In nine hours and twenty-seven minutes, Baldassare was due to stand at a podium in Cosenza City Hall to announce to a room full of reporters and the wider world whether he would be bringing charges against the Critelli brothers and their top brass, or letting them all go instead and charging only a handful of their foot soldiers.
All night – all month – he’d been wrestling with this problem. Yet still he hadn’t come to a decision. Worse, rather than giving it his best effort now – as any normal person would be doing – he found himself standing in the corner of his office instead, glued to the local news on an old portable TV, as it reported on the blaze that had gutted the Suraces’ farmhouse.
There’d been no official confirmation yet, but surely it was arson. More precisely, surely it was the handiwork of the same ’Ndrangheta cell that had murdered the Suraces two days before. Yet none of the people they had under surveillance had gone anywhere near the Suraces’ house last night – nor had there been any hint of such an operation in the communications they were tapping. So who exactly were these people? What did this sudden spike in their activity mean? Specifically, what did it mean for him?
As well as working on the case against the Critelli brothers and their ’ndrine, Baldassare had completed another project over these past few weeks – developing a plan called Operation Trinity under the wide authority granted him by the Direzioni Investigativa Antimafia. It was ready to go, and had been for a week. All he had to do now was press send on his laptop or his phone and a cascade of orders would go out to the regional chiefs of the Carabinieri, the Polizia di Stato, the Guardia di Finanza and the Corpo Forestale di Stato, triggering the mass arrests of dozens more ’Ndrangheta suspects in order to search their properties and seize their records. A dozen times a day over the past week, Baldassare had built himself up to topple this first domino. But he’d always lost his nerve. The stakes were too high. The price of failure too steep.
Baldassare had been raised a Catholic. As a boy, he’d been beguiled by the theatrics of its services. All that incense, all those chants and rituals. All those imposing buildings with their glorious art. It had been inconceivable to him that so many people could have put so much effort into something that simply wasn’t true. Yet his job had steadily flayed him of his faith. The horrors that he’d seen. In its place, he’d come to believe in diligence, solid information and hard work. But diligence, solid information and hard work had now failed him too, and he was out of time.
He turned off the TV and went to sit at his desk. He touched for luck the silver frame of the photograph of his wife and daughter he kept on it. He bowed his head, clasped his hands and closed his eyes. Then, for the first time in twenty years, he prayed.
The instant Cesco reversed back out into the road, Carmen’s alarm turned to anger. He’d taken her phone with him so that she couldn’t call the police, but another car was approaching fast so she ran out onto the road to wave it down. It screeched to a halt beside her. She stooped at its window, trying to formulate in her mind the Italian she’d need to explain herself. The driver buzzed down his window and smiled reassuringly at her, exposing his teeth as he did so – his cemetery teeth. Carmen froze in shock a millisecond then glanced across at his passenger. It was Famine Eyes. She recognised them both with absolute certainty even though neither were wearing balaclavas today. And any doubt she might have had would have been dispelled by the sawn-off shotgun that Famine Eyes was holding across his lap.
The rear door opened. A young man got out. Maybe the one from before, she couldn’t tell. He had a pistol in his waistband and a hunting knife in his hand. The SUV sped off again, leaving her alone with him. She looked around for help but there was no one. She retreated back up the farm track. His knife glinted in the sunlight. She couldn’t tear her eyes from it. Her legs turned to water. She reached the gate and waved frantically at the CCTV cameras. The young man only grinned. The gateposts and wall were topped by broken glass, the gate itself by strands of barbed wire. It had hinges at one end. She used them as a crude ladder to reach the top. She laid her purse over the wire to vault it. Her sleeve snagged on a barb and the tug of it unbalanced her so that she landed badly, sprawling on her hands and knees.
She got to her feet and looked around. She was at the bottom corner of a large meadow dotted by wild flowers of blue and red and yellow, enclosed by the wall behind and thick hawthorn hedges, sloping upwards to a whitewashed farmhouse. She set off running towards it. Behind her, the young man used his leather jacket to protect himself from the barbed wire, his knife clamped in his teeth like a Hollywood pirate. He jumped down then came after her, briskly but without urgency, content to let her set the pace. Almost as though he were herding her. Then, to her horror, she realised that that was exactly what he was doing. And where she was too. It had just looked so different in the satellite photos. And finally she understood. Everything that she’d believed was going on, and everything that the Suraces before her had believed, it had all of it been wrong.
Cesco watched his rear-view mirror in dismay as Carmen ran out into the road to wave down the black SUV. He saw it stop and its back door open. He was so transfixed by it that he almost drove off the road into a motorcyclist parked on the verge. He put up his hand to apologise only to see that it was Knöchel, one of Dieter’s crew. And talking urgently into his helmet microphone too.
But he had no time to process what it meant.
Carmen’s phone was still on his passenger seat. It was bugged. It had to be. It was the only way everything made sense. Those men had unlocked it with her thumb while she’d been unconscious, installing some malicious app on it so that they could monitor her and the investigation both, even when it was ostensibly turned off. And maybe they were monitoring it still. He grabbed it up. ‘Let her go,’ he shouted. ‘Let her go or I tell the police everything.’
The mocking laughter shocked him. He hadn’t expected it to be two-way. ‘Everything!’ said a man. ‘You know shit.’
‘You were at the Suraces’ place last night,’ said Cesco. ‘Three of you, wearing balaclavas, each carrying a pair of kerosene containers. I was there too. I took your licence plate. I’ll give it to the police if—’
‘Do that and she dies.’
‘Then let her go. Let her go and I forget everything. You have my word.’
‘And you have mine. Keep quiet until midnight and she can live.’
Engine noise behind. He checked his mirrors. The SUV was behind him and closing fast. He cursed himself for losing focus and tossed Carmen’s phone out of the window into a hedge so that they couldn’t use it to track him. He stamped down his foot but the SUV was too fast. It quickly caught up. He swerved across the road to block it from drawing alongside. There was a sharp right turn ahead, over the high bridge. He let the SUV draw level on his left side. Its window was down and the passenger reached out a sawn-off shotgun. Cesco turned his back even as he fired. His window shattered. His left arm and shoulder blazed with pain. He wrenched the wheel around even so. With a screech of tortured rubber, he swung out onto the bridge, banging sideways into a buttress. The SUV carried on down the other road for a short distance before it could brake and reverse back up. Cesco sped across the bridge. Ahead of him, Dieter and his other two mates appeared on their Harleys. That bastard Knöchel must have summoned them. They fanned out in a bold but dumb attempt to block him. He drove straight at them and they scattered like skittles. He swung down the roadworks hill towards Cosenza. The SUV reappeared behind him. Again the road was too narrow for them to pull alongside. He reached the foot of the hill and tried to swing the van around, but his old tyres had no more grip left to give and he screeched straight across the junction, riding up a grass bank that flipped the van over onto its side then took it skittering along a rutted track. He flung up his arms to protect his face as he hit the perimeter wall of an apartment block. He spun another turn or two before coming to a halt. His windscreen fell away like a theatre curtain. He was facing back the way he’d come even as the black SUV arrived up the track and pulled sedately to a stop just a few feet away.
The passenger door opened and a middle-aged man climbed out, his face largely concealed by the combination of his mirror sunglasses, his tugged-down baseball cap and the turned-up collar of his black leather jacket. Then he advanced with chilling composure, his sawn-off shotgun held down against his leg as Cesco sat there, dazed and helpless, still strapped into his seat.