The Namesake (43 page)

He’d dragged himself a body’s length along the ground when his hand touched something hard, metallic, and familiar. It was his Beretta. He knew it at once, like a neglected old friend. The nicks and imperfections on the grip, the tiny chip out of the hammer, the stickiness of the release catch, now on. It must have dropped out of Curmaci’s pocket. Almost without thinking, he scooped it into his hand, even though it impeded his movements. Curmaci would no doubt have noticed and would be waiting at the end of the tunnel, but even so it felt like a providential gift. Even better, the collapsed section of the tunnel was over. The cavern opened upwards and outwards, suddenly becoming a spacious chamber in which he could stand up. In front of him was a metal door with a sliding bolt like the one to the communal roof of his apartment in Rome, and behind that a larger room where white LED-bulb lanterns were hanging. He saw all this with absolute clarity after the darkness of the tunnel.

He walked into the cavernous space, tucking his Beretta into the back of his waistband under his shirt.

Curmaci was waiting for him, but at a distance, and half hidden behind a rock. Already he could hear Curmaci’s henchman wheezing and cursing as he emerged from the tunnel. It must have been even tighter for him.

‘It’s a limestone cave, ten or twelve metres high at the centre, shaped like a big tent. Most of the tunnel into it was already there,’ said Curmaci, switching on another lamp and lifting it up to reveal the last corner of the room with a camp bed and neatly folded blankets. The room contained piles of old newspapers, what seemed like a complete collection of Dylan Dog comics, chipped mugs, plates, a few food cans with faded labels. A bench-chair was fashioned from fruit crates, and was placed in front of a truncated section of a single log of heavy wood that served as a table.

‘The door and that log are far too big. How did they get down the tunnel?’

Curmaci shrugged. ‘Why do you care, Commissioner?’

‘Everything needs a logical explanation.’

‘I don’t agree,’ said Curmaci.

‘But the metal door . . .’

‘Shh!’ said Curmaci. ‘Listen, this place has running water. You can hear it.’

A creaking sound of reluctant water came from the back of the cavern.

‘It takes a while to fill a cup, but you just leave one there. Basile stayed here for eight months once, during the Second Mafia War, venturing out only at night. But maybe you don’t even know who Basile is?’

Blume shook his head. How had Curmaci failed to noticed the missing pistol? Behind him, smelling even worse than before, stood Pietro, shotgun pointed straight at him. All that bulk and a shotgun through the narrow tunnel. It was an unwelcome marvel to see him here.

Curmaci inclined his head in the direction of the corner of the cavern, and Pietro waved the gun in Blume’s face and, finally, verbalized the death sentence. ‘Over there, into the corner.’

‘This also doesn’t make sense,’ Blume said over his shoulder to Curmaci, pleased to hear that the cavern deepened and echoed his voice, removing the tremor of fear he could feel in his chest. ‘All the way down here just to shoot me.’

‘That’s what Pietro said, too, but it does make sense. You’ll see in a minute, won’t he, Pietro?’

‘If you say so,’ said Pietro.

‘I do say so, and that should be good enough for both of you.’

‘What happened to Konrad Hoffmann?’ said Blume.

‘My idea for Hoffmann,’ said Curmaci, ‘though I need to check the logistics of this, is to ship what’s left of him back to Germany, throw the pieces into the same sewage pipes into which they poured his girlfriend all those years ago. What do you think, Blume? Will I make all that effort and run the risk of detection just so as to lay the grounds for an ironic story that I could tell to myself and two, three other people at most?’

‘I think you might.’

‘Is that how you see me? OK, Pietro, do your stuff.’

Blume moved back into the depths of the cavern in the direction of the water, drawn there by thirst as much as anything. Pietro came up behind him. Just as it was becoming too dark to see, Blume stopped dead, causing Pietro to lumber into him. Pietro stood back and aimed a vicious kick at the small of his back.

The kick was hard and sent him lurching forwards, but he exaggerated his fall. The floor was irregular and jagged, and he took his full weight on his left hand as he went down, but in his right he had the Beretta, and as the shotgun appeared over him, Blume fired directly into the space where Pietro’s stupid face should be, realizing as he did so that this was the first time he had ever killed a man, and surprised at how quick it was, and how easy. His would-be assassin did manage to utter a half-shout half a second after the gunshot. The acoustics of the cave seemed to combine the two sounds into a single angry roar that ricocheted off the walls, and returned with renewed vigour just as Pietro’s body hit the floor. Even his going down worked out nicely. He fell neither forwards nor backwards but crumpled in on himself, like a smokestack being demolished by expert engineers. After the gunshot and shout, the flop of his body on the stone was like a whisper.

Blume stood up, Beretta in hand, but Curmaci was there, a pistol inches away from Blume’s forehead.

Ah well, thought Blume.

Curmaci stepped back, and beckoned with the pistol. ‘Come over here and sit down.’

‘I think I’d prefer to be shot standing up,’ said Blume.

‘Who’s talking about shooting? Come over here, away from that shotgun. Go over there and sit down.’

Blume stayed where he was, his own pistol still in his hand.

‘Please?’ said Curmaci.

Blume started walking towards the makeshift seat, and Curmaci picked up the shotgun by its barrel and tucked it under his left arm.

Blume was shivering, because it was damp and ghastly in the cave and because he had just killed a man. He recognized the plastic LED lanterns now: from the home and garden section of IKEA. They were one of the last objects displayed for impulse buys before the warehouse section. Caterina had wanted one, even though neither she nor he had so much as a balcony, let alone a garden. There were four of them in the cavern. They shone pure white unto themselves, but bathed everything around them in shades of yellow and grey and did not nearly penetrate the darkness behind.

He was sitting underground with Curmaci. He was still holding his weapon, and Curmaci did not seem to mind. Their voices boomed and echoed as they spoke. He was pretty sure it was not a dream, but it didn’t feel very real either.

Curmaci popped the shells out of the shotgun. He pocketed them and tossed the weapon carelessly in the direction of the incongruous door at the entrance. He propped a foot on the log table, and contemplated Blume.

‘Was that your first time to kill a man?’

Blume nodded.

‘It’s not as hard as you’d think, is it? The first thing to do is to persuade yourself it is not a man, which will have been easy with that stinking goat Pietro. Easy for you, I mean. For me, it would have been a bit harder. He and his wife virtually brought up my boy along with their fat spoiled nephew, Enrico. Pietro, for all his faults, was like a father to his nephew Enrico, and like an uncle to my son. And you have just shot him dead. A single shot, that’s all you had, and that’s all it took. You didn’t pull the trigger again, which is not just a sign of your self-confidence, but also of your humanity.’

‘Obviously you left me just one round in the pistol.’

‘Yes. I took out the others. Then left it for you to find. You were hardly going to use it on me while Pietro was behind you, and you could not use it on him while you were in the tunnel.’

‘What if I had not found the gun or missed my shot?’

‘Then you would be dead and I would have had the sad task of killing Pietro myself,’ said Curmaci. ‘Now he has a bullet from a police-issue weapon in his head, which is good for me, and possibly good for you, since it gives us a bit of wriggle room. For example, you could take the blame for killing Megale’s only son, as indeed you should, and I would make sure the revenge attack on you never happens, especially since the Megales are about to lose all power.’

‘Why was he working for you and not his brother?’

‘Because his father told him to. Domenico ordered Pietro to side with me against Tony. Pietro, without quite knowing it, had been waiting for years for this moment to come, the moment his father would finally change his mind about the viper he brought into the bosom of his family. Tony was plotting to take over from the old man. Everyone knew that for years except Old Megale himself. Tony felt he had been overlooked too long, and wanted me in particular out of the way. But Megale had time to think in prison, and he noticed the frequency and enthusiasm of the visits he received. Tony should have worked out that if Old Megale could adopt an outsider once, he could do it again. Finally Old Megale listened to me. I told him Tony was going to kill him, me, and Pietro, his one real child. I persuaded him that I had no ambitions to take his place but he needed to do something about Tony.’

‘And he believed you.’

‘Of course. I spoke the truth. I cannot be a boss like Megale. It’s not how I fit in.’

‘Then why kill Pietro?’

‘Sooner or later, he would have been taunted into revenging the man who killed his half-brother. He’d have killed me as a question of pride and appearances.’

‘So have you killed Tony?’

‘Not yet.’

‘You might have let Konrad Hoffmann live.’

‘Again, a question of appearances,’ said Curmaci. ‘He came out of the blue. What was I supposed to do, let him threaten us?’

‘I understand,’ said Blume. He raised his Beretta quickly, almost touching the bridge of Curmaci’s long Greek nose with the barrel, and pulled the trigger.

The click was obvious, embarrassing even as it echoed in the cavern. The ensuing silence was very deep, only the dripping water breaking it. Curmaci seemed to stir as if he had been asleep, and lifted his eyelids, heavy and reproachful, and stared at Blume in the half light.

‘That sort of hurt my feelings,’ he said.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Blume. He put his useless Beretta down on the table between them. ‘But supposing you had miscounted, or there had been one in the chamber? You can hardly blame me for trying.’

Curmaci was staring upwards at the roof. ‘The first time I killed a man, a boy it was – but I was no more than a boy myself – I was in agony for months. It was the worst thing in my life, and my father made me do it. I didn’t speak to him for almost a year, and he patiently accepted that. I thought of becoming a monk, of going to the police, of killing myself, of killing my father and the person who ordered him to induct me into the blood ritual of the clan. I thought of approaching the brothers of the boy I had killed and letting them deal with me. And yet you, Blume, who say you have never killed a man, lift up a steady hand, put a gun right in my face, and pull the trigger on the off-chance. Have you acquired a taste for blood?’

‘A taste for life,’ said Blume.

‘You want to stay alive at all costs. Good. Your bullet is in the head of an Ndranghetista. The repercussions of this depend on you and me. I’d like to come to an agreement with you. I think you would make a very good contact for me. The rewards don’t stop with my allowing you to live now. Money and probable career advancement would flow from any understanding between us.’

‘What sort of understanding?’

‘Not on anything specific for now. I’d like to come to an open-ended arrangement with you.’

‘I see,’ said Blume.

‘But I can’t offer anything concrete right now. I am not even sure a deal will be possible. I need to seek opinions. Old bosses like to have their outmoded opinions sought after.’

‘And first you have to win your internal feud,’ said Blume.

‘It’s not a feud, just a minor coup. Tomorrow I will attend the Polsi summit meeting. Among other things, I will tell them I have a police commissioner captive – I’ll mention your name but no one really knows who you are. Then we’ll discuss three choices. You die and are never found, which would be seen as a muted declaration of war on the police, but not the sort that would get the attention of the public like Cosa Nostra did when they started killing magistrates and bombing monuments. The second option is you die and your body is put somewhere symbolic. Maybe in front of the sanctuary of Polsi when the police are about to celebrate the Archangel Saint Michael. I know that option is going to look very tempting to some bosses who are enraged at this proposed violation of the sanctity of the sanctuary of the Madonna by the forces of the State. Having a captive police commissioner will definitely work to my advantage when explaining my position. I’ll try to talk them out of using you as a scapegoat though.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

‘Not for your sake. Clamorous declarations of war on the state are not good for business. Still, if they do decide to send out a signal of defiance, you’ll become posthumously famous, have streets named after you, Via Falcone, Via Borsellino, Via Blume. What sort of name is that, anyhow?’

‘Magistrates, not policemen, have streets named after them,’ said Blume.

‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. But if you live, it will be on borrowed time and I am the lender you have to pay back. You will need me and soon enough you will want me on your side. For example, your career prospects will have to be advanced through certain channels rather than others. Because no matter what you say or do, certain anti-Mafia fundamentalists in the force will always remember that at a certain critical point, you and I had a common enemy, and you took him out for me. They will recall that you and I must have sat and talked as we are doing now. So you will need to align yourself with those of your colleagues who see the world in shades of grey, and understand the value of cooperation. I think you can live with that. Especially after I saw you put a gun in my face and pull the trigger.’