‘Exactly. So I engaged the services of an ex-spook who now works as a private eye in Reggio. Last night he raided the compound on the outskirts of Cosenza which this outfit uses as a base, and has just reported his findings. Briefly, the helicopter has been hired by an American company called Aeroscan Surveying. He broke into the machine and took a look inside. The entire cargo space is filled with electronic equipment and screens and seats for the operators. Further research on my part has revealed that Aeroscan is a specialised firm which uses ground-penetrating radar devices to locate objects concealed underground. Everything from unmapped sewage lines to military bunkers and archaeological remains. Are you planning to film underground, Luciano?’
‘Not till they plant me there.’
Pippo returned with a brimming glass. His master downed the contents in one and commanded a refill.
‘So this raises the question of why they are using your movie as the justification for their activities,’ Marcello went on.
‘And how they found out about the film project in the first place.’
‘Fortunately, my employee also took a look inside the temporary office they’ve set up at the site. Tacked to the wall of one of the offices was a large-scale map of the whole area around Cosenza, stamped at the bottom with a form showing details of the surveying job. The box for the title of the relevant contract contained the words “Rapture Works”.’
There was a long silence.
‘It’s beginning to look as if Jeremy’s agent was right,’ Marcello went on. ‘I’m afraid we’ve been scammed.’
Luciano Aldobrandini accepted his second Singapore Sling without even noticing.
‘But why would they do that?’ he protested. ‘All the money they’ve spent already, not to mention the risk of a lawsuit. We are going to sue, I take it?’
‘Depends. We’d have to be able to prove intention to deceive and defraud.’
‘But if all they wanted was to do an aerial survey, why drag me into it?’
‘I have no idea. But don’t forget that it was Rapture Works that insisted on the film being shot in Calabria. It’s just possible that they may have two separate projects on the go and that they’re being piggy-backed for some reason. As of now, we just don’t know.’
‘Well, I’m going to find out!’
Luciano scrolled through his address book to the name of Martin Nguyen, but the number was engaged and stayed that way for over five minutes. He finally succumbed to the robotic siren voice which intervened after ten rings and left a message. Then his eye was caught by the video screen, which had returned to muted TV mode. It showed a man on a podium speaking into a microphone. A window at the upper right read ‘Breaking News’ and the occasion appeared to be a press conference. Normally Luciano would have switched channels, but something about the tall, lean, angular figure struck him, the face particularly. It took another few moments to realise that shorn of the modern clothes — in some suitably fetching drapery, not too daring but seductively suggestive, and with longer, unkempt hair — this man, even more than the late lamented Jeremy, represented his ideal image of John of Patmos. The caption in the right-hand corner indicated that he was in fact the chief of police for the province of Cosenza. Luciano reached for the remote control and turned up the volume, just to hear if the man’s voice was as good as his stunning physiognomy.
‘… the remains of the American lawyer Peter Newman, who has subsequently been identified as a member of the Calopezzati family and hence of Calabrian origin. The victim’s head had been blown off by a charge of plastic explosive detonated by remote control. Forensic tests have revealed that the explosive substance was identical to that used last night to force an entry into a house in the new town of Altomonte, located near by. The capofamiglia, Antonio Nicastro, was then shot while attempting to defend his nine-year-old son Francesco, whose tongue was subsequently severed with a razor blade. These events are clearly related and we urge anybody in possession of any information which might be relevant to come forward and — ’
Luciano blanked the screen. Dear God, he thought, and this is where I was going to spend months making my masterpiece? ‘We just don’t know,’ Marcello had said, but now he knew, with overwhelming and irrefutable conviction. There would be no movie. He, the great Aldobrandini, had been bought and sold like a rent boy to be used and then tossed away. Whatever happened now, his genius and his reputation, his entire career, had been besmirched for ever.
He stalked out on deck and up to the wheelhouse.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Matteo,’ he told the skipper. ‘Alter course for Sardinia.’
Tom Newman felt angry. Normally a mild man, he was capable of spectacular outbursts of rage if he felt that others had taken advantage of his good nature. This was one such occasion. These people had pushed him too far. Fine, they’d soon find out what he was made of.
‘ Ma cazzo, oh, dov’e ’sto beverragio? ’ he shouted at the waiter.
The man paused in mid-stride, then flipped up his right forefinger in a gesture that read, ‘Damn, I knew I’d forgotten something.’
‘ Subito, signore! ’
Twenty seconds later, the waiter brought what looked like an innocent Campari Soda but in fact contained a shot of vodka — what the Italians called un drink, an alien name for an alien concept. Tom nodded graciously, settled back in his chair with a masterful smile and relaxed again, soaking up the sun and the scene around him. The sun was high in a blue sky flawless except for a few puffy white clouds spilling over the coastal chain of mountains from the Mediterranean to the west. Later on in the afternoon, they would bulk up, loom over the city like thugs and then unleash the mother of all thunderstorms, but for now they were merely decorative or maybe even symbolic, like in some Old Master’s frescoed ceiling of strapping lads and overweight gals, signifiers of beneficence and plenty.
Since leaving the Questura after having received Aurelio Zen’s bad news, he’d drifted at random through the streets, noticing everything with heightened awareness and interacting with whatever presented itself to his dazed consciousness. He’d bought some green peaches and fresh walnuts from one street vendor, and eaten them along with a chalky roundel of aged goat’s cheese sold by another vendor, who looked a bit like a goat himself — skinny, neurotic and driven, like the gormless offspring of some Spanish noble family.
Then there had been the cheap clothing stores run by Chinese immigrants around the bus station, the bijou boutiques on the upscale streets selling pricey goods for wedding presents and the home beautiful, and odd places with English names like Daddy amp; Son and Miss Sixty — the latter, it turned out, catering not to geriatric spinsters but the adorable young women of the neighbourhood who wanted retro Carnaby Street gear to show off their amazing legs. Tom had listened to a bootleg CD of Calabrian folk music blaring from another street stall and with the help of the salesman had managed to pick out some of the words: O sol, o sol, almo immortale, non t’asconder mai piu, che certo veggio s’io non ti miro, non poss’aver peggio. It was a hymn of praise to the sun, all about how when it is hidden from us we’re screwed. Pure paganism, but he was feeling pretty pagan himself. It was in the air here, in the pitiless light, in the facial expressions and body language of the people all around. His father was dead, the police chief had told him. Like this was the first time in the history of the world that someone’s father had died? The Greeks and Romans who’d run this place thousands of years ago would have understood that.
He’d bought the CD and felt it now in his pocket as he heard the melody again in his brain and looked at a passing woman, the fastenings of her bra standing out on her back under the tight top like widely spaced shoulder nipples. Then he saw a face he knew.
‘Signor Mantega!’
Tom sprang to his feet and shook hands with the notaio.