The Namesake (38 page)

‘If you’re right, then he must be mighty pleased with you. That false confession by his wife will help him play the role of plot victim even better. What about Konrad Hoffmann, how does he fit in?’

‘Like a gift from God,’ said Blume. ‘Hoffmann appears on the scene, demanding that Megale tell him about a murder Curmaci committed years ago, and threatens him with the result of some inquiry he has been conducting. Megale calls Curmaci, and Curmaci comes up with the idea. He tells Megale to tear a Madonna in half, sign his name, write a message on one half, and send Konrad to Calabria where he’ll meet a man with the other half. That way, they get Konrad not only off their case, but out of the country, into Calabria, exposed and alone. Curmaci pockets the other half of the Madonna.’

‘Why bother with the other hal
f
?’ asked Massimiliani. ‘All they need to do is to get Konrad to come down to Calabria, and disappear.’

‘If I were Curmaci . . .’

‘I’d say you and he must be twins separated at birth. You’d have it that Curmaci has been feigning persecution in preparation for an attack. He’s constructed a casus belli for himself.’

‘
Casus foederis
,’ corrected Blume.

‘What?’

‘Sorry, it’s Konrad’s influence. He liked to boast about his Latin. Curmaci had constructed a false plot against himself and a pretext for action. The enemy posing as a friend, the person responsible for the murder of the Milanese insurance agent, could easily be Tony Megale. Perhaps he thinks his father has succession plans that favour Curmaci.’

‘He’s not really his father,’ said Massimiliani.

‘What?’

‘Tony Megale is almost certainly not Old Megale’s real son.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘It’s all open-source intelligence, Blume. Court reports, newspaper stories, and even a few TV programmes from the 1990s. There was a whole scandal. They say it is one of the reasons Tony went to Germany, though I think he just went for the money and opportunity. I thought you knew about it.’

‘No. I didn’t think to look into him. Just Curmaci. Tell me the story.’

Massimiliani told him about Tony Megale’s alleged abduction and adoption. As he listened, Blume’s initial annoyance at having overlooked this aspect of the story gave way to a sense of satisfaction at how well it all fitted. Tony, not quite a bastard son, but not far from it, not the natural heir and successor, feared Curmaci, who had exploited him.

The autostrada curved westwards again, back to the coast. He had never entirely outgrown his childish excitement at catching the wink of blue water when the road he was on came close to the sea. But the sea here could only be glimpsed through the empty floors of the incomplete concrete apartment blocks that framed and monumentalized the failure of the south.

A sign for Lamezia Terme appeared, and Massimiliani slowed down. ‘I’m going to pull in just before the entrance road to Via dei due Mari. There should be a car waiting for me.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning you can take this car, head across to the east coast, see if you can’t catch up with Hoffmann. There is an APB out on that camper. No reports of any sightings, though.’

‘You’re not going to the east coast to help me look for him?’

‘Of course not. The operations centre is in Reggio, but maybe I’ll see you in a few days in Polsi, just after the Ndrangheta holds its summit meeting.’

‘Polsi? The sanctuary itsel
f
?’

‘Yes, madness, I admit, and not my idea. It’s a new policy, a sort of annoy-the-fuckers-till-they-do-something-stupid policy. The authorities are holding a mass and then a celebration in Polsi, claiming back the sacred site for the forces of law and order, as it were. And it’s going to be done in front of some BKA observers, whom I’ll be looking after, and some German journalists. The police from Reggio Calabria and the Locride area are going to go to the same church used the day before by the Ndrangheta for its summit. All in dress uniform. The idea is to celebrate the Archangel Saint Michael, who’s the patron saint of the police and . . .’

‘Patron saint of the Ndrangheta. I never liked that coincidence,’ said Blume. ‘Who’s behind the idea?’

‘The questore of Reggio Calabria. He comes across as mild-mannered and reasonable but he’s a hard-nosed aggressive bastard.’

‘Good for him.’

‘Maybe,’ said Massimiliani doubtfully. ‘He went on TV and said the police weren’t going to share their patron saint with a bunch of cut-throats and bandits. He said it was time to reclaim the Madonna of Polsi from the criminal overlords. He’s got strong Catholic beliefs, the questore. If you ask me, he’s a bit too keen on the afterlife.’

‘He’s a hero,’ said Blume.

‘I thought you’d be a bit more cynical than that. Are you a big Catholic, too?’

‘No, but I like the idea of prodding the Mafia beast.’

‘First let’s see where that policy gets your German friend.’

He pulled into a layby almost completely obscured by wild oats and reeds. He cut the engine and got out, coming round to Blume’s door. Blume shifted into the driver’s seat, which was unpleasantly warm and slightly damp. Massimiliani opened the passenger door and leaned in.

‘You have made some poor decisions, but you have good instincts, Blume. With a bit of training, and a bit of trust, we’d make a good team.’ He pointed down the road. ‘Go up the mountain to Gerace, down into Locri, head towards San Luca, Africo, Polsi, wherever you think Hoffmann went.’

‘If I take Via dei due Mari, maybe you could send a car over the mountain pass to the south . . .?’

‘Send a car over Aspromonte, from where, Reggio? It takes all day to get over that mountain, and our resources are deployed to the full. No, Blume, I am not helping the BKA any more than I have already. As for you, finish on your own what you started on your own, but don’t do anything that requires backup.’

A siren suddenly whooped behind them. He looked in the rear-view mirror and saw an unmarked saloon car behind, a magnetic flasher stuck in its roof.

‘There’s my lift. We’ll be in contact soon.’

Massimiliani slammed the door shut, and got into the car behind. Blume drove down the slip road and began to drive east.

44

Locri

‘Sicilian Pistachio,’ said Basile. ‘I think it’s one of my best. The nuts themselves come from Africa and are processed in China, when Sicily can be seen from the other end of this region, but that’s progress for you. I hope you understand my accent?’

Konrad nodded. The ice cream stood untouched in a stainless-steel bowl in front of him, next to the torn image of the Madonna. ‘I am not hungry.’ He pushed the bowl away from himself and the Madonna. ‘You must understand that I am extremely nervous.’

‘Everyone here is nervous, Mr Hoffmann. In all my long years, I have never had such a strange request. In fact, it is so unprecedented that I do not know what to make of it. Could it be you came all this way to make fun of us simple southerners?’

‘No.’ Konrad turned the card over. ‘This is Mr Megale’s signature.’

‘And this is the address Mr Megale gave you?’

‘Mr Basile’s Café Bar Gelateria, yes.’

Basile shook his head in an elaborate display of amazement and disbelief.

‘I thought you would have the other half of the card, and that would be a sign of good faith,’ added Konrad.

‘Is that what Domenico said?’

‘No,’ admitted Konrad. ‘He never said who would have the other half.’

‘I understand you do not want to talk to me. Salvatore tells me you want to talk to Agazio Curmaci, who lives in Germany, where you are from. And he also tells me you are a policeman of some sort. If you wanted to talk to Curmaci, you could have arrested him there on false charges, which is the sort of behaviour we have come to expect from the authorities.’

‘I do not want to arrest him. I just want him to answer a few questions.’

‘I have to tell you I have no idea where Curmaci is at this moment. His son was in here the other day. Brave kid. But Agazio . . .’ Basile took the bowl of ice cream and tossed it into the sink. ‘It feels like we are all wasting our time.’

‘I am sorry if this is inconveniencing you.’

‘
Mah
.’ Basile waved a generous hand.

A spluttering noise followed by an engine roar caused Konrad to run to the door of the bar. ‘My Hymer. They’re stealing it!’

‘No one is stealing anything from outside my bar. It must just be the traffic police. You’re not allowed to park motor homes in the middle of the town. They’ll be taking it to a campsite for you. I’ll make sure you’re taken there after this.’

‘The traffic police don’t get in and drive away an illegally parked vehicle,’ said Konrad. ‘I have the keys here, so how did they start it?’

Basile shook his head in disgust. ‘The traffic police are such busybodies, you wouldn’t believe it. Are you going out there to stop them?’

Konrad stayed where he was.

‘Good. Now sit down, and let’s see if Curmaci turns up. I haven’t seen him myself in more than a year, and most people seem to be under the impression he is still in Germany, and won’t be making it down for the Feast of the Madonna tomorrow. So I will be surprised and delighted if he walks through that door.’

‘I’d like to wait here for him, if you don’t mind.’

‘Mind? Of course I don’t mind. This is where I live and work, and it’s cool and dry in here. Tell you what, I’ll shut up the bar, make sure no customers come in to disturb us!’

Konrad surveyed the empty room. Even the wrinkled bald man who had been serving at the bar when he entered had vanished. It was just him and Basile. People were passing by in the square outside, but it was as if a force field was keeping them from coming in.

Fifteen minutes later, seated across a table on which stood two empty and unused glasses, Basile said, ‘And do you mind me asking what you want to talk to Curmaci about?’

‘Private affairs.’

‘Ah.’

‘From long ago,’ added Konrad, a hint of apology in his tone.

‘Well, I go back a long way, too. Perhaps I can remember something that will help you and him resolve this?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Konrad. ‘It’s not a pleasant business.’

Ten minutes later, the door opened and four men came in. The last of them was Curmaci. Basile’s face registered no surprise at seeing him, but for the sake of consistency of tone, he professed astonishment. ‘Agazio! Your foreign friend here was right!’

He stood up and went behind the bar. The three men and Curmaci himself were looking at the torn Madonna on the zinc counter. Konrad stood up, and walked over, and leaned on the far end of the bar and watched from a safe distance. Everyone ignored him.

‘What can I get the gentlemen?’ asked Basile.

‘
Café corretto
with a drop of Sambuco for me,’ said Curmaci, pulling out his wallet. The others all ordered coffee. Curmaci plucked out a 10-euro note and left it on the bar, where it went unheeded by Basile. Curmaci slipped two fingers into an inside fold of his wallet and pulled out a bent piece of thick paper, which he smoothed out on the counter and set beside the torn Madonna. The men looked at it and nodded.

‘A perfect match, how about that!’ said Basile.

Konrad knew then that he was going to die, and that he had known this from the start of his journey.

Curmaci, finally acknowledging Konrad, motioned him over, and pointed at a seat. The other men disappeared into the kitchen. Basile remained behind the bar, at a discreet distance but not out of earshot from where Curmaci and Konrad were now seated.

‘
Wollen Sie lieber Deutsch sprechen?
’ began Curmaci.

‘As a matter of courtesy in my bar, could you please speak Italian,’ said Basile from behind the counter.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Curmaci. ‘Konrad, your Italian is good, isn’t it?’

Konrad nodded.

‘You have built up a file that could be very damaging for Megale and our operations in Germany, I believe? This is what Domenico Megale tells me.’

‘Yes.’

‘And what would you like us to do about it?’

‘I want you to talk to me,’ said Konrad. ‘First we talk about what I want to talk about, then we talk about what you want to talk about. OK?’

‘That’s a roundabout but valorous way of putting it.’

‘Did you kill Dagmar?’

‘You don’t even give me her last name.’

‘I don’t need to, you know who I am.’

‘But if you put it like that, it sounds too intimate, like we are old friends. You, Dagmar and me. That’s not how it is, though.’

‘We are not friends, no.’

‘Good, that’s cleared that up,’ said Curmaci, with a quick glance at Basile who was quietly rearranging a stack of cappuccino cups balanced on top of the cream-coloured Gaggia espresso machine. ‘Her surname was Schiefer, and I shot her dead in 1993 in execution of a direct order from Domenico Megale, who went to prison as a result of her attempts to impress her superiors. Do you really want to hear this story?’