What We Become (54 page)

“Two men are dead . . . possibly three.”

Mecha remained unruffled. Only her lips slackened around the smoldering cigarette, as if she needed more air in order to breathe.

“Is this related to what happened at Suzi's?”

“Partly. Or I should say, yes. Completely.”

“Do the police know?”

“I don't think so, not yet. Or perhaps they do by now. There's no way I can find out.”

Mecha's fingers trembled slightly as she withdrew the cigarette slowly from her mouth.

“Did you kill them?”

“No.” He looked straight at her without blinking, wagering everything he had on that look. “Not one of them.”

The place is bleak. A tumbledown villa, the garden overgrown with shrubs and weeds, on the outskirts of Sorrento, between Annunziata and Marciano, boxed in by two hills that block the view of the sea. They drove there in a Fiat 1300 along a winding road full of potholes, the man with lank hair at the wheel and the one in the black jacket on the backseat next to Max. And now they are in a room with peeling walls, where antique paintings languish amid crumbling plaster and patches of damp. The only pieces of furniture are two chairs, and Max is sitting on one of them, between his two chaperones, who are still standing. There is a fourth man in the other chair, placed opposite that of Max. He has pale skin, a bushy, ginger mustache, and unnerving, steely eyes with dark shadows under them. From the sleeves of his unfashionable jacket, two long, thin, pale hands emerge, which bring to mind the tentacles of a squid.

“And now,” the man concludes, “tell me where grand master Sokolov's book is.”

“I don't know what book you're talking about,” Max replies calmly. “I only agreed to come here to clear up this stupid mistake.”

The man sitting opposite contemplates him, impassively. Propped up against one of the chair legs at his feet is a worn-­looking black leather briefcase. Finally, he leans over, almost lethargically, to pick it up, and rests it on his knees.

“A stupid mistake . . . Is that what you call it?”

“Exactly.”

“You have a lot of nerve. I mean that sincerely. But I'd expect that from a man like you.”

“You know nothing about me.”

One of the squid tentacles traces a sinuous shape in the air, resembling a question mark.

“Know? . . . You're seriously mistaken, Mr. Costa. We know a great deal. For instance, you aren't the wealthy individual you appear to be, but instead the chauffeur of a Swiss citizen living in
Sorrento. Likewise, we know that the automobile you keep at the Hotel Vittoria doesn't belong to you . . . And that's not all. We know you have a police record, for burglary, fraud, and other petty crimes.”

“This is outrageous. You've got the wrong man.”

Perhaps this is the right moment to feign indignation, Max decides. He makes as if to rise from his chair, but instantly feels the man in the black leather jacket's hand firmly on his shoulder. The gesture isn't hostile, he notices. But persuasive, as though recommending patience. In the meantime, the man with the ginger mustache has opened the briefcase and is taking out a thermos flask.

“On the contrary,” he says, unscrewing the top of the thermos. “You are who you are. And please don't try to deceive me. I've been up all night investigating this muddle. And that includes you, your past history, your presence at the Campanella contest, and your relationship to the young pretender, Keller. Everything.”

“Assuming it's true, what have I to do with this book you're asking about?”

The other man pours some hot milk into the thermos cup, plucks a pink tablet from a pillbox, and takes it with a swig of milk. He looks genuinely tired. Then he shakes his head slightly, encouraging Max to desist with his denial.

“You did it. You climbed onto the roof in the dark and stole it.”

“The book?”

“Precisely.”

Max smiles, unflustered. Disdainful.

“Just like that.”

“Not quite. You put a great deal of effort into it. An admirable amount, I must say. A superbly professional job.”

“Listen. Don't be absurd. I'm sixty-four years old.”

“That's what I thought this morning when I got hold of your file. But you look in good shape”—he glances at the scratches on Max's hands—“although I see you hurt yourself a little.”

The Russian finishes the remains of his milk, shakes the cup out, and screws it back on.

“You took a huge risk,” he goes on as he puts away the flask. “And I don't mean being caught by our men in the building, but rather when you lowered yourself onto the balcony, and everything else. . . . Do you still refuse to own up?”

“How could I possibly own up to such ridiculous nonsense?”

“Listen.” The man's tone remains persuasive. “This conversation is off the record. The Italian police haven't been informed of the theft. We have our own security methods. . . . Everything could be straightforward if you return the book, assuming you still have it. Or tell us who you gave it to, who you're working for.”

Max tries to think quickly. Returning the book is a possible solution, but that would be giving the Soviets solid proof that their suspicions are founded. Considering the way Moscow uses propaganda, he wonders how long it would be before they made their version of events public in order to reveal his links to Jorge Keller and discredit the challenger. A scandal like that would end the young man's career, destroying his chances of playing for the world title.

“They are all the grand master Sokolov's notes taken over a lifetime,” the man with the ginger mustache goes on. “Important things depend on them. Future games . . . We must get them back, do you understand, for the sake of the champion's reputation, and the good name of our country. This is an affair of state. Your stealing the book is an act of aggression against the Soviet Union.”

“But I don't have this book, I never had it. And I certainly didn't climb onto any roof, or enter any room other than my own.”

The weary eyes contemplate Max with a baleful intensity.

“Is that your final word, for now?”

That
for now
is even more sinister than the steely gray eyes, despite being accompanied by an almost amiable smile. Max feels his resolve weaken. The situation is beginning to get out of control.

“I don't see what else I can say. . . . Besides, you have no right to keep me here. This isn't the Iron Curtain.”

Scarcely has he uttered those words than he knows he has made a mistake. The last trace of a smile vanishes from the other man's lips.

“Allow me to tell you something about myself, Mr. Costa. . . . My knowledge of chess is, shall we say, limited. My true expertise is dealing with complicated matters in order to simplify them. . . . My job is to make sure that the grand master Sokolov's games proceed without a hitch. To safeguard his environment. Until now, I have carried out my duties impeccably in that respect. But you have upset all that. You have called my professional reputation into question, do you understand? . . . In the eyes of the world champion, my superiors, not to mention my own.”

Max struggles to hide his growing panic. At last he manages to open his mouth, and without stammering, utters five words:

“Take me to the police.”

“All in good time. For now, we are the police.”

The Russian glances at the man with lank hair, and Max feels a violent, unexpected blow to the left side of his head, which makes his eardrum reverberate as if it has just burst. All at once he finds himself sprawled out, the chair overturned, face flat against the tiled floor. Dazed, head buzzing like a disturbed beehive.

“So, shall we make ourselves comfortable, Mr. Costa?” he hears a voice say, seeming to come from very far off. “While we continue our conversation.”

When Mecha Inzunza switched off the ignition, the windshield wipers stopped and the glass glimmered with raindrops, distorting the view of taxis and horse-drawn carriages parked outside the triple-­arched entrance to the railway station. It wasn't quite dark yet, but the street lamps in the square were already illuminated,
their electric lights reflected on the wet tarmac, amid the grayish glow of dusk hovering over Nice.

“This is where we say good-bye,” Mecha said.

Her words sounded sharp. Matter of fact. Max had turned to look at her in profile, motionless, her head bent slightly over the wheel. Her eyes gazing outside the car.

“Give me a cigarette.”

He reached into his raincoat pocket for his cigarette case, lit an Abdul Pasha, and placed it between Mecha's lips. She smoked for a moment in silence.

“I don't suppose we'll see each other for a while,” she said at last.

It wasn't a question. Max frowned.

“I don't know.”

“What will you do when you get to Paris?”

“Keep moving.” His frown deepened. “A sitting target isn't the same as a moving one. So the more difficult I make it for them, the better.”

“Is it possible they might harm you?”

“Perhaps . . . yes. That is a possibility.”

She had turned to look at him, her hand holding the smoldering cigarette resting on the wheel. The lights outside cast streaks from the wet windshield onto her face.

“I don't want them to hurt you, Max.”

“I don't intend to make it easy for them.”

“You still haven't told me what you took from Suzi Ferriol's house. How was it different from an ordinary robbery? . . . Ernesto Keller mentioned cash and documents.”

“That's all you need to know. Why get involved?”

“I'm already involved.” She made a gesture, embracing the two of them, the car, the railway station. “As you can see.”

“The less you know, the less you'll be affected. They were papers. Letters.”

“Private letters?”

Max preempted the unspoken disapproval in her question.

“Nothing like that,” he said. “I'm no blackmailer.”

“What about money? . . . Is it true you stole some money?”

“Yes.”

Mecha bobbed her head slowly, a couple of times. Apparently confirming her own suspicions. And she'd had a long time in which to reflect about them, Max feared.

“What possible interest could you have in Suzi's letters?”

“They belong to her brother.”

“Ah. In that case, be careful.” Her tone was sharp now. “Tomás Ferriol isn't the sort of man to turn the other cheek. And he has too much at stake to allow a . . .”

“A nobody?”

Mecha took a last draw on her cigarette, ignoring the smirk on Max's face. Then she wound the window down and dropped the butt outside.

“To allow someone like you to stand in his way.”

“I seem to be getting in rather a lot of people's way recently. They must be lining up for my scalp.”

She said nothing. Max glanced at his wristwatch: ten to seven. His train, which was arriving from Monaco, left in forty minutes, and he preferred not to wait around on the platform, exposed to prying eyes. He had reserved a seat over the telephone in a first-class sleeping compartment for one. All being well, he would be in Paris by morning: rested, shaved, and fresh. Once again ready to face life.

“Once everything calms down, I'll try to negotiate,” he added. “To make something out of what fell into my lap.”

She laughed softly.

“You say that as if it came out of the blue.”

“I didn't go looking for this, Mecha.”

“Do you have the letters with you?”

He hesitated for a moment. Why involve her further?

“That doesn't matter,” he replied. “There's no need for you to know.”

“Have you thought of giving them back to Ferriol? . . . Of coming to some kind of arrangement?”

“Of course I've thought about it. But approaching him has its risks. Besides, there are other possible customers.”