After engaging the services of Rocco Battista the day before, Mantega had hired a local man who did small haulage jobs around the area to pick up the freight shipment that Martin Nguyen had cleared through customs and bring it to Mantega’s villa. There it was unloaded, the wooden frame levered off, the plastic bubble-wrap removed and the candelabrum erected on its two-tiered hexagonal stand. At that point the gold-plated replica had looked impressive, finely detailed but rather raw and new. Mantega had also secured the services of a renowned goldsmith whose artisanal skills were unquestioned but who had fallen foul of the law some time ago over a delicate issue involving the precise provenance of the gold that he used to create his masterpieces. Mantega had been able to help Michele Biafora extricate himself from that self-inflicted injury, and in return for that and a thousand-euro sweetener, Biafora had agreed to come to the villa late the previous evening with one of his apprentices and spend the entire night treating the replica menorah to various toxic chemical substances and a terrifying variety of pointed and edged tools that reminded Mantega of youthful visits to the dentist.
All was now in readiness for the inspection by Nguyen and his boss. The local carrier’s van was parked in the forecourt, and his two brawny sons were skulking about looking exactly like members of the gang that had supplied the goods. But there was one final refinement to add. He set the three oil lamps that Gina used to create ‘atmosphere’ for their outdoor dinner parties down on the concrete floor of the garage, fired them into life and then threw the breaker on the fuse box supplying the basement. In the lambent, uncertain radiance of the lanterns, the menorah looked even better. In fact it looked perfect.
The two Americans arrived at precisely one minute before the appointed hour. Mantega had already seen the one that Nguyen referred to as his employer, although he found this hard to believe. He had privately dubbed him ‘the ape’, and felt almost aggrieved on behalf of his employee. Mantega didn’t like Martin Nguyen, much less trust him, but he respected him as a type of man he recognised, someone who knew how to get things done. So why was he working for the creature that now slouched in wearing a T-shirt that displayed his beefy tattooed forearms, a pair of torn jeans and some garish orange sports shoes? His gait, manners, expression and communication skills suggested that he was the lost sibling of the two haulage kids outside, but Nguyen had assured him that the ape was good for the one point eight million they had agreed to stick him for.
The fact that Tom Newman wasn’t present confirmed that although Rocco Battista hadn’t been in touch, he had done the business. Unfortunately it also meant that Mantega’s carefully prepared speech in Italian about the power being out — one of those storms last night must have hit a pylon somewhere, happens all the time out here in the country, we’ll just have to make do with these old-fashioned lamps I found — went for nothing. It didn’t matter. Whatever Mantega’s doubts about the ape, the latter evidently had none whatsoever about the merchandise being offered for sale. The visit was less of an inspection than an adoration. Mantega was reminded of a nonna venerating the miracle-working statue of some saint which was displayed once a year on his feast day, except that such devout elderly women would never disport themselves like this. Casting a huge hunched shadow in the wavering lamplight, the ape danced triumphantly about the golden trophy, uttering inarticulate cries and ejaculations and running his paws over the various knobs and curves as though he wanted to have sex with it right there and then.
In the end Nguyen managed to drag him away, but not before handing Mantega a note containing instructions regarding the place and time for the final handover and pay-off, and adding that he would need help to lift the wrapped and repackaged menorah into a waiting helicopter. Mantega was naturally bursting with questions, but Nguyen had made it clear that he wasn’t going to answer any of them. Still, a quarter of a million was a quarter of a million. What had he to lose?
Rocco Battista had only made one mistake. Well, two really, but the second could be forgiven. Rocco had had no way of knowing that the girlfriend his target was escorting was a member of an elite anti-terrorist squad, well able to look after herself and her less capable companion even without her gun once she’d kicked her dress shoes off. And Rocco’s first mistake could also be forgiven. He had stripped his person of all identifying marks and documents, but naturally he had taken his mobile phone along. Rocco was in his early twenties, and would no more think of leaving the house without his phone than without his trousers. And if it hadn’t been for the intervention of Tom’s companion, no harm would have been done. As it was, though, Rocco’s defiant refusal to tell the (expletive deleted) cops the (expletive deleted) time by the (expletive deleted) clock on the (expletive deleted) wall became entirely irrelevant. The magnitude and resilience of Rocco Battista’s balls was in no doubt, but his phone proved to be as forthcoming as a logorrhoeic teenager. Un vero cacasentenze.
The cache of names and numbers that Rocco’s mobile yielded would however have meant little if Natale Arnone had not completed the assignment given him by Zen the day before. This had been to track down anyone by the name of Fardella who was connected by birth or residence with Giorgio’s presumed home town of San Giovanni in Fiore. There were five in all, two of whom had moved elsewhere and one who was in a hospice. There were also Silvia Fardella, resident in Via del Serpente 13, and her brother Giorgio of the same address, born in 1968 and a butcher by occupation. All of which made a very satisfying click when Silvia Fardella’s telephone number turned out to be present in the directory of Rocco’s mobile. Her name, however, didn’t. The script beside the number consisted of just three letters. Lui. Him.
Aurelio Zen was unable to attend immediately to the implications of this, since he had to deal with the appearance of the female Digos agent who had spent all night at the hospital with the victim she had been accompanying, on his orders, at the time of the attack. Mirella Kodra was extraordinarily lovely, he realised, in the abstracted way in which he thought of much younger women these days. Good legs, great cioccie, a fleece of fluffy hair atop an ovoid face that held its past experiences in perfect balance while eagerly looking forward to more.
‘How is Signor Newman?’ Zen asked.
‘Stable and in no danger. He managed to avoid the main thrust of the knife. The resulting injury was a clean flesh incision about a centimetre deep with no organ trauma. The wound was cleaned, sutured and dressed. He has been told to rest, avoid physical exertion but stay mobile and return tomorrow to have the dressing changed and the stitches examined. After that he will be free to go home to arrange for his father’s funeral. The doctors plan to discharge him this afternoon.’
‘Very good. Unfortunately his attacker sta faccendo il duro and we’ve barely been able to get a word out of him. We must therefore assume that young Newman was targeted for the same reason as his father — because the criminals involved believe that he is the last living representative of the Calopezzati family. Since the initial attack was unsuccessful, we must further assume that it may be repeated. I am therefore transferring you with immediate effect from surveillance duties on Nicola Mantega to bodyguard duties on the potential victim. It would be unwise for him to return to his hotel in Rende, as those concerned almost certainly know that he was staying there. I want you to find somewhere else for him to stay and to ensure his personal safety until further notice. I have a major operation in preparation and I don’t want it screwed up by some sideshow involving American tourists. Is that clear?’