Except for the looming presence of Natale Arnone, in full uniform and fingering the automatic pistol in the white holster attached to the diagonal strap across his ample chest, the scene of Zen’s first interview with Nicola Mantega was identical to that of the previous one with Maria. The atmosphere, however, could not have been more different. The two principals had both removed their ties and unbuttoned their shirts. The air was a broth of smoke, spent breath and body odours, seasoned with fear.
‘You’ve been a silly boy, Mantega,’ Zen said quietly. ‘It goes without saying that you’re a total waste of space from a moral and legal point of view, but I have to deal with that every day in my job and by now I’m hardened to it. What I can’t tolerate is sheer carelessness, perhaps because it calls into question my own reason for living. Evil is one thing, but a drunk driver who persistently takes blind corners on the wrong side of the road disturbs me.’
Mantega sat hunched in his chair like a resilient stuffed toy. He knew how this game was played. Zen gestured to Arnone.
‘Again.’
The young inspector crossed the room to the bank of electronic equipment and pressed a button. Mantega’s voice issued from the loudspeakers attached to the computer terminal on Zen’s desk, the recording of the call he had made on Tom Newman’s mobile to the house in San Giovanni in Fiore where Giorgio’s calls were received.
‘You crazy bastard! What do you think you’re doing? Newman’s son just told me that his father’s dead. Well, that’s the end of it as far as I’m concerned! I trusted you, Giorgio, and now I feel betrayed. It’s all very well for you, lying low with your friends out of harm’s way. I’m the one the cops are going to put through the mincer. If they do, and I still haven’t heard from you, I’ll tell them everything I know. Names, numbers, dates, times, places, the lot! And don’t think you can blackmail me with that video. That was about a kidnapping. This is manslaughter at the very least, and probably murder. I had nothing to do with that and I’m sure as hell not taking the blame. I don’t owe you anything and I shall take all necessary measures to protect my own position, so get in touch by tomorrow at the latest. If you don’t, all bets are off, and you’ll find out just what I’m — ’
Aurelio Zen came to stand directly over Nicola Mantega.
‘So did he?’
Realising that silence and inertia would no longer do, that a move was required, Mantega glanced up at Zen with an expression of polite confusion.
‘Did who do what?’
‘Did Giorgio get in touch with you?’
‘No.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Zen commented. ‘Giorgio is certainly evil and possibly mad, but he isn’t stupid and doesn’t want to be associated with imbeciles. And who shall blame him?’
Mantega hung his head and stayed silent.
‘All right,’ sighed Zen. ‘As you so aptly put it, all bets are now off.’
‘I have a right to legal representation.’
‘You are a lawyer, Signor Mantega. Were, rather, as a result of that spectacular bit of silliness nine years ago, but no doubt the old skills are still there.’
‘I want an independent witness present to represent my interests and to report any illegal pressure on your part. If you deny me my legal rights, the judges will throw the case out.’
Zen laughed flirtatiously.
‘Who said anything about judges, Nicola? I’m not intending to waste the court’s valuable time on a sleazy little go-between. Try and get it through your thick skull that this isn’t all about you! The investigating magistrate is only interested in the men who kidnapped and murdered Peter Newman, and my only interest in you is as a link to them. You know who they are and quite possibly where. My instructions are to find a way to make you communicate that information.’
Zen turned away and gazed out of the window at the helicopter that had been tormenting the city for days.
‘Arnone,’ he murmured.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘At some point in the proceedings, I foresee that Signor Mantega may attempt to resist arrest and will have to be forcibly restrained.’
‘I understand.’
Zen turned. Nicola Mantega had hunkered down again, preparing himself for the long haul ahead.
‘What was the video you mentioned in your phone call?’ Zen asked. ‘The one you advised Giorgio not to try and blackmail you with.’
There was no reply. Zen clapped his hands loudly.
‘All right, take him down and turn him over to Corti and Caricato. They are to begin conventionally, but step up the pressure if there’s no valuable product after a couple of hours. Set up a shift rota for the night. No sleep for our guest, naturally. I may take a turn myself later on, depending on how things go.’
Martin Nguyen was hiding in his room. That wasn’t how he’d put it to the front desk staff, of course. He’d told them that he would be teleconferencing until further notice and mustn’t on any account be disturbed, but the truth was that he was hiding. He lay swathed in a robe of Thai silk on the brutally unyielding bed, wondering how he could have got it so wrong about these people. He’d assumed that on average Italians were about as dumb, lazy and street-level criminal as a certain racially challenged segment of the US population, only with better cuisine and cuter noses. He’d been prepared for that. What he hadn’t been prepared for was to find them just as sharp and sophisticated as himself, if not more so.
It was just possible that this was the worst day that he’d ever had — apart from his childhood, which was hors concours in that respect. It had started with a disastrous meeting with the deputy mayor of Cosenza and two of his advisers at city hall. Panicked by the outcome, he had called Jake to consult, forgetting that it was the middle of the night over there, and then on top of everything else his fucking interpreter had gone off shift. At the same time, from a professional point of view Martin couldn’t help appreciating the precise manner in which he had been shafted. He liked to think of himself as a top pro, able to take it and dish it out with the best of them, but he had to admit that on this occasion he’d been outplayed.
The Italians had home advantage, of course, but their game had been damn near perfect. After the curt, peremptory phone call the day before, summoning him to the meeting, Martin had expected a hostile reception. Nothing of the sort! He had been shown into an impressive and comfortable suite, offered coffee and even an alcoholic liqueur — something that would have caused a scandal resulting in instant dismissal had they been elected officials back in the States — and then plied with polite enquiries as to how he was enjoying his stay in Cosenza, and suggestions of pleasurable ways in which he might spend his spare time.
Once they got down to business, however, it became clear that he wasn’t going to have much spare time. The tone might have been different from the brusque telephone call but the content remained the same: the permits which had been granted to the movie company to carry out low-level helicopter operations in the area were due to expire in a couple of days, and following Luciano Aldobrandini’s public repudiation of the project and his statements casting doubt upon its viability, it would be impossible for the city to renew them without convincing evidence that the film was indeed going ahead and that the flights in question were essential to its production.
Martin had done the best he could under the circumstances. He had attempted — with some success, he thought — to get across the enormous difficulties of working with a proud, volatile genius such as Aldobrandini notoriously was. The slightest misunderstanding was perceived as a personal insult, a temporary setback regarded as a deliberate attempt by mean-minded businessmen who thought only of money to sabotage a great artist’s crowning masterwork. There had indeed been a regrettable series of minor hitches resulting from the kidnapping of the company’s representative Peter Newman, although he hoped the mayor appreciated that no attempt had been made to leverage this horrendous crime in a way that might have brought unwelcome publicity to the region. It had taken a few days to assemble an alternative leadership team, but now that it was in place all problems would shortly be resolved. He therefore hoped that a temporary extension to the flight permits might be granted, pending such a resolution.