Blume stood up, Beretta in hand, but Curmaci was there, a pistol inches away from Blume’s forehead.
Ah well, thought Blume.
Curmaci stepped back, and beckoned with the pistol. ‘Come over here and sit down.’
‘I think I’d prefer to be shot standing up,’ said Blume.
‘Who’s talking about shooting? Come over here, away from that shotgun. Go over there and sit down.’
Blume stayed where he was, his own pistol still in his hand.
‘Please?’ said Curmaci.
Blume started walking towards the makeshift seat, and Curmaci picked up the shotgun by its barrel and tucked it under his left arm.
Blume was shivering, because it was damp and ghastly in the cave and because he had just killed a man. He recognized the plastic LED lanterns now: from the home and garden section of IKEA. They were one of the last objects displayed for impulse buys before the warehouse section. Caterina had wanted one, even though neither she nor he had so much as a balcony, let alone a garden. There were four of them in the cavern. They shone pure white unto themselves, but bathed everything around them in shades of yellow and grey and did not nearly penetrate the darkness behind.
He was sitting underground with Curmaci. He was still holding his weapon, and Curmaci did not seem to mind. Their voices boomed and echoed as they spoke. He was pretty sure it was not a dream, but it didn’t feel very real either.
Curmaci popped the shells out of the shotgun. He pocketed them and tossed the weapon carelessly in the direction of the incongruous door at the entrance. He propped a foot on the log table, and contemplated Blume.
‘Was that your first time to kill a man?’
Blume nodded.
‘It’s not as hard as you’d think, is it? The first thing to do is to persuade yourself it is not a man, which will have been easy with that stinking goat Pietro. Easy for you, I mean. For me, it would have been a bit harder. He and his wife virtually brought up my boy along with their fat spoiled nephew, Enrico. Pietro, for all his faults, was like a father to his nephew Enrico, and like an uncle to my son. And you have just shot him dead. A single shot, that’s all you had, and that’s all it took. You didn’t pull the trigger again, which is not just a sign of your self-confidence, but also of your humanity.’
‘Obviously you left me just one round in the pistol.’
‘Yes. I took out the others. Then left it for you to find. You were hardly going to use it on me while Pietro was behind you, and you could not use it on him while you were in the tunnel.’
‘What if I had not found the gun or missed my shot?’
‘Then you would be dead and I would have had the sad task of killing Pietro myself,’ said Curmaci. ‘Now he has a bullet from a police-issue weapon in his head, which is good for me, and possibly good for you, since it gives us a bit of wriggle room. For example, you could take the blame for killing Megale’s only son, as indeed you should, and I would make sure the revenge attack on you never happens, especially since the Megales are about to lose all power.’
‘Why was he working for you and not his brother?’
‘Because his father told him to. Domenico ordered Pietro to side with me against Tony. Pietro, without quite knowing it, had been waiting for years for this moment to come, the moment his father would finally change his mind about the viper he brought into the bosom of his family. Tony was plotting to take over from the old man. Everyone knew that for years except Old Megale himself. Tony felt he had been overlooked too long, and wanted me in particular out of the way. But Megale had time to think in prison, and he noticed the frequency and enthusiasm of the visits he received. Tony should have worked out that if Old Megale could adopt an outsider once, he could do it again. Finally Old Megale listened to me. I told him Tony was going to kill him, me, and Pietro, his one real child. I persuaded him that I had no ambitions to take his place but he needed to do something about Tony.’
‘And he believed you.’
‘Of course. I spoke the truth. I cannot be a boss like Megale. It’s not how I fit in.’
‘Then why kill Pietro?’
‘Sooner or later, he would have been taunted into revenging the man who killed his half-brother. He’d have killed me as a question of pride and appearances.’
‘So have you killed Tony?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You might have let Konrad Hoffmann live.’
‘Again, a question of appearances,’ said Curmaci. ‘He came out of the blue. What was I supposed to do, let him threaten us?’
‘I understand,’ said Blume. He raised his Beretta quickly, almost touching the bridge of Curmaci’s long Greek nose with the barrel, and pulled the trigger.
The click was obvious, embarrassing even as it echoed in the cavern. The ensuing silence was very deep, only the dripping water breaking it. Curmaci seemed to stir as if he had been asleep, and lifted his eyelids, heavy and reproachful, and stared at Blume in the half light.
‘That sort of hurt my feelings,’ he said.
‘Sorry about that,’ said Blume. He put his useless Beretta down on the table between them. ‘But supposing you had miscounted, or there had been one in the chamber? You can hardly blame me for trying.’
Curmaci was staring upwards at the roof. ‘The first time I killed a man, a boy it was — but I was no more than a boy myself — I was in agony for months. It was the worst thing in my life, and my father made me do it. I didn’t speak to him for almost a year, and he patiently accepted that. I thought of becoming a monk, of going to the police, of killing myself, of killing my father and the person who ordered him to induct me into the blood ritual of the clan. I thought of approaching the brothers of the boy I had killed and letting them deal with me. And yet you, Blume, who say you have never killed a man, lift up a steady hand, put a gun right in my face, and pull the trigger on the off-chance. Have you acquired a taste for blood?’
‘A taste for life,’ said Blume.
‘You want to stay alive at all costs. Good. Your bullet is in the head of an Ndranghetista. The repercussions of this depend on you and me. I’d like to come to an agreement with you. I think you would make a very good contact for me. The rewards don’t stop with my allowing you to live now. Money and probable career advancement would flow from any understanding between us.’
‘What sort of understanding?’
‘Not on anything specific for now. I’d like to come to an open-ended arrangement with you.’
‘I see,’ said Blume.
‘But I can’t offer anything concrete right now. I am not even sure a deal will be possible. I need to seek opinions. Old bosses like to have their outmoded opinions sought after.’
‘And first you have to win your internal feud,’ said Blume.
‘It’s not a feud, just a minor coup. Tomorrow I will attend the Polsi summit meeting. Among other things, I will tell them I have a police commissioner captive — I’ll mention your name but no one really knows who you are. Then we’ll discuss three choices. You die and are never found, which would be seen as a muted declaration of war on the police, but not the sort that would get the attention of the public like Cosa Nostra did when they started killing magistrates and bombing monuments. The second option is you die and your body is put somewhere symbolic. Maybe in front of the sanctuary of Polsi when the police are about to celebrate the Archangel Saint Michael. I know that option is going to look very tempting to some bosses who are enraged at this proposed violation of the sanctity of the sanctuary of the Madonna by the forces of the State. Having a captive police commissioner will definitely work to my advantage when explaining my position. I’ll try to talk them out of using you as a scapegoat though.’