The Namesake (37 page)

‘That was not my decision. They couldn’t very well leave you with that car. Come on, get in. We can talk as we get out of this horrible town.’

‘It’s not that bad,’ said Blume, looking around for the first time. ‘A bit like a seaside town without any sea. But it’s quiet and there’s plenty of parking. And it’s nice and cool because we’re actually pretty high up. So there is that.’

Massimiliani looked at him and shook his head. ‘I thought I had the measure of you, but I don’t know when you are being serious. Please don’t tell me you took this whole Konrad Hoffmann thing as some sort of elaborate joke.’

‘I didn’t take it entirely seriously, not at first. I knew you were testing me . . .’

‘Wait,’ Massimiliani held up his hand, ‘which direction?’

‘For what?’

‘Konrad. That’s still your mission. It’s rather embarrassing that we’ve lost him.’

‘You don’t seem that embarrassed,’ said Blume.

‘I learned about Konrad and Dagmar just before you,’ said Massimiliani. ‘If the BKA doesn’t see fit to explain what’s happening, then there is no reason
we
should care what happens to their agent. As long as he does not upset any equilibrium here in Italy. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘That it serves the Germans right if Konrad gets himself killed? Maybe. But then I would have to believe you when you say you only just found out.’

‘I am telling you the truth, but whether you believe me or not is of no consequence to anyone, Blume,’ said Massimiliani.

‘I’m glad to hear you say that out loud. From the beginning you have had a restrained contempt for me, for the mission, for the Germans. For Arconti, too.’

‘Arconti’s a friend. He recommended you. Friends make mistakes.’

‘Recommended me for what, Massimiliani?’

‘For being unattached, dissatisfied with your prospects, pigheaded, occasionally unscrupulous . . .’

‘I was not referring to my many qualities. What was the nature of the mission?’

‘Where’s Hoffmann?’

‘Like you said, I lost him. What was the mission?’

‘To keep an eye on Konrad. So well done, there.’

They continued in silence for a few minutes until Massimiliani arrived at an intersection. ‘So, now what?’

‘Go south, back to Lamezia Terme airport,’ said Blume. ‘Then we can cut across to the east coast.’

‘You’re sure that’s where he’s headed? I mean you believe this thing about him looking for Curmaci because of a dead girlfriend from decades ago?’

‘Are you still pretending that the Germans so fooled you that you still don’t know what story to believe in?’

‘The BKA asked me to find someone to keep an eye on an agent whose business in Italy was unclear. I don’t know why they didn’t share the full story from the beginning,’ said Massimiliani.

‘Maybe they didn’t know either, which is what they are claiming after all. I mean, it must happen occasionally in your world that someone accidentally tells you the truth.’

‘Hmm. You could be right. Speaking of which . . . tell me how you managed to lose Konrad on the autostrada.’

‘I was never behind him.’

‘Thought not. You were carrying his phone.’

‘Yes. He left it behind. I picked it up.’

‘You were deliberately misleading me?’

‘I was,’ said Blume. He explained about Konrad’s disappearance in the early hours of the morning, the phone, his destruction of it.

Massimiliani smiled. ‘I was right about you from the get-go, Blume. You are a devious bastard: the false confession by Maria Itria, the way you walked away from an investigation you knew was going nowhere – or nowhere that would redound to your credit – the way you let Arconti misread you, the way you control what you say on the phone, your air of the innocent abroad in the Tuscolana HQ. What else have you been holding back? Last night you said something about a Madonna.’

‘A torn Madonna,’ said Blume. ‘I was going to tell you, but . . . you seemed uninterested.’

‘I am interested now.’

Blume told him about his search of Hoffmann’s suitcase and his discovery. He enjoyed seeing that Massimiliani, despite his job, had a lousy poker face. First his expression registered outrage at Blume’s reticence, but it was soon replaced by a hungry look as he sought more details.

Massimiliani drove on in silence for some time, then said, ‘Well, at least we know something the Germans don’t. Even if it’s not important . . . And presuming it’s true and you’re not making it up for some reason I cannot fathom.’

‘Now that makes me wonder how good you can really be at your job, Massimiliani. There can be no efficiency without at least a little bit of trust. If you never believe anything anyone tells you, then there’s not much point in sending people out to discover things, is there?’

‘We had no previous trust between us.’

‘And we have less now, I think,’ said Blume.

‘Not true. I still say we could work well together. Maybe I can give you some more background next time, clarify your position.’

‘Next time,’ said Blume.

Massimiliani pulled out a Smartphone, tapped it expertly and exchanged a few words with someone, organizing a meeting point and something to do with a car, and hung up.

Blume remembered the Samsung in his pocket. He took it out and set it on the seat. ‘Keep that. I’ve discovered I don’t like Smartphones. I suppose you have been listening in to my conversations with Caterina.’

‘And Caterina would be . . .?’

Blume laughed.

‘Oh, you mean Inspector Caterina Mattiola? No, no.’

‘Of course not,’ said Blume. It was getting hotter and clammier as they neared the coast, and the tyres rumbled and thudded unpleasantly over the pocked surface of the autostrada. He imagined Konrad in his camper, probably coming down the other side of the mountain range now, the ageing engine finally able to pick up some speed as it rolled down towards the Ionian sea, the land getting harder and rockier and dustier on the descent. That was part of the upside-down world of the Italian south. In the north, where he liked to holiday, the green was below and the land got harder as you went up, not down.

Blume was worried for Konrad, concerned even for the camper van itself and, in particular, his outsized suitcase, which he could picture sliding across the floor as the van began the descent towards the eastern seaboard. Underneath the stratum of old jackets that had grown too tight and trousers that had, unaccountably, become narrow around the waist and short in the legs, were things he really valued. Had Konrad rifled through his possessions as he had through Konrad’s? If so, he would have come across some prints, a few signed books his father had collected – including three signed first editions of Pirandello plays. He imagined Konrad holding up the amber necklace his mother used to wear, then frowning at the worthless string of wooden worry beads that Blume had had all his life. He had sucked most of the lead paint off them in his childhood, but the greens, blues and yellows were still faintly visible. His father said it was a rosary of sorts, but his mother denied it.
The Cat in the Hat Dictionary
, which had taught him to read, was in there, too, all the pages loose, the spine cracked by the heat of Rome, the ice of Washington State, and the stress of the movement from one to the other.

Tucked into the corner, lovingly cushioned among his socks and sweaters, were two coffee mugs celebrating the year 1976. One, decorated with a white star formed by the implied space between dark-red and pale-blue lines, celebrated the bicentennial of the USA; the other, which displayed a blue-and-green V-shaped badge with a Viking-style bird’s head, celebrated the first year of the Seattle Seahawks football team. Inside the first mug, wrapped in tissue paper, were his parents’ wedding rings. Inside the other, also wrapped in tissue paper, was a little leather pouch, and inside that was the diamond engagement ring that his father had given his mother. It wasn’t much of a diamond, and it was set off on either side by two blue lapis lazuli gemstones that reminded him of neon lights, and gave the ring a tacky Las Vegas feel. Something that belonged as much to the 1970s as the cup it was hidden in. When he found Konrad, or the camper, or both, the first thing he would do would be to rescue his suitcase.

Massimiliani interrupted his thoughts. ‘Did you deliberately allow Hoffmann to escape?’

‘No. That was just my being careless.’

‘I see. Well, apart from your complete failure to do the few simple things I asked you to, I still think you’ve got potential. If another case came up, would you be interested?’

‘I’d have to think about it,’ said Blume.

‘You’d be better briefed next time.’

‘Good.’

‘Almost there,’ said Massimiliani.

‘Where?’

‘The point in the road where you make a decision, Blume. Do you want to continue with what’s left of this mission?’

‘Someone needs to stop Konrad.’

‘We might have picked him up before if you hadn’t misdirected us.’

‘That was a mistake.’

‘I don’t really understand why you did that.’

‘Partly because even though he had given me the slip I still wanted to give him a headstart on you and the BKA, as a sort of favour to him. Partly because I thought he might sow some confusion among Curmaci and his friends, partly because I was fed up getting only partial information from you and the BKA, and partly because I was embarrassed to admit I had lost him,’ said Blume.

‘That’s good and honest,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I thought you might want to know Curmaci’s disappeared.’

‘I know,’ said Blume. ‘Caterina told me.’

‘This ship is leaking in all parts. If she was referring to us losing him in Bari, we found him, then lost him again. Someone else is driving the car he rented. Presumably he took another car and is now in Calabria. Do you still hold him responsible for that killing of the insurance broker or whatever he was?’

‘If not, then he is responsible for many other things,’ said Blume.

‘On the day the murder was committed, Curmaci was in Spain. Malaga, which is almost as big a cocaine port as Gioia Tauro. We got this from the Guardia Civil. Then, just as the charred bodies of the presumed perpetrators were found in the Milan hinterland, Curmaci was in Milan, doing a little tour of certain families, including the Flachi. The Flachi specialize in logistics, by the way. You know the companies that deliver stuff you buy on the internet?’

‘I don’t buy online,’ said Blume.

‘How very Italian of you,’ said Massimiliani. ‘But some advanced Italians do trust their credit cards to the web, especially since they invented those ones you top-up with credit. So, Dutch and German logistics companies have moved in and are opening new warehouses in Milan, and the Flachi are there ready to provide for them. Amazon has just opened business in Italy. It’s a growing market.

‘What has this to do with Curmaci?’ asked Blume.

‘We have no idea. That is why it would be nice to leave him in peace and watch developments. After all, Curmaci’s not the person you want. Not really.’

‘Are you asking me to leave him alone?’

‘I wouldn’t advise you to go anywhere near him to begin with. Not without backup. But he’s probably not the person you want.’

‘No boss is ever at the scene of a hit – or only very rarely. The fact he was in Malaga means nothing,’ said Blume. His head was throbbing again, and he realized he had not eaten all day and it was now . . . he pulled out his phone . . . two o’clock. The cold air from the air-conditioning was tunnelling into his eyes like two mini whirlwinds, while the rest of his body roasted.

‘From what I hear,’ said Massimiliani, ‘it makes no sense for Curmaci to have ordered the hit on Arconti’s namesake.’

‘From what you hear?’

‘I am not an intelligence analyst, Blume. I don’t think you quite get what I do. Basically I just monitor and report, I don’t explore. I have too many subjects to go into the details on them all.’

‘Try this,’ said Blume. ‘Suppose Curmaci orders an execution that breaks several rules of Ndrangheta etiquette and draws a lot of unwelcome attention to himself, he could manipulate the event so that it would look like a deliberate action against him, couldn’t he? Think about it. The act insults other
’ndrine
in Milan and Rome, angers the command in Calabria, endangers Curmaci’s own family, galvanizes investigators, gets the press interested in an organization that is pathologically committed to secrecy. If he asked a friend to carry out that act, the friend – a real friend – would refuse and tell him it was a stupid and self-destructive request. But an enemy posing as a friend might agree to it, seeing it as a way of undermining him. It is so much to Curmaci’s disadvantage that as soon as he claims it was done to harm him, everyone will believe him.’

‘Christ, do you always think like that? I mean, I knew you had a devious mind, but maybe you’re just obsessing about Curmaci at this point? Could it be you need to justify what you did with that transcript?’

‘That’s a possibility,’ said Blume. ‘But maybe his actions are for internal consumption. He wants people to see he has internal enemies, and he wants the internal enemies to declare themselves.’