The Namesake (10 page)
The young policeman came back, and sat down close to Caterina and glared at Blume. ‘The coffee machine’s broken,’ he said.
Rome
Blume had a shower, lay down, closed his eyes and breathed in the familiar air of the bedroom. It had been his for more than twenty years, but he still thought of it as his parents’ and of the bed he slept in as theirs.
He was just beginning to drift off for a deliciously early night, when his mobile phone rang. He placed it under the pillow. The muted trill and faint buzzing from beneath his head was quite soothing. If it was urgent, they would phone again.
They phoned again.
‘What?’
‘Commissioner Blume,’ said a voice he had not heard before: a voice that harboured no doubt it had the right number and was speaking to the right person. ‘My name is Captain Massimiliano Massimiliani. I would like to see you as soon as possible, if I may.’
‘Who did you say you were?’ asked Blume.
‘Massimiliano Massimiliani. Primo Capitano. Carabinieri. I am seconded to the DCSA. Where are you at this precise moment?’
‘I am in the San Giovanni district.’
‘Where in the San Giovanni district?’
‘Via Orvieto,’ said Blume.
‘Do you mean to tell me you are at home?’
Blume groaned in exasperation as the intercom by his front door rasped. Now what?
‘Commissioner Blume?’
‘Just a minute, Captain.’ He took the phone from his ear, ignoring whatever the captain was saying, went into his living room, and picked up the intercom, held it to one ear, put the phone back to the other. ‘I’m still here, Captain. Someone’s at the door . . . Wait a second . . . Yes?’
‘It’s me. At your door, downstairs. I’ll hang up,’ said Massimiliani.
The mobile phone relayed the words a full second later than the intercom, giving Blume the unpleasant feeling of the captain’s voice going in one ear, passing through his brain and out the other.
Blume put his phone away, grabbed a polo shirt and pulled it on. The intercom rasped again. He had forgotten to press the button to open downstairs. He did so now and went back into his room to fetch some trousers.
The captain rapped rhythmically at the door like an old friend in a good mood as Blume was doing up his flies. He had not found any socks. He answered the door to a well-turned-out man in his early thirties, dressed in expensive casual clothes. Early thirties, already a ‘primo capitano’, a Carabiniere grade that had no direct equivalent in the police, but could be said to be ever so slightly higher than the rank of commissioner.
‘How did you know I was at home?’ demanded Blume, standing aside to allow his visitor in.
The captain held one arm down by his side; in the other he had a thin leather portfolio with which he rhythmically swatted the side of his thigh. He entered the room with two long strides, and tossed the portfolio carelessly on the coffee table. The captain was not gym-toned like the idiot cop Caterina had seemed to like so much, but there was not an extra pinch of fat on him. Blume recognized the look. It was the easy confidence of someone with long military training, of one who has seen action. The easy gait, the ready smile came naturally to a man who saw no one in his sights who could possibly threaten him. The only sign of tension and, possibly, a lack of control were in the hands, which the captain could not keep still.
‘I needed to find you as quickly as possible,’ said the captain, as if this were a sufficient answer. ‘Also, I told you, I work for the DCSA. Electronic surveillance and tracking mobile phones is what we do.’
‘For drug smugglers and criminals. Not for police commissioners,’ said Blume.
‘Were you going somewhere?’ the captain pointed to an outsized, shiny hard-shell suitcase next to the door.
‘That’s been there for weeks,’ said Blume. ‘Why did you pretend not to know where I was?’
‘You’re the one who seemed reluctant to mention that you were at home. It seemed impolite to insist. May I sit here?’
‘It’s a bit . . .’
The captain sat down on Blume’s sofa, which received him in a soft sinking embrace so that his knees were soon on a level with his eyes. He struggled back up and eyed it then Blume with suspicion.
‘I was going to suggest the armchair,’ said Blume. ‘That’s basically just a pile of cushions. The springs went and then the webbing.’
The captain sat in the armchair and beat out a tattoo on the cracked leather armrests. For himself, Blume chose a cheap IKEA chair that Caterina had made him buy for her apartment and rejected as soon as he had finished assembling it.
‘You should dispose of that sofa,’ said the captain.
‘I know,’ said Blume. ‘It’s been here for years. I’ll get around to it someday.’
The captain interlaced and cracked his fingers. ‘I need your help for Monday morning, think you can do that?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Blume. ‘You need to move a piano, paint a room, have someone killed?’
‘Ah, sarcasm. Here’s my ID card if you need to check my credentials.’
He neatly flicked a plasticized card into Blume’s lap, then clicked his fingers impatiently as Blume examined it. The badge showing the interforce symbol of the DCSA: three swords, the flaming grenade representing the Carabinieri, a walled crown representing the police, the yellow flame of the Finance Police, and the motto:
Trigemina vis cor unum
.
‘Three forces and one heart,’ translated Blume. ‘Beautiful concept.’
‘Let’s get down to business, Commissioner. On September 2nd, the Ndrangheta are holding their annual general meeting in Polsi after the Feast of the Madonna. This year, same as last, we’re fitting the place out with hidden cameras and mikes, keeping an eye on who turns up. We’ll be logging number plates, taking photographs. They know we’ll be there, but, as always, they don’t care, and no matter how many devices we plant, they don’t have any problems making sure we pick up nothing that is vital. The bosses from all over the world turn up, or give powers of proxy to their seconds-in-command. This year, for the fun of it, we’re hosting a delegation from the German Federal Police, the BKA. The delegation arrived a few hours ago, and we meet tomorrow morning, then again on Monday and during the week. There are some tensions between the BKA and the Italian authorities, but more cooperation than you might think. The Germans have occasional moments of humility when it comes to organized crime, or, at least, they are willing to acknowledge our greater experience. Now that they have moved beyond the “mafia-doesn’t-exist-in-Germany” stage, they are interested in learning. A visit to Polsi is part of that. Your friend Agazio Curmaci could well turn up, too.’
‘My friend?’
‘You know what I mean. You come recommended, Blume. Magistrate Arconti speaks highly of you. In fact he says hello.’
‘He said hello? Not
hyyuhhaggh
?’
Massimiliani shrank back as if unnerved by Blume’s zombie imitation. ‘If you’re referring to the fact he was taken ill today, he’s already far better. He was sitting up in bed when I saw him. It’s true, he can’t speak properly, though I don’t think that’s an excuse for you to mock . . .’
‘You’ve seen him today?’
‘Yes. He recommended you a while back, of course. Today I went to visit him as a friend.’
‘Oh,’ said Blume, taken aback. ‘And what did he recommend me for?’
‘As someone who we might turn to for an extra hand. Specifically, someone who had a perfect command of English, a smattering of German, professional integrity, intelligence, experience, willingness to travel, no family commitments.’
‘A hand in what? I’m busy right now.’
‘It looks to me like you were taking an early night.’
‘I am on standby. Is Arconti really sitting up?’
‘He had a stroke, they administered the drugs. It remains to be seen what damage there is and how long it will take him to heal. But he’s already regained movement. Look, Blume, I’m not a doctor.’
‘Now that we’re on the subject, who are you exactly? Who do you work for? Apart from the DCSA?’
‘In order of importance and pride, I would say I am first and foremost a Carabiniere. I also work for AISI, and I have been seconded to the DCSA.’
‘AISI. You didn’t mention that before. SISDE, huh?’
‘AISI, not SISDE. SISDE’s the old name. It hasn’t been used for a while.’
‘That’s because you fuckers had such a reputation for subversion and corruption you had to change your name like a criminal on the run. More of a conspiracy of crypto-fascists, thieves, Freemasons and Vatican financiers than a secret service.’
‘I was a kid back then, but most of your criticism is justified. Even so, there was always a public-service ethos. Good people. Same as in any institution in this country. Layers of deadwood and corruption, but a core of good people in the middle, fighting against the odds. There is no conflict between homeland security and my duties as a Carabiniere. They are complementary. You know what the motto of the AISI is? It’s
Scientia rerum Reipublicae salus
, which means . . .’
‘The salvation of the Republic comes from knowing all about other people’s shit,’ said Blume.
‘That’s a very free translation.’
‘Tell me some of the Republic-saving intelligence you know.’
‘I know your colleagues are spending all night following up an investigation that has already ended. And you, sensing this to be the case, have wisely decided to take an early night.’
‘Explain.’
‘A few hours ago the police in Sesto San Giovanni got a call reporting an explosion and fire in one of those giant disused industrial areas. They found a van with two charred corpses. The bodies have not been identified, yet. But the van is the one your colleagues have just put out an APB on. The investigating magistrate in Milan has decided not to inform the investigating magistrate in Rome until tomorrow or even Monday.’
Blume retrieved his home phone from among the cushions of his collapsing sofa.
‘What are you doing?’
‘They’re my colleagues. I’m going to tell them. So they, too, can get an early night.’
‘I’d prefer you didn’t.’
‘They’ll know soon enough; why not immediately, give them a proper weekend?’
‘Because I would be breaking my word to my friend in Milan, if Rome were to learn about this before he was ready.’
‘So you shouldn’t have given him your word.’
‘I told you this because I thought I could trust your discretion.’
‘You’re one of these people who can’t keep a confidence. Immediately you hear one, you rush off to tell someone else, me in this case, and then you get all moral and uppity if it looks like I want to do the same thing. A secret service man who can’t keep a secret,’ said Blume.
‘I can keep secrets, Blume. For instance, I am not going to tell anyone that you falsified a confession by the wife of a powerful member of the Ndrangheta.’
Blume started to put the phone back on the sofa. But before it touched the cushion, it started ringing.
Rome
Blume answered the phone, taking his time. He knew without looking it was Caterina, the only person who ever called him on his landline.
‘Hi.’
‘I’m back in the office,’ said Caterina. ‘I took your advice and got to work on other things.’
‘Maybe you should call it a night,’ said Blume, staring at Massimiliani who raised his hands in a gesture of mild exasperation, but whose face did not betray much.
‘Are you calling it a night?’ she asked.
‘Yes, you should go home, Caterina.’
‘You know Elia’s on holiday at the sea with my parents?’
‘Even if you don’t need to get back to him, it’s good to get some sleep,’ said Blume. ‘You can get back to the investigation in the morning.’
‘I see,’ she said coldly. ‘I was phoning for another reason.’
‘What?’
‘That book Arconti’s wife gave him for his birthday. It had a page missing.’
Blume was surprised. He had been expecting some personal stuff from her. This was more welcome.
‘The wife bought the book at Feltrinelli at Piazza del Duomo a few days ago,’ continued Caterina. ‘I called her to check. It was brand-new, yet damaged when we found it. The pages skipped from 156 to 159. One sheet – pages 157 and 158 – had been torn out. You could see the ragged edges where it was ripped. I had one of the uniformed guys, Bonanni, pop round to the Feltrinelli store on Largo Argentina and get a copy while I was examining the CCTV, and it was here on my desk when I got back. The torn page corresponds to a description and drawings of oak trees: the
Quercus petrea
and the
Quercus robur
, the Sessile oak and the Pedunculate oak. I looked them up in combination with various search terms, including
Ndrangheta
, and this brought me to a series of webpages on the “Tree of Wisdom”, which is also called the “Mother Tree”, the tree of the Ndrangheta. Depending on the webpage, sometimes it seems as if the tree is mythological, sometimes as if it is an actual oak that has been growing for hundreds of years near the sanctuary of the Madonna di Polsi, above the “Infernal Valley”. The trunk is five metres in circumference.’
