No Mortal Thing: A Thriller Page 10

  It was empty, the bed crumpled. A nurse passed. Where should he look? She shrugged, offered a possibility. Down another flight of stairs. A pharmacy hatch. A plastic bag was passed across the counter. A man stood beside a girl and reached for it. They turned.

  Seitz was an officer of old-school and old-fashioned methods. He thought himself hardened – he could do homicide and not throw up on the carpet. The wound on her face was almost from the ear to the mouth. Her eyes were blank, as if she were past weeping. The wound was dark, impossible to ignore. A little of him winced. He wondered how the kids who worked around him would have responded.

  With a hand behind his back, he gestured for the English boy to stand aside. The girl ignored him. The man with her was a brother – his computer had thrown it up. A treasure trove loaned by parents, uncles and cousins would have gone into the rent and fittings of a pizzeria in that district, and they had moved east from Lübeck, which might have been at the extremity of ’Ndrangheta reach in Germany. They might have believed that the crime families didn’t operate in the capital. A bad mistake. She would have the scar until the day she died, and she wore no ring. The wound disfigured her.

  He had his ID card in his hand, and showed it. He spoke softly and, he hoped, gently. Could he, please, interview her? Could he, please, take a statement from her? Could he, please . . . Her elbow went hard into his chest.

  It would have collided with the butt of his PPK, carried in the leather shoulder-holster beneath his jacket. The weapon was a further symbol of his authority. He thought that, behind him, the English boy might have reached out to slow her. She didn’t stop. The brother swore at Fred quietly, but the word was clear enough to anyone with a knowledge of the Italian vernacular – similar to what a referee might have been called in the Stadio Olimpico or the Stadio San Paolo where the Naples tifosi had earned a reputation for quality abuse. They went past him and disappeared round a corner. A lesson learned, no surprise to him, but he doubted he would gain the thanks of his pupil, Jago Browne, who was an innocent abroad.

  He thought of fear as a virus and was grateful that he was rarely exposed to it.

  He was a student of military history. The prosecutor, when left at home by his personal protection officers, found relaxation in reading of defeats or hollow victories in the six years of the Second World War. His father had served in North Africa, had gone into the cage, and had always said he thanked God for his capture. Now he was in the courtyard at the carabinieri headquarters in the north of the city, an austere building.

  To the prosecutor, the fate of the seamen on the USS Indianapolis seemed appropriate. He had read of it many times. More than a thousand men had gone into the Pacific from the torpedoed battleship and were not rescued for days. Sharks had circled them, picking the weakest off. Less than a third had survived. It was the circling sharks he thought of, going round and round the diminishing clusters of men who hung on to debris. The image of the sharks was in his mind now. He was at the building for a routine meeting.

  A theatrical scene played out as he emerged from his armour-plated Lancia. Photographers were there. Cars and jeeps of the ROS group waited, their exhausts billowing fumes. Had he wished to, he would not have been able to get through the door ahead, which was filled with uniforms. In the pale light of the inner courtyard the camera flashes were bright. Prisoners were escorted forward, pullovers or windcheaters covering their wrists because it would impugn their dignity to be seen handcuffed. Some of the escorts wore paramilitary combat tunics, and others wore gilets with the name of their force emblazoned on them, but their features were guarded from the lenses by balaclavas. A few wore their best uniforms. The images would go into the Cronaca, Messag’ero in the capital, to Corriere in the north, and round the world from ANSA, Reuters and Associated Press. A minister would speak of a ‘heavy blow’ delivered at the core leadership of the ’Ndrangheta, and dignitaries would stand in front of microphones. He hated the spectacle because they were not his captives. It was too long since a minister had pirouetted before the cameras and claimed, because of the prosecutor’s diligence, that a ‘significant strike’ had been dealt against the tentacles of organised crime. He watched. His protection team would have understood how he felt and hung back. It wasn’t their job to bolster his sagging morale.

  The vehicles had gone. The sole reason for bringing the prisoners to the headquarters building was for photographs. It was a competitive world in which the prosecutor existed. Resources were the key: the more resources, the more arrests; the more arrests, the more advancement. Glittering prizes awaited the most successful in their ranks: the rewards could be political sinecures, appointments to Rome and big-budget departments. For those who failed to gather the headlines that ministers craved, the future offered more years at the grindstone of Calabrian law enforcement. They had never won, would never win.

  He swore.

  The sharks circled. They would be at the meeting. He appreciated that he could justify keeping his surveillance team in place for only a limited period, days not weeks. There was also the amount of time he was spending on his investigation into Bernardo Cancello. He would try to defend himself. The men of USS Indianapolis had screamed each time the sharks had come under them to snatch at the legs of one of their number. His fight would be conducted with propriety, but the knives would be as sharp as sharks’ incisors. He could plead for another week, no longer.

  He congratulated the colleague who had brought in the prisoners. It hurt the prosecutor to abandon an investigation, to dump the case notes and the surveillance reports – paper always a useful second behind the electronic library – in the cupboard in his office.

  He depended on the surveillance team – he had no other weapon to fight with. He could hope to win another week.

  They had talked about socks. Later they would talk about belts. Further down the agenda was the preference for the Beretta 92, fifteen-shot magazine, against the Glock 17, seventeen-shot magazine, which the Gruppo Intervento Speciale favoured. Neither Fabio nor Ciccio had applied to join that section of the carabinieri, which was thought to be the best.

  In time they could move onto the question of food, what sort of assignment they’d want after this one had run its course, then, as a last resort, their wives. They were almost at the end of the road. Nothing was happening. The daughter, the grandchildren, the daughter-in-law, the matriarch, Stefano, the handyman, the youngster who hung around the back door and the dogs were always on the move, taking grain for the chickens and bringing a bowl of eggs back. They’d have to be desperate to talk about their wives: Fabio’s was Chiara, and Ciccio’s was Neomi. The women knew and confided in each other. Ciccio knew that Chiara had issued an ultimatum: she would leave him if he didn’t cut his hours and was away less often; Fabio knew that Neomi had been diagnosed with a degenerative hip condition. Each had heard about the women the other had been with before his marriage. Pistols were more interesting to talk about than the wives.

  Fabio said, ‘I can feel it. He’s here, Bravo Charlie is. Has to be.’

  Good to believe. Shit to do surveillance and not believe.

  Ciccio said, ‘He has to show himself. We have to see him before the place can be hit. Seen, photographed, identified. We’ve got none of that. I’m saying this’ll be our last shift here.’

  ‘You crying?’

  ‘If he’s here, we’ve missed him. The capo will get hurt bad.’

  Fabio said, ‘I “believe” in tacchino in gelatina. Nothing better.’

  ‘I don’t want to quit.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘I hate to lose.’

  ‘He’s here. I’m certain of it. It’s how they are – never far from base. Maybe it’s us – wrong location, too far back . . .’

  ‘That’s crazy,’ Ciccio murmured. ‘We looked. We had the aerials. We couldn’t be closer or the dogs would have us. Then we’d be off the face of the planet, fed to the pigs or buried at the back of a cave. Take your own advice and shut up
.’

  The day wore on, and they almost slept until there was a convulsion from Ciccio, and a curse from Fabio: another scorpion fly in the bottle, the perforated cap back on, and the thing was trapped. Another diversion, better than the usual talk. It was good to look at the captured fly with a tail that looked lethal. Interesting to watch it scrabble for freedom, and fail.

  There were two hard chairs in the interview room. They had walked back to the police station.

  Jago Browne was surprised that the investigator had invited him in. ‘It’s been a long day and a traumatic one for you. I’d like to offer you coffee and straighten out a couple of points.’

  Jago had been left alone. He checked his phone. Four messages from the FrauBoss, which displayed her irritation at him taking sick leave, then not answering his landline, emails or her texts. The investigator had come back into the room with two coffees, cardboard mugs, on top of his Apple iPad. He passed Jago one of the coffees, switched on the iPad, produced a packet of biscuits and split the wrapper. Jago’s anger ebbed over what had been done to the girl, but still burned for what had been done to himself. He sipped the coffee, which was dreadful, and listened, as was expected of him.

  ‘You think me idle, uncaring, and you are entitled to your opinion. I do what I can and don’t attempt the impossible because that way my time is wasted and I burn. They defeat me. Understand. We are the power house of Europe. It is natural that another colossus, from the top of European criminal activity, should make a second home in Germany. They are not Sicilian or Neapolitan, but ’Ndrangheta from Calabria. They seek to be, as you would say, ‘under the radar’. They infiltrate and bring with them their money, huge profits from cocaine–, weapons–, child– and any other trafficking. We are a country and a people burdened by the past. We had a police state. We had draconian laws. Then came 1945 and an Allied military government, the imposition of democracy, and a constitution with the purpose of preventing the abuses that a Fascist government had practised. That is very good. The freedom of the individual is guaranteed. The police cannot abuse ordinary people. Much to admire . . . and it is admired hugely by the Calabrian gangster families who come here. They buy a lot and sell a little, and they have created a diaspora inside Germany. They are allowed, almost, to walk free. The young man who sliced a girl’s face is Marcantonio. He is twenty. Don’t let your coffee get cold.’

  He ignored the coffee, and ate another biscuit. Sometimes, as the investigator talked, he hit keys, then turned back to Jago. He seemed sincere, and was probably more than twice Jago’s age. At the bank they were lectured on money-laundering and the procedures to counter it; the younger personnel were cautioned against the friendship of potential investors with cash, and little rewards that were hardly worth noticing. He pushed away the cup.

  ‘It is possible to intercept his phones, but before I can do that, under German law, I must offer precise evidence in justification. I cannot say that I believe or suspect criminal involvement. My chiefs are against allowing Italian officers onto our territory. They despise our brothers from the Mediterranean. A man who was a waiter in a Leipzig trattoria, earning a thousand euros a month, suddenly finds the cash to buy a ten-million-euro hotel. I am certain he is a ‘place man’ but cannot prove it, so I cannot tap into his conversations. They are peasants and without education, my superiors reckon, but they are capable of dealing in huge sums on the Frankfurt bourse. When, finally, we awoke to the situation – and the British are like us, no better, no worse – it was too late. They are embedded. They own significant percentages of our hotels, restaurants, travel agents and prostitutes. I go to my chief, who is many years younger than me and a bureaucrat, and request resources for an investigation. His first question to me is ‘Has there been a complaint? Show me.’ Now I have to say there has been no complaint lodged by a victim of assault. The end. I urge you to take my advice. Be very careful, Jago Browne, because they’re serious people. When they come out from ‘under the radar’, they’re unpleasant. They’re cruel and arrogant, which comes from the belief that they are beyond the law. Sometimes they are right. Would you like a fresh coffee? Of course you would.’

  His mug was picked up. Across the table from Jago, the wrong way round for him, was the iPad. He saw, inverted, a head-and-shoulders photograph with text alongside it and headings.

  ‘Milk, no sugar, yes?’

  The door closed.

  There was a coffee machine in the corridor a few metres from the interview room. He might have a minute, perhaps two. Jago scrabbled in his pocket. There was a receipt from a dry cleaner on Lietzenburgerstrasse, near the language school where the bank employees had a discount. He had his pen. He turned the iPad and began to scribble.

  He found the address in Berlin of Marcantonio Cancello, then the name of the village on the eastern side of Calabria. He flicked the screen and saw the names of parents and an uncle, who had children but no wife. A little pyramid had been constructed with the names, ‘Bernardo’ at the top and his date of birth, then Bernardo’s wife. He wrote everything he could get onto the small piece of paper and cursed that he had not picked up a notebook at his apartment.

  He heard the footfall in the corridor and flipped the iPad back as it had been.

  Extraordinary. Bizarre.

  He sat back in his chair, played bored, looked at the door as the handle turned.

  Fred Seitz, regarded by his colleagues as dull but honest, had satisfied himself that the young man had had time to gut the entry on his iPad.

  Kindness? Not really. In respect for a Samaritan who had tried to help? Something like that. In the room, which was often used by the investigator and his colleagues, a camera beamed back to a screen an image of the interview room’s interior. He had seen Jago Browne writing frantically. He rarely had an opportunity to move outside the constrictions of his service. He went.

  ‘The machine is broken. We must survive without coffee. Of course, my friend, you should always leave police work to policemen – it’s safer. Like you, in spite of the firearm I carry and my warrant card, I feel frustrated at the lack of arrests and my inability to hurt dangerous people. They are conceited. We are the little people and do not matter, and they keep around them only those who are frightened of them. My parents were in Rostock. You know Rostock? The great port city for heavy ship-building in Communist times. Gangsters came there after reunification. A nephew of my cousin was once slapped in the face for not getting off the pavement when a gang leader passed. I’m sorry – I am rambling. The nephew saw the car they had just parked, a BMW, took out his house keys, scratched two lines along the length of the bodywork and ran. If they had caught him, they would have killed him. I told that boy some harsh truths. Gangsters hate violation of their property because that is disrespect, and he should make sure he is fit and can sprint fast. He should also get out of Rostock. I told him I did not condone what he had done and would arrest him without hesitation if he did it again. I don’t want to see you again, Jago Browne. You should go back to your bank, and be a success in your chosen industry. Don’t look for excitement in any unknown area. I shall be away for a few days, and when I come back I shall do what I can within my schedules and budget, but it will not be much.’

  He showed Jago out. He yearned for the freedom of a beach.

  Marcantonio swore and dropped his bag onto the pavement. He had forgotten the small porcelain Madonna he was taking to his grandmother – and he was already late for the flight. He turned on his heel, ran up the steps to the front entrance and had to key in the code.

  ‘It’s the only Lamezia connection! You’d better hurry,’ came the yell. His distant cousin was at the wheel of the car and glanced pointedly at his watch.

  A man was approaching the vehicle, but he barely noticed him as the door swung open and he started for the stairs – the lift was too slow. He heard a shout – not pain, but naked fury. What to do? In Marcantonio’s life his grandmother was more important than his cousin’s shout of protest. He went
on up the stairs and had to unlock the mortise, go inside and disable the alarm, then into the bedroom. Where was it? He had forgotten what the wrapping paper looked like. What colour? And the blinds were down so it was dark.

  He found it. It went into his pocket. The figure was beautiful in his eyes, and she would like it. He had nothing for the padrino, his grandfather, but the old man would be well satisfied.

  He came out, did the alarm, then went quickly down the stairs, but had to find the button that unlatched the door. He heard the crescendo of his driver’s shouts. He went out, skipped down the steps to the pavement and nearly tripped over his bag. He saw what had been done to the passenger side of the BMW. Two silver lines sliced the paintwork. A young man, back to him, was sauntering down the street, well dressed, in a suit, the glint of keys in his hand.

  The car was Marcantonio’s pride and joy, and it was ruined. Had it happened at his home, in the foothills of the mountains, a life would have been taken – but he had a flight to catch. Anyone nearby would have heard him as he spat the words but none would have understood the dialect of the eastern side of the Aspromonte mountains. ‘I’ll have your balls if I ever see you again. You’re dead. Dead, do you hear me?’ He hadn’t seen the vandal’s face, but he was tall, erect and walking steadily – then disappeared around the corner.

  Jago Browne had never done anything like that before. He could still feel the gentle pressure he’d applied to the key, the ease with which it had floated across the paintwork. It was what kids did, anywhere between the Beckton Arms and the bottom of Freemasons Road, not what young bank executives did when supposedly on sick leave.