Blume was worried for Konrad, concerned even for the camper van itself and, in particular, his outsized suitcase, which he could picture sliding across the floor as the van began the descent towards the eastern seaboard. Underneath the stratum of old jackets that had grown too tight and trousers that had, unaccountably, become narrow around the waist and short in the legs, were things he really valued. Had Konrad rifled through his possessions as he had through Konrad’s? If so, he would have come across some prints, a few signed books his father had collected — including three signed first editions of Pirandello plays. He imagined Konrad holding up the amber necklace his mother used to wear, then frowning at the worthless string of wooden worry beads that Blume had had all his life. He had sucked most of the lead paint off them in his childhood, but the greens, blues and yellows were still faintly visible. His father said it was a rosary of sorts, but his mother denied it. The Cat in the Hat Dictionary, which had taught him to read, was in there, too, all the pages loose, the spine cracked by the heat of Rome, the ice of Washington State, and the stress of the movement from one to the other.
Tucked into the corner, lovingly cushioned among his socks and sweaters, were two coffee mugs celebrating the year 1976. One, decorated with a white star formed by the implied space between dark-red and pale-blue lines, celebrated the bicentennial of the USA; the other, which displayed a blue-and-green V-shaped badge with a Viking-style bird’s head, celebrated the first year of the Seattle Seahawks football team. Inside the first mug, wrapped in tissue paper, were his parents’ wedding rings. Inside the other, also wrapped in tissue paper, was a little leather pouch, and inside that was the diamond engagement ring that his father had given his mother. It wasn’t much of a diamond, and it was set off on either side by two blue lapis lazuli gemstones that reminded him of neon lights, and gave the ring a tacky Las Vegas feel. Something that belonged as much to the 1970s as the cup it was hidden in. When he found Konrad, or the camper, or both, the first thing he would do would be to rescue his suitcase.
Massimiliani interrupted his thoughts. ‘Did you deliberately allow Hoffmann to escape?’
‘No. That was just my being careless.’
‘I see. Well, apart from your complete failure to do the few simple things I asked you to, I still think you’ve got potential. If another case came up, would you be interested?’
‘I’d have to think about it,’ said Blume.
‘You’d be better briefed next time.’
‘Good.’
‘Almost there,’ said Massimiliani.
‘Where?’
‘The point in the road where you make a decision, Blume. Do you want to continue with what’s left of this mission?’
‘Someone needs to stop Konrad.’
‘We might have picked him up before if you hadn’t misdirected us.’
‘That was a mistake.’
‘I don’t really understand why you did that.’
‘Partly because even though he had given me the slip I still wanted to give him a headstart on you and the BKA, as a sort of favour to him. Partly because I thought he might sow some confusion among Curmaci and his friends, partly because I was fed up getting only partial information from you and the BKA, and partly because I was embarrassed to admit I had lost him,’ said Blume.
‘That’s good and honest,’ said Massimiliani. ‘I thought you might want to know Curmaci’s disappeared.’
‘I know,’ said Blume. ‘Caterina told me.’
‘This ship is leaking in all parts. If she was referring to us losing him in Bari, we found him, then lost him again. Someone else is driving the car he rented. Presumably he took another car and is now in Calabria. Do you still hold him responsible for that killing of the insurance broker or whatever he was?’
‘If not, then he is responsible for many other things,’ said Blume.
‘On the day the murder was committed, Curmaci was in Spain. Malaga, which is almost as big a cocaine port as Gioia Tauro. We got this from the Guardia Civil. Then, just as the charred bodies of the presumed perpetrators were found in the Milan hinterland, Curmaci was in Milan, doing a little tour of certain families, including the Flachi. The Flachi specialize in logistics, by the way. You know the companies that deliver stuff you buy on the internet?’
‘I don’t buy online,’ said Blume.
‘How very Italian of you,’ said Massimiliani. ‘But some advanced Italians do trust their credit cards to the web, especially since they invented those ones you top-up with credit. So, Dutch and German logistics companies have moved in and are opening new warehouses in Milan, and the Flachi are there ready to provide for them. Amazon has just opened business in Italy. It’s a growing market.
‘What has this to do with Curmaci?’ asked Blume.
‘We have no idea. That is why it would be nice to leave him in peace and watch developments. After all, Curmaci’s not the person you want. Not really.’
‘Are you asking me to leave him alone?’
‘I wouldn’t advise you to go anywhere near him to begin with. Not without backup. But he’s probably not the person you want.’
‘No boss is ever at the scene of a hit — or only very rarely. The fact he was in Malaga means nothing,’ said Blume. His head was throbbing again, and he realized he had not eaten all day and it was now… he pulled out his phone… two o’clock. The cold air from the air-conditioning was tunnelling into his eyes like two mini whirlwinds, while the rest of his body roasted.
‘From what I hear,’ said Massimiliani, ‘it makes no sense for Curmaci to have ordered the hit on Arconti’s namesake.’
‘From what you hear?’
‘I am not an intelligence analyst, Blume. I don’t think you quite get what I do. Basically I just monitor and report, I don’t explore. I have too many subjects to go into the details on them all.’
‘Try this,’ said Blume. ‘Suppose Curmaci orders an execution that breaks several rules of Ndrangheta etiquette and draws a lot of unwelcome attention to himself, he could manipulate the event so that it would look like a deliberate action against him, couldn’t he? Think about it. The act insults other ’ndrine in Milan and Rome, angers the command in Calabria, endangers Curmaci’s own family, galvanizes investigators, gets the press interested in an organization that is pathologically committed to secrecy. If he asked a friend to carry out that act, the friend — a real friend — would refuse and tell him it was a stupid and self-destructive request. But an enemy posing as a friend might agree to it, seeing it as a way of undermining him. It is so much to Curmaci’s disadvantage that as soon as he claims it was done to harm him, everyone will believe him.’
‘Christ, do you always think like that? I mean, I knew you had a devious mind, but maybe you’re just obsessing about Curmaci at this point? Could it be you need to justify what you did with that transcript?’
‘That’s a possibility,’ said Blume. ‘But maybe his actions are for internal consumption. He wants people to see he has internal enemies, and he wants the internal enemies to declare themselves.’
‘If you’re right, then he must be mighty pleased with you. That false confession by his wife will help him play the role of plot victim even better. What about Konrad Hoffmann, how does he fit in?’
‘Like a gift from God,’ said Blume. ‘Hoffmann appears on the scene, demanding that Megale tell him about a murder Curmaci committed years ago, and threatens him with the result of some inquiry he has been conducting. Megale calls Curmaci, and Curmaci comes up with the idea. He tells Megale to tear a Madonna in half, sign his name, write a message on one half, and send Konrad to Calabria where he’ll meet a man with the other half. That way, they get Konrad not only off their case, but out of the country, into Calabria, exposed and alone. Curmaci pockets the other half of the Madonna.’