Blood Rain - 7 (20 page)

The car turned left on to a minor paved road and accelerated away.

They drove in silence for almost two hours. Zen saw signs to Santa Croce, Ragusa, Módica, Noto, Avola, Siracusa, Augusta, Lentini… The fact that his captors hadn’t bothered to blindfold him almost certainly meant that he was going to be killed. Quite apart from anything else, he now knew the approximate location of the section of uncompleted motorway which the local clan used as a landing strip for its drug shipments. Yes, they were going to have to kill him, no question about that.

‘How do you light up the runway?’ he asked.

Rather to his surprise, the answer came at once.

‘Sets of distress flares hooked up to an electrical cable,’ Nello replied with a certain technological eagerness. ‘We rig it all in advance, powered by a car battery, then when the pilot calls in on the radio we switch on the current.’

‘Shut up, Nello,’ said the driver.

‘What did I…?’

‘Just shut up!’

A large commercial aircraft flew overhead, its powerful landing lights seemingly vacuuming up the clouds scattered low in the sky. Then Zen saw the signs for Catania, and had a surge of hope. In the city, there would be traffic lights and, even at this time of night, traffic jams. He might be able to make a run for it, get away from these Mafia thugs and throw himself on the mercy of the authorities whose protection he had so arrogantly spurned. They wouldn’t be too happy about his disappearance, of course, and still less about what had happened to Alfredo Ferraro. He would have to be patient, penitent and remorseful, like an adulterous husband, but in the end they’d have to take him back. After all, he was one of them.

Unfortunately for this pleasing scenario, the signs to Catania rapidly died out, to be succeeded by ones to Misterbianco, Paterno, and a host of other places which Zen had never heard of. The car was labouring like a boat in a broken sea, the road rearing up and spinning round. Apart from that, there was nothing but fleeting glimpses of the small towns through which they drove at speed, the two men now apparently more tense than before.

At length they reached another town, more or less identical in appearance to all the others. The driver drove through the back-streets to the main piazza and drew up next to a gravel-covered park dotted with trees. At the end, next to them, stood one of those imposing but uninspiring civic statues which dot the minor towns of Italy, commemorating some local celebrity who had the misfortune to be born there. This one was of a man in vaguely nineteenth-century garb, his right hand clutching a book to his chest and his left outstretched in greeting or appeal. Zen read the name on the plinth by the light of one of the few streetlamps which adorned the piazza. It meant nothing to him.

Meanwhile the driver had taken out his
telefonino
and was now speaking rapidly in dialect. If he and Nello were indeed ‘only too glad to be able to do their friends a favour’ by handing over Zen, they were doing a good job of concealing the fact. So far from being happy, they looked as though they were scared to death.

About a minute later a car appeared at the other end of the piazza and swooped down towards them. Nello nudged Zen.

‘Out,’ he said.

Zen opened his door and stood up. The air smelt fresh and cool. The other car screeched to a halt alongside the first, its engine still running. The driver got out and shook hands with Zen’s captor and they spoke quietly for a while. Then the other man stretched out his arms and exposed his palms like a saint displaying his stigmata. His chin was slightly raised and pushed forward, his lips turned down. The gesture, typically Sicilian, meant, ‘I couldn’t care less.’

This sealed Zen’s fate. They couldn’t care less about him. They didn’t even glance in his direction. If they weren’t bothering to guard or even watch him, it was for the same reason that the ancient Romans did not build walls around their cities. It would have been redundant. They already controlled the whole place.

The two men concluded their discussion with a handshake and Nello turned to Zen.

‘You’re to go with him,’ he said, indicating the newcomer.

Zen nodded and started to walk over to the other car. Without a word, the driver opened the back door for him, as though this were a taxi which Zen had summoned. His nonchalant confidence confirmed Zen’s worst fears.

Then, just as Zen was about to get into the car, his head lowered like an animal entering an abattoir stall, the planet suddenly went into labour. All four men shuddered where they stood, as though suffering sympathetic but lesser convulsions. There was a deep groaning which seemed to come from nowhere, the cobblestones beneath them trembled and the trees shook their branches in the windless air. Finally, just as these symptoms began to subside, the statue of the local celebrity turned towards them, its left arm apparently waving goodbye. Slowly, but with utter inevitability, it tumbled forward off its plinth and crashed to the ground.

Panic-stricken, the four men started to run, each in a different direction. Where was not important: the essential was to get away. After a fifty-metre sprint, Zen found himself all alone in a darkened alley, facing a tall, elderly man wearing a dressing-gown and slippers, and carrying a walking-stick.

‘Is everything all right?’ the man said in heavily accented Italian. Not in dialect,
in Italian
.

‘Help me!’ said Zen. ‘Please help me.’

The man inspected him.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘Get me out of here.’

‘Out of where?’

‘Look, you’ve got to help! The Mafia is after me. They kidnapped me. I’m a police officer. I need to make a phone call, that’s all. The authorities will be here in no time with helicopters and armoured vehicles. They’ll have the whole place surrounded in less than an hour, but first I must make that call!’

The man looked at Zen.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

Zen produced his police identification card, which the other man inspected by the flame of a lighter.

‘Please!’ said Zen as his wallet was handed back. ‘I just need to make one phone call and then a place to hide until my colleagues arrive.’

‘I think what you need is a drink,’ the other man replied.

‘So that’s where they landed you! Of course, of course. The project for that motorway has been in the pipeline for twenty years or more, and will doubtless stay there for another twenty. In theory, it’s supposed to run along the south coast, connecting Catania with Géla. At present it only exists on paper, but various people who own or have bought bits of land along the route will have been able to persuade the regional government to get a compulsory purchase order, buy them out, and then build that particular stretch to justify the purchase in the budget.’

‘But most of that land must surely be worthless?’

Zen’s host picked up the packet of
Nazionali
which Zen had left on the table, having chain-smoked three immediately after arrival.

‘How much is this worth?’ he asked.

‘There’s about half a pack left… Two thousand lire?’

‘I’ll pay you four thousand.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Why should you care? Let’s say I’m desperate for a cigarette. At any rate, if you agree, this pack is now worth twice what it was a moment ago. Now then, let’s suppose that you suddenly realize that you don’t have any more cigarettes, so you offer to buy one back from me. At four thousand for ten, it’s worth four hundred, but I want to make a profit on the deal, so I’ll charge six. That makes the remaining packet worth five thousand four hundred lire. We’ve almost tripled the value of these cigarettes in twenty seconds, without any money changing hands.’

They were sitting in a small room on the first floor of a house which might have been anywhere from a hundred to a thousand years old. Facing them was an empty fireplace. At one end of the room, by the stairs leading up from the street, was a cubby-hole kitchen. At the other, a window open to the balmy night air, and another set of steps leading to the next floor. The other furnishings consisted of an oil painting showing a young man in military uniform, cases of books in four languages, and a stereo system from which emerged the mellifluent sounds of a wind ensemble. Zen took another sip of the whisky which he had been offered and tried to drag himself back to reality.

‘Listen, I really must make that phone call.’

His host shook his head.

‘I used to have a telephone, but no one ever called me, and on the rare occasions when I wanted to place a call, the thing always seemed to be out of order.’

Zen slammed his fist against his forehead. Why hadn’t he brought his mobile with him?
You’re not just old-fashioned, Papa. You’re extinct
.

‘Anyway, the point is that what applies to our hypothetical deal on your cigarettes also applies to land,’ the elderly gentleman went on. ‘Even more so, because they aren’t making any more land. So what there is is worth just as much as people will pay for it. And I imagine that the stretch where they built the section of motorway where you landed was sold at a very high price indeed. The buyer will have had friends in the regional government who informed him about the route of the proposed motorway. He buys the requisite fields, then resells them at twice the price to another friend, who then sells them back to him at twice that. Depending on how long they keep it up, they can then show legal bills of sale to the government agents, proving that that particular patch of parched scrub is now worth twenty or forty or a hundred times what the patch of parched scrub next to it is worth. And of course our friends’ friends in the regional government will ensure that, instead of rerouting the motorway, that price is paid.’

The whole house quivered briefly, setting the ceiling lamp swaying gently to and fro, shifting the shadows about.

‘An aftershock,’ Zen’s host said calmly. ‘There may be more. But what we really worry about here is that this could be the prelude to an eruption. The last time, in 1992, the molten lava almost reached the village. And that was just a leak, a dribble. If Etna were to blow as it did in 1169, 1381 or 1669, or in 475 BC for that matter, everyone in this village would be dead within seconds.’

‘So why do you choose to live here?’ asked Zen. ‘You’re not Sicilian, I take it.’

‘No, I’m not Sicilian.’

There was a long silence.

‘I will answer your questions in due course, if you wish,’ Zen’s host said at last. ‘But first we need to resolve your own problems.’

‘There must be a phone box in the village,’ suggested Zen. ‘Could you go down and make a call to a number I will give you and explain the situation?’

The other man again shook his head.

‘The only public phone is in the bar, which will have closed by now. I could go to a neighbour’s house, but this would be so unusual that they would almost certainly listen in on the call. I am eighty years old,
dottore
. Very soon now I shall move house for the last time, so to speak, but I do not want to have to do so until then. If it becomes known that I gave you refuge and then called the authorities, life here would become impossible for me.’

‘Can you drive me somewhere else?’

‘I have no car.’

‘So what are we to do?’ demanded Zen in a tone of desperation.

‘First strategy, then tactics, as my commanding officer used to say. I need to know a little more about the situation. For example, you say this light aeroplane which flew you from Malta landed somewhere near a town called Santa Croce, is that right?’

Zen nodded.

‘That was the first sign I remember seeing.’

‘In that case, the reception committee was almost certainly composed of members of the Dominante clan, which controls the Ragusa area, or of one of the splinter groups which is trying to take it over, such as the D’Agosta family.’

Zen looked sharply at him.

‘You seem very well informed on these matters.’

‘Village gossip. What football league ratings are to other cultures, Mafia family ups and downs are to us. You also said that the pilot told you that they were doing a favour to some people here who want to talk to you. That would be Don Gaspare Limina. This is his home village, and although almost all his operations are conducted in Catania, this remains his power base and the refuge to which he retreats when things get too hot for him in the city.’

‘He’s here now?’ asked Zen.

‘He’s here now. Can you think of any reason why he should want to meet you?’

Zen lit another cigarette and sat silently for a time.

‘Even better, I can think of a reason why I want to meet him,’ he said finally.

‘Excellent. But it may be dangerous, you understand. I can set up such a meeting, but I am not in a position to guarantee your safety.’

‘I understand. I’ll take my chances.’

His host got up and poured them both another shot of whisky.

‘They may well be better than you fear,’ he said. ‘You asked me why I live here. Well, one reason is that the people of whom we’ve been speaking remind me to some extent of myself and my comrades, many years ago. Contrary to popular belief, they are not sadistic thugs with a taste for violence. They do only what they need to do. If they need you dead, then they will kill you. If not, you will be safe. I’ve been living here for over forty years, and no one has ever bothered me. I’m not worth bothering about, you see.’

He raised his glass.

‘Gesundheit.’

‘You’re German?’ asked Zen.

The other man just looked at him.

Zen gestured in a relaxed way. The whisky was starting to have its effect.

‘I did my “hardship years”, as we call them in the police, up in the Alto Adige — what you call the Südtirol — and I learned a few words of the language.’

The other man smiled.

‘Yes, I’m German. From a city called Bremen. My name is Klaus Genzler.’

Zen bowed slightly.

‘I can’t thank you enough for your hospitality, Herr Genzler. If you hadn’t taken me in, I would have been dead by now, and all for nothing. I didn’t know where I was, you see. I had no idea who these people were. But now I do, and I look forward to meeting them.’

‘And why would that be?’

‘Because I think they killed my daughter, and I want to find out.’

‘Your daughter?’

‘Carla Arduini. She died along with a judge, Corinna Nunziatella. You may have read about it in the papers. They machine-gunned the car and then threw in a stick of plastic explosive, just outside Taormina.’

Klaus Genzler smiled reminiscently.

‘Ah, Taormina! I haven’t been there in over fifty years.’

He’s gaga, thought Zen.

‘Kesselring based his headquarters in Taormina, in the old Dominican convent. I had the good fortune to be summoned there several times. Wonderful buildings, stunning views. Did himself well, the
Feldmarschall
. But I don’t think the Omina clan killed your daughter.’

Or maybe he’s not
.

‘You don’t?’

Genzler shook his head.

‘I remember when the news of that atrocity arrived. There was a sense of fear and confusion. People here are used to terrible things happening, but they expect Don Gaspare to know who did them and why, even if he didn’t order them himself. They’re like children. As long as Daddy seems to know what’s going on, and not be bothered by it, then the children won’t be troubled either, even though they don’t personally understand.’

He took another sip of whisky and unwrapped a short cigar.

‘But the day that news arrived, there was a sense of panic in the village. I knew at once what must have happened, and subsequent enquiries have proved me right. Not only did Don Gaspà not order that operation, but he has no idea who did.’

Genzler lit the cigar and stared at Zen.

‘Do you know what that means, in the circles in which he moves? It means that you’re finished. Taormina is part of the Liminas’ territory. If something happens on your territory which you didn’t order, and you can’t find out and punish whoever did it, then you might as well retire and open a grocery store, because no one will ever take you seriously again.’

Zen nodded quickly. A mass of thoughts were stirring in his brain like a school of porpoises creasing the surface of the sea and then vanishing. He wanted to let this process work itself out before trying to assess the consequences.

‘So you were here in the war?’ he asked Genzler.

‘I was indeed. This village was our main forward position in 1943, after the Allied invasion. Many of my friends fell here. Most were not buried.’

He took a long draw at his cigar.

‘We — the Germans — held this part of the island against the invading forces. Our Italian allies were responsible for the north side. We were up against the British, they against the Americans, who had a secret weapon called Lucky Luciano. You may have heard of him. An expatriate
mafioso
whom they released from prison, where he was serving a fifty-year sentence, to persuade the Italians not to resist the invasion. And it was successful. Luciano got Calogero Vizzini, the
capo dei
capi
at the time, to guarantee Mafia support for the Allies in return for the release of all their friends from the Fascist prisons where they had been languishing since Mussolini cracked down on them. As a result, we were quickly outflanked, despite having put up a vigorous defence, and forced to withdraw to the mainland.’

He smiled bitterly at Zen.

‘The rest, as they say, is history.’

Zen finished his whisky.

‘That doesn’t explain why you’re living here.’

‘Doesn’t it? Well, that would perhaps take too long. At any rate, I was captured later, during the battle for Anzio, and spent the rest of the war in a prison camp. When I got back to Germany and learned exactly what we’d all been fighting so bravely to defend, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to live there again. I gathered up what little money I had, added a little more left me by my parents, who were killed in a bombing raid, sold what was left of our family home and moved here. In 1950, this house cost me thirty thousand lire, including legal fees. I have been living here on the remnants of my meagre fortune ever since.’

‘Doing what?’ asked Zen incredulously.

Klaus Genzler shrugged.

‘Trying to remember. Trying to forget. Trying to understand.’

He threw his cigar butt into the fireplace.

‘Now then, shall I contact our friends and tell them you’re here?’

Zen took a hundred-lire coin from his pocket and spun it up into the air. Grabbing at it clumsily, he managed only to send it flying across the floor into the vast shadows at the back of the room, where it ended up underneath an ancient leather sofa the size of a car. Both men laughed.

Zen shrugged wearily.

‘Do it,’ he said.

The German went to the end of the room and leaned out. Taking hold of the metal clothesline strung across the alley, he jerked it hard three times, so that it clanked in its socket at the other side. After a moment, the shutters on the house across the road opened and a man’s head appeared.

‘Buona sera, Pippo,’
said Genzler. ‘Yes, wasn’t it? No, no damage here. And you? The statue fell? Well, I’m sure the mayor can get a grant from his friends in the regional government to have it put back up again. He’s very good at that sort of thing. Listen, I happen to know of someone who wishes to talk to Don Gaspà, and I am informed that the Don is equally anxious to talk to him. The person’s name is Aurelio Zen. Do you think you could make enquiries and … He’ll be out here in the street, in about five minutes. Very good, we’ll expect them soon.’

He closed the shutters and turned to Zen.

‘They’re on their way. Have you a gun?’

Zen shook his head.

‘Good,’ said Genzler. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’

‘I can find my own way.’

‘No, I’ll accompany you.’

‘That’s very kind of you, Herr Genzler.’

‘It’s not a question of kindness. Like this, they will know that I know that you are in their hands. So if they kill you, they will have to kill me too. As I said, I can’t guarantee anything, but it may improve your chances of survival.’

Zen stared at him.

‘But you don’t even know me! Why would you risk your life like that?’