, flaunted wealth, and were either in maximum-security prisons, dead or in hiding abroad. Their grandsons either wore fashionable clothes, drove fast cars and behaved with a stereotypical recklessness or had enrolled on a business-studies course. The men who had come to visit Bernardo had one thing in common: they were as much at ease in dealing with a consignment valued at a hundred million American dollars as they were in resolving a dispute in the village where they lived. An altercation might involve a perceived verbal slight, the location of a market stall or the breaking off of an engagement between a foot-soldier and a man of honour’s daughter. A peasant who worked in the olive groves might have an old pushbike stolen: he would expect his
padrino
to identify the thief, retrieve the bicycle and punish. The power of the leader was total. They did not like, individually or collectively, to hand down a sentence of death and order its execution, which attracted unwelcome attention, but would do so if challenged or betrayed.

Now they drank sparingly, wine, coffee, locally made brandy and water, and did not press Bernardo on his future or quiz him on the role his daughter would play. Long silences featured. The language was the dialect of those mountain slopes: something of the ancient Greek settlers and something of old links with Albanian seafarers. A
carabinieri
officer from Rome or Milan – headphones clamped tight on his ears – would understand no more than one word in ten.

Stefano would be outside, and would have brought out jugs of lemonade and plastic cups for the drivers and bodyguards. All of the old men headed families, and the extent of their power, if based on terms of commercial turnover, would have exceeded a billion American dollars each year, if their interests in the region, in Italy and across Europe were put together. Their politeness was marked, but they watched him.

They studied his posture and attempted to evaluate his state of mind. Some would have been present just a few days earlier when, in the shadow of the church at the shrine, he had introduced his grandson, returning from Berlin for the celebration of Mamma’s birthday. Would he continue to lead? Had he still the stomach for it?

When his daughter came into the kitchen, she refilled the glasses and prepared more coffee. She was smart and aloof, her own person, but she did not talk or bow to them. Soon, Marcantonio’s body would return, and they would escort it into the house. Then the visitors would leave. Bernardo thought the occasion had gone well, that judgements on his ability to continue had been suspended. He could not have hoped for more. He ached at the loss, but the boy had been a fool.

The matter of what Giulietta had seen early that morning, in the car park of a hotel in Brancaleone, clouded his mind. It remained an issue to be dealt with – and those she had seen in Locri, on the beach below the statue to the poet.

Carlo stood on the beach, the ripples of the wavelets against the toes of his shoes. Beside him was a carefully folded pile of clothes and the towel.

Flight out the next evening. Apologies had been made, but they would wait until after the funeral, then quit. Their achievement had been minimal.

Ten metres out, the water above his hips and below his armpits, Fred stood and shivered, then dived and swam powerfully.

Carlo was on his country’s business, as was the German. No gold commander waited in a dim-lit bunker for his report, no high-ranking civil servant pondered on the correctness of sending him into a dangerous area. No newspaper executives would be briefed after the mission was wound down. Put simply, in the corridors of Whitehall and the inner sanctums of government, nobody gave a flying fuck. Counter-terrorism would bring out the Parachute Regiment, the Apache gunships and limitless resources but the counter-narcotics programme languished.

What had he achieved so far? How were the chips stacked? Could have been worse. Bentley Horrocks would be wondering why the army of corrupt detectives, safeguarding him, had not given fair warning that he was under surveillance. Good enough to carry on with – and the chance of more to follow. They’d see the boy out, make sure he went clear.

Carlo was facing the sea. Fred had told him about the artefacts from here, how a scuba diver had come across the great bronzes that were now in a museum and internationally famous. He had seen an arm raised out of the sand on the seabed, and thought it was a dead human, but he was wrong. Instead he had happened across a miracle of history. Perhaps old Fred would surface clutching a pottery jar that had been down there for three thousand years.

He didn’t see them until they were almost on him. They had come so quietly. Five or six of them. He became aware of them when he smelt stale cigarettes and chilli on the breath. He had half turned. Hands reached up to push him. He stumbled forward.

‘For fuck’s sake, who the hell do you—?’

He nearly went down but didn’t. He careered away, trying to regain his balance, but hands were on his back and his head, and propelling him into the water. Young guys, with spiky hair, bright T-shirts and jeans, Nikes on their feet. There was sand, pebbles and driftwood. He went clumsily over the last of the beach and into the water. They followed him – nothing said, not a word. He didn’t see a knife or a cosh, and none of them had a ligature cord or a firearm. He was kicked in the backside and fell forward. Thrashed, swallowed, only a foot and a half deep but he’d gone into it and under. He came up heaving, coughing. Fred stood and watched. Sensible – not much else he could do. They came in after him and took hold of him. He saw Fred’s clothes thrown into the sea, his wallet and his trousers. They didn’t check what was inside the wallet or look at the ID. They knew whom they had. Some of the clothing floated and the rest sank. Carlo went under. Hands held his head, shoulders and arms, a leg in place to trip him. He flailed and fought but the kids were young – not middle-aged with beer guts and short of breath. He was under and the panic escalated.

He was drowning. Carlo thought Fred had come close to him, tried to free him and failed. He was terrified – Carlo, long-term Customs man and liaison officer, skilled in surveillance, had never known such fear. Under the water, blurred vision, the legs pressing tight on him, his lungs about to burst, he knew he was finished when he blew out the air. He felt the fight in him failing. He was beaten – get it over.

He was let go.

He didn’t know whether he was floating, or had gone back under. Fred had him. They were gone.

Fred held Carlo tight, bent him over and slapped his back, making him cough, retch. The water came out in reluctant spurts. He had to blink half a dozen times to clear his vision, then saw them. No jeering, no shouting, no cat-calls or abuse. They just walked back towards the road. Job done.

He was helped back to the beach.

‘You all right?’

‘Yes,’ Carlo said, then coughed and heaved.

‘You hurt?’

‘I’ll live.’

Not a mark on his body. And all because he’d played the clever beggar. Stood to reason. He’d tossed a bit of fun at Bentley Horrocks in a public place and been paid back. And had screwed up his friend. He reached the shore, stood, dripped and thought himself pathetic. And he remembered something that had been said.

Carlo had pontificated to Bagsy:
What does he think it will be like, going after those people? Does he think it’s some sort of squirrel shoot – out with an air rifle? Is he dumb or ignorant or both?
He seemed to hear his own voice.

It must have been the time of day in central Locri for the schools to come out. Kids were watching them as if they were aliens. Fred went back into the water to collect his clothing, and fished out all that had been on the beach. He looked into Carlo’s face when he had the armful of his clothes and shoes.

‘They weren’t going to harm us, just frighten us.’

‘They did a good job.’

Fred said, ‘It’s a small insight into the terror they create. To live here and stand against them, you have to be brave, a hero. We are not brave and not heroes.’

‘We have been taught a lesson we won’t forget.’ They hugged.

Consolata sat under the tree where he had been. She felt violated. Her legs were tight together, her arms across her chest and her fingers entwined. She was fully dressed. If a boy from the squat, or one of the older men – Pietro or even Massimo – had treated her in that way, she would have gone at him with fists and teeth. But
he
had gone untouched.

She sat in the quiet.

She had brought her passport with her. No reason why she needed it. She was not going to be a nanny in Madrid, or start a PhD in Paris, or fly to Berlin to sit moonstruck in front of Jago Browne in his apartment and go job hunting with no language. She had a passport because her parents had considered, a few months before their business had been taken from them, a trip for themselves and their teenage daughter to a Tunisian resort, a taste of Africa. It had never been used. She had brought it and wished she had not humiliated herself by saying it was in her bag. She ate some of what she had brought, and drank some water.

She decided she would stay. She couldn’t imagine why he had turned away from her. Any other boy would have been pulling her clothes off. She had the picture again in her mind of the men she had met on Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi, and of the night-time visit to the squat, the warnings given her and their belief she was responsible. She would stay. The day wore on. Two mice came close to her. If they had been in her bedroom she would have cringed away from them. Now she threw them crumbs.

He had used her as little more than a driver, and she knew nothing about him – or what he would do next. Knees together, arms tight, she gazed at the density of the foliage, felt the sun and heard the birds. She knew nothing.

The prosecutor agreed. He accepted defeat.

They did not come as a deputation from the
carabinieri
, the Squadra Mobile or the Guardia di Finanze to the Palace of Justice. The messenger was a clerk. The information could have been sent to his screen but was not. Instead there was a single sheet of foolscap. There was no evidence. The surveillance team had failed to locate the fugitive Bravo Charlie. Roadblocks in the area of that village were a drain on manpower and had not trapped the suspect. The assets would be withdrawn under cover of darkness the following evening. The funeral of Golf/Alpha Charlie would be monitored: if Bravo Charlie was seen he would face arrest if the prosecutor supplied evidence for a minimum charge of Mafia association. There were two wardrobe-sized cupboards in the prosecutor’s office. The one nearest the window that looked out onto the stairwell contained files on cases that awaited his urgent attention. The cupboard nearest to the steel-reinforced door was equally full of files that were held together with cotton ribbon. They contained stories of investigations that had been dropped: they might be picked up in the future if new allegations came to light or new evidence surfaced. It was a bitter blow.

He had taken hits from supposed colleagues, was avoided in the corridors, no longer sought out by those who wished to rub shoulders with success. He would not go to the funeral, invite further humiliation. If
he
was there, and if the association charge could be proven, it would demean the prosecutor to have the uniformed men of the
carabinieri
wade into a throng of mourners, drag out an old man and cart him away. At the outset there had been great optimism, but failure was hard to embrace. The boys knew and were quiet, the banter gone. He would not stay late that evening – the death of the boy was insignificant, except that a successor had been eliminated. The crusader from Berlin was of no importance and his anger at it had been unnecessary.

He had smoked his last cigarette, and would have to scrounge from the boys again. There was a mirror by the door. He used it to tidy his hair and straighten his clothing, as if a prominent visitor was waiting to see him. He saw himself, saw the ravages, the price of the investigation.

He opened the door and they were up, shrugging into their coats, pistols in their holsters. ‘Sorry, boys, just fags. Short of fags.’

He was happy to be alone.

Jago would watch for the dogs. If they were quiet, if they were inside the house, he would go down and excavate the cable, but later.

It was still too early. The light was going and the shadows lengthening, but the cars at the front had not yet thinned. He rolled the question in his head: Bernardo would not return to his bunker while the cars were still there, the drivers and bodyguards hovering, cigarettes glowing.

His mind was changed.

A hearse was bringing the coffin home.

Jago had a good view of it. Cigarettes were thrown down and caps came off men’s heads. They formed an aisle, no instruction but natural respect, held their hands clasped low and ducked their heads as the coffin was carried past them. Men spilled out of the house and stood close together on the step. Like a guard of honour, but without overt ceremony. Jago looked for a glimpse of a face in the background. He saw Giulietta, who stood straight-backed. She had changed into a black dress, cotton, not silk, he thought, no jewellery, and behind her was the old lady. Teresa and a gaggle of children followed the coffin. It lurched on the step, was steadied, then taken inside and the doorway cleared. He had not seen him – no older man there had been accorded greater deference as master of his own home.