“How stupid did that dead man there think I was?” He pointed to a portable computer on the countertop separating the kitchenette from the table where Alleva now sat. “I’m taking it that Compaq notebook on the counter works.”
“It works,” said Alleva.
“You can’t have broadband out here, though. Too far from the digital exchange.”
“No, just a TIM GSM dongle. It’s slow.”
“No broadband, no neighbors, nothing at all out there except hidden Etruscan tombs,” said Pernazzo. He moved over to the counter and opened the computer.
“Password?”
“Sirius69.”
Pernazzo typed it in. “Aww… Now look at that. Nothing in the browser history, all your cache cleared. You are a careful man. This means I’m going to have to trust you to open all your online accounts. Now, how can I be sure you’re going to do that?”
Alleva said, “They only let me transfer to another account that is in my name and that I have already activated. If I transfer into my account, it’ll take a few days before I can transfer from there into yours.”
“You think I would make you do all that work? All I need are the numbers, codes, any electronic keys they gave you. I’ll do all that hard work of transferring the money.”
He placed the notebook in front of Alleva. Then he gave him a pen and a piece of paper. “Start writing down your passwords, and show me that they work.”
After half an hour, Alleva had opened three accounts. They were all he had going, he said.
“Your balances amount to less than three hundred thousand? That’s not so good for a life of crime.”
“There were overheads. And this is an emergency escape. I didn’t have much planning time.”
Pernazzo put his Glock to the back of Alleva’s head and pressed hard, really hard, as if the gun was a knife that would eventually penetrate. He nodded in the direction of a closed door. Judging from what he had seen outside, this had to be the only other room in the place.
“What’s in there?”
“Bedroom.”
“And?”
“Floor safe.”
“Let’s go.”
Alleva’s knees wobbled slightly as he walked and Pernazzo eased the pressure slightly. Alleva pushed a camp bed aside, knelt down, opened a floor safe. He pulled out a wad of green hundred-euro notes, which set Pernazzo’s heart racing. Three passports and-“Hold it! Put that stapler thing down, slowly.”
Alleva did so. Pernazzo picked up and held aloft a shining metal object with a lever. “Weighs a ton.”
“It’s an embosser. For the passports,” said Alleva. He dug his hand into the safe again, Pernazzo stood directly behind, as if he was pissing down his back. Alleva took out five shiny metal circles contained in clear plastic discs. Pernazzo stooped, picked them up, and rattled them.
“And these?”
“Those are the dies. For the embosser. For the passports, after the photo, you emboss, country seal, official, relief…” Alleva, unable to get enough saliva into his syllables, stopped talking altogether.
“I saw credit cards on the kitchen counter in there. Are they clones or original copies?”
“Neither. They’re legitimate.”
“OK. Give me the name and the numbers of your main account in Argentina. Don’t say you don’t have one. Do you have something to write on?”
“I don’t need to. Banco Galicia e de Janeiro,” he said. “My account name and the codes are on the inside page of that book on mushrooms.” He waved his finger weakly toward the back of the room.
Pernazzo walked over to the one shelf in the room, pulled out a tall book with damp, powdery pages. He opened to the first page and looked at what he saw written there.
“If I check these numbers now, find they’re no good…”
“They’re good,” said Alleva.
“It all ends here, as far as I can see,” said Pernazzo looking through the numbers and nodding in approval, as if he could already see they would work. “I’ve just had one hell of a time these last few days. Maybe I’ll leave the country, go to Argentina instead of you. I see my life as a vast prairie under a rolling sky. I feel good. So what’s it to be?”
“What’s what to be?”
“The manner of your death, Renato. How do you want to die?” Pernazzo reached behind and pulled out Massoni’s P220.
“I don’t want to die,” said Alleva, his voice low.
Pernazzo transferred the P220 to his right hand, the Glock to his left, then pushed it into his waistband.
“I’m sure I won’t want to either when my time comes,” said Pernazzo. “But I’m giving you a choice. A head shot like I gave Massoni, or… I don’t know… a shot through the heart? But if you want, we could fight to the death, just you and me. Single combat.”
Alleva began to say something.
“But you have so much more experience than me. Just to make it even fair, I’d have to incapacitate you further. A bullet into each kneecap, ankles, elbows, too. And that would just make it fair. But then I’d have to do more to make sure I win.”
“What sort of a choice is that?”
“I’m giving you a chance to fight and be aware of life and its light in the final moments. I think I’d like that myself.”
“Want to swap places?”
“Sorry, that’s against the rules,” grinned Pernazzo.
“You said you’d make sure I couldn’t win,” Alleva’s voice became clearer as it rose in anger.
Pernazzo said, “That’s right. I’ll give you a chance to fight, not a fighting chance.”
“That’s no choice at all,” said Alleva.
“Of course it is. You can’t win against death anyhow. I’m giving you the choice. In some ways you’re luckier than most.”
“I don’t feel very lucky.”
“I can appreciate that. But time to decide.”
“I don’t want to decide.”
“What have you decided?”
“I haven’t,” said Alleva. “Don’t do it. Please.”
“I am going to do it, you know that. You’re not allowed special favors.”
“Wait,” said Alleva, his eyes fixed on the black hole of the barrel. “I haven’t decided.”
“Trust me on this.”
Pernazzo took the P220 in both hands, working his thumbs up and down both sides of the grip trying to find and disengage the safety.
“No! I do. I would prefer to fight. I’ve made my choice.”
“It has just occurred to me that a fight would complicate the crime scene I am about to build. I should have thought of that before. My bad.”
He gave up looking for the safety, and started to pull the trigger, hoping it would turn out to be a two-stage pull like his own Glock. But the trigger seemed specially made for Massoni’s heavy fingers, and he had to squeeze really hard so that when the round exploded with a harsh crack, the whole weapon bounced upward toward the ceiling. He cursed and yanked the weapon down from the air, ready to fire properly, but Alleva had gone. Pernazzo looked in surprise at the empty space, then realized that he had just heard Alleva make a sound like an owl and a gentle thud as he fell backward from his chair.
Alleva lay on the floor, arms thrown back, which was not what Pernazzo wanted. He had envisaged Alleva and Massoni lolling dead in their chairs on either side of the same table. But this would do.
Working slowly and methodically, he wiped down the Glock on his T-shirt and fitted it into Alleva’s hands. He took hold of Alleva’s floppy right arm, then, like an instructor with a pupil, held his hand and squeezed off another shot in Massoni’s direction. Good. Then he gave Massoni back his P220, aimed at where Alleva had been sitting and began to pull Massoni’s fat dead finger on the trigger. This time, however, the movement was smooth and fast, and the weapon fired immediately, making him jump. He preferred his Glock, and was sorry to leave it in Alleva’s hand.
Pernazzo then removed every book, magazine, and piece of paper in the house, and placed them in the van; the passports, embosser, mushroom book, and Alleva’s laptop went into the rucksack. He flicked through one or two books before picking them up, but found nothing. He went into the bedroom, closed the floor safe, twirled the dial, wiped it with a bed sheet.