Morning
BALISTRERI DIDN’T SLEEP A wink on the flight to Dubai. The seats were small and uncomfortable. Business class was only for politicians and executives, not for someone doing something as inconsequential as tracking down a bunch of murderers. Beside him, Corvu was playing video poker on the small screen.
He fell asleep exhausted during the last hour of the flight when they were already over the Arabian Peninsula, music from the headphones still penetrating his ears.
The Ottoman servant had her face half-covered, but her body was draped in transparent veils. When his eyes fell on her breasts a vertical line furrowed her brow. He murmured words of apology, but couldn’t manage to shift his gaze and realized with horror that his hands, which were no longer linked to the control of his brain, were loosening the knots and progressively revealing the girl’s nakedness. She let him do as he wished, silent and unmoving. Her eyes stared at him from the opening in her veil. It’s your choice, they were saying.
He awoke bathed in sweat when the undercarriage hit the runway. When they disembarked, Corvu turned out to be fully prepared: map of Dubai, address in Media City, Nabil Belhrouz’s telephone number, passport, landing card, sunglasses, baseball cap, Lacoste shirt, and light cotton trousers.
The airport was aggressively modern and full of noisy stores. Courteous officials in long white robes led them through the arrival process.
Huge hoardings advertised new residential centers in the middle of the sea in the shape of palms. A cluster of drivers stood holding cards. One card read MR. BALISTRERI—MR. CORVU.
“He must be from the hotel,” Corvu said.
The driver in a dark blue suit was a young Pakistani. He led them through a forest of big cars and SUVs to a limousine. It was air-conditioned, with a bar and a television in the back.
Before Corvu could pass the address to the driver, he said, “Media City, correct?”
The traffic was heavy. The driver explained that Dubai was sprawling and it would take a while to get downtown. The limousine moved slowly amid Porsches, Ferraris, and Lamborghinis. The number of cranes and construction sites was incredible. They crossed the bridge over Dubai Creek, which divided the city in half, and entered the modern side.
Gleaming glass skyscrapers soared in the air. Corvu enthusiastically played tour guide.
“It’s the emirate nearby, Abu Dhabi, that has the petroleum. But Dubai has skyscrapers, seven-star hotels like the Vela, shopping centers out of a sci-fi movie, a ski slope covered in snow right next to the beach. Alcohol, nightclubs, girls.”
They took Sheikh Zayed Road, which led to the recently developed area along Jumeirah Beach. They arrived in Media City at ten o’clock. Balistreri insisted on wearing his jacket and tie, though he thought longingly of Rome’s rain and cold as he sweated through his shirt.
The driver dropped them in front of the main door to the building that housed the offices of ENT Middle East. A Filipina secretary greeted them and accompanied them to a meeting room on the third floor. The wide window offered a view of the green sea furrowed by motorboats and catamarans.
Nabil Belhrouz was a handsome man with gleaming black hair and a sunburnt complexion. He was thirty-five at the most.
“We can speak Italian, if you prefer.”
Balistreri accepted his offer, relieved not to be forced to serve as Corvu’s interpreter.
Belhrouz served them cups of American coffee. He said, “You’re probably surprised to see how young I am, but Dubai offers a world of opportunity for the young.”
Balistreri took an instant liking to Belhrouz. Corvu seemed a little sullen, however; perhaps he was envious.
“Mr. Belhrouz, we’re here because one of the ENT nightclubs in Rome, the Bella Blu, was the scene of a crime before Christmas,” Corvu said.
“Yes, I read your e-mail and I’ll give you any information I can. I don’t exactly understand the connection with the crime, though.”
Corvu ignored that and continued. “We know that ninety percent of ENT’s shares are held by an Italian trust that receives its orders from ENT Middle East. We need to trace the ENT Middle East shareholders.”
“Of course,” Belhrouz agreed. “Being Italian, I presume you’ll understand that there are certain issues. Anonymity is totally protected here.”
Balistreri and Corvu exchanged a worried glance.
“I mean,” Belhrouz explained, “that here in Dubai you will never be given the first and last names of persons residing physically in Europe.”
He handed a sheet of paper to each of them. It was a shareholders’ register, certified in the Media City Free Zone for the Dubai Chamber of Commerce. On it was the name of the sole shareholder of ENT Middle East: ENT Seychelles with headquarters in the Seychelles.
Corvu gave Balistreri a skeptical look. “I should have known,” he muttered.
“This trip has been a complete waste of our time,” Balistreri said in Arabic. Belhrouz looked startled. He replied in Italian.
“Not entirely. Yours is a difficult request and this is a difficult world, almost impenetrable for various reasons—nearly always for tax reasons, but sometimes for more or less legal reasons. As far as I know, everything is absolutely legal in the case of ENT. I’d like to help you, however.”
He was a likable young man, clearly well compensated to act as front man and ignore any seamy traffic underneath But Balistreri could see that he was concerned. He wasn’t a citizen of the Emirates, and a murder investigation wasn’t a joke. Italy had an embassy in Dubai and even a polite protest over less than satisfactory cooperation could cause him problems. The sheikhs wanted to live in a clean, orderly, and civilized country. A young Lebanese lawyer could be expelled, even if he wasn’t guilty of anything.
“There are no nighttime flights to Italy, so I imagine you’ll be leaving early tomorrow morning. Which hotel are you staying in?” Belhrouz asked.
“The Hilton Jumeirah.”
“Excellent. You have the whole day free. So please enjoy the sunshine and I’ll pick you up at seven. We can talk in a less formal way over dinner.”
So, he didn’t want to talk in the office. They had no choice but to accept. Before leaving, Balistreri said, “Thanks for sending the car to pick us up from the airport.”
Belhrouz looked bewildered. “I didn’t send a car.”
Balistreri had a disturbing thought. “Then it was our own travel agency. We’ll see you this evening.”
Afternoon
They had arranged to meet at the café the day before, as they stood and talked outside Marius Travel.
“I could have managed with my trusty pepper spray,” Linda Nardi said, “but thanks all the same for your help. I imagine you’ll have to tell Captain Balistreri about this.”
Piccolo smiled. “I was following you after I heard about your visit to the restaurant. But Balistreri wouldn’t approve. It’s best we keep this to ourselves.”
“I have a proposal for you, Giulia.”
Piccolo looked at her. Linda Nardi was beautiful, intelligent, sensitive. But it was also clear she had no sexual interest in her whatsoever. She listened to the proposal in silence, not letting her excitement show.
An older sister. More sensible than I am, but prepared to do anything, like me.
“Aren’t you afraid?” Piccolo asked, for the sake of hearing her say what she wanted to hear her say.
And Linda said it, with her peaceful look. “My only fear is that this is going to keep happening.”
. . . .
The well-organized Corvu had brought two pairs of swim trunks, one for himself and one for Balistreri. They stayed on the hotel beach until five o’clock. Every so often Corvu phoned Natalya and told her what he was doing. He took pictures with his cell phone and sent them to her. He went parasailing. He tackled the ski slope. He swam for over an hour. Balistreri slept on the beach, where he had a dream in which Linda Nardi spoke to him in a language he didn’t understand.
Evening
By the time Belhrouz picked them up in his Audi A8 it was dark, but a light breeze was blowing and the temperature was mild and pleasant.
The restaurant was on a dock that jutted out into the sea. They sat by the water illuminated by the lights from the skyscrapers. The average age of the diners was about thirty. The women were gorgeous, and the prices on the menu were outrageous. He ordered tiger prawns.
During the meal Belhrouz talked about his family, who were of Palestinian origin: his grandparents had been driven out by the Israelis, and his parents had escaped the Lebanese Christian army in 1982 in Shatila. The young lawyer drank white wine and kept his eye on the attractive women surrounding them.
Dinner ended with scotch on the rocks and good cigars. As they puffed and sipped, Belhrouz said, “Dubai is one huge game of chance. You see, here it’s the same as in your Gospels—the loaves and fishes get multiplied every day. Real estate, finance, tourism, everything.”
“Because no one asks where the money comes from,” observed Corvu.
“Exactly. The Russians, Chinese, Iraqis, Iranians, Saudis—all come with suitcases full of cash to buy skyscrapers. No one asks where the money comes from. Manufacturing or contraband weapons? Supermarkets or traffic in human organs? No matter, the money is always good.”
“What if the economy slows down and the government cracks down on money laundering for tax purposes?” Corvu asked.
Belhrouz pointed to the magnificent silhouette of the world’s most elegant hotel.
“Those suites cost a minimum of four thousand dollars a night and are booked for the next two years. But that could change in a matter days. And I’d go back to East Beirut,” he concluded with a sad smile.
Balistreri decided it was time to pick up where they had left off that morning. “What would we find if we went to the Seychelles?”
Belhrouz smiled. “More beautiful beaches. Another useless name. And so on.”
“And if we kept going?”
Knocking back his fourth whiskey, the young lawyer leered at the tight rear end of their waitress.
“In the end, Captain Balistreri, you would find yourselves back where you started in Italy. The truth lies there.”
“But how can we—”
“Listen to me,” Belhrouz said in a low voice. “You seem to be a serious man. I only need your word on two things.”
“I’m listening.”
“You must never mention my name.”
“Okay. And the second thing?”
“My sister’s studying in Italy, at the university in L’Aquila. Once when I was staying with her, she answered my cell phone by mistake and it was one of the ENT shareholders calling. I might need your help sometime.”
“You have my word.”
Belhrouz drained his fifth whiskey and paid the bill. He was drunk. He handed them a business card. “I don’t want to talk here, and I have to go by my office to pick up some papers for you. We’ll see each other at my house in one hour. Give the taxi driver this card. That’s my home address.”
They accompanied him to the exit. The valet brought his Audi. As he got into it, he called out, “See you later, my Italian friends!”
Balistreri watched the car as it headed in the direction of Sheikh Zayed Road. A huge SUV set off behind it.
He took out his cell phone, called the hotel, and spoke to someone at the desk.
“I wanted to know whether our car service to and from the airport was included in the price of the hotel.”
He heard tapping on a computer keyboard. “No, sir, that service was not included in your room rate.”
He shut his cell phone and ran toward the taxi stand. Corvu followed him.
They jumped in a cab. Balistreri gave the driver fifty dollars and pointed to the Audi A8 and the SUV two hundred yards ahead of them. As they sped to catch up, the taxi’s alarm indicating that it was breaking the speed limit beeped continuously. The driver looked at him in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll go to prison if this continues, sir.”
Balistreri handed him a hundred-dollar bill and the driver accelerated. The taillights of the SUV and the Audi were zipping around the curves ahead of them and heading straight for an overpass.
“Have you got Belhrouz’s cell phone number?” Balistreri barked at Corvu.
“Yes.”
“Call him and hand me the phone.”
Belhrouz answered on the second ring, his voice thick with drink.
“My Italian friend,” he said happily.
“There’s an SUV on your tail. Slow down and try to stop.”
“What do you mean?” Belhrouz laughed.
Balistreri saw the SUV accelerate and swerve alongside the Audi.
Belhrouz exclaimed, “What the hell?” Then came the metallic clash of the two vehicles as the Audi was rammed. It careered to the right, hit the guardrail, overturned, and skidded back to the far side of the lane, where it hit the other guardrail and reared up over it. Then it fell over the side of the road.
. . . .
Pasquali’s secret cell phone rang three and a half minutes after Belhrouz’s Audi A8 crashed along the Sheikh Zayed Road and burst into flames. Pasquali had just arrived home and was greeting his wife. When he heard that phone ringing, he knew he had to get to someplace where he could be alone. Only one person had that number: a person Pasquali both respected and feared, a person he trusted.
Lord, I did it for the good of the country, perhaps for power, but not for money . . .
He went into his study and called back but didn’t speak a word.
The familiar voice spoke. “Serious steps had to be taken.”
Pasquali heaved a deep sigh and said nothing. This really was unexpected. But protesting was as dangerous as it was useless.
“We don’t want any problems here when your man returns. Please take care of it,” the voice said.
The call ended. Pasquali had not spoken a word. Before leaving the room, he turned to the crucifix on the wall and bowed his head.
. . . .
As expected, Colajacono left the police station at nine. Piccolo had let the news that Giorgi and Adrian had spoken about him filter down to him so that the information could not be traced back to her. They saw him enter Casilino 900; he was in uniform.
After a few minutes, they followed him in. They were dressed like two Roma women, and no one asked them any questions. The camp was dimly lit by oil lamps in the shanties; few people were outside in the cold. The smell of garbage and sewage was overpowering.
They went further, following Colajacono at an appropriate distance.
“Stick with him—I’ll be behind you,” said Piccolo. “If Colajacono sees me we’ve had it.”
Linda continued on, trying not to lose sight of Colajacono or lose her way in the maze of huts and piles of garbage.
I learned what fear was many years ago. But since then I’ve wiped it out.
Colajacono entered a trailer. “That one belongs to Adrian and Giorgi,” Giulia Piccolo told her.
Linda positioned herself under a half-open window.
“I’ll tear you to pieces with my bare hands!” Colajacono sounded furious.
Linda crouched down, knowing she had to be patient. She prepared the small portable infrared video camera she’d brought.
She heard the first slap, then the second. The two Romanians protested feebly.
“Now tell me the truth or I’ll cut off your balls and stuff them down your throat!”
It was time; she breathed deeply and rose to her feet, ready to film. The scene was perfect: two young men on the floor and a uniformed policeman pointing a gun at them. She filmed for a few seconds before Colajacono saw her. He ran outside, and she threw the camera to Piccolo, who hid behind a nearby shanty.
Colajacono was swearing and waving his gun. “Come here, you little bitch.”
His backhand swipe caught Linda on the cheek, sending her to the ground.
The violent are so predictable. Capture it all, Giulia.
“You gypsy bitch, give me that video camera,” Colajacono said.
“I’m an Italian journalist,” she said. She stood up and wiped the blood trickling from her split lip. He stepped back, confused, then stared at her press card. Recognition flashed in his beady eyes.
“If you don’t hand it over, I’ll have to pat you down,” he said, prodding her with the gun into the trailer where Adrian and Giorgi were still sprawled on the floor.
Piccolo continued to film, torn between her satisfaction over the plan that was working and the desire to intervene. But Linda had been insistent: “Only when I give you the signal.” She moved closer to the trailer.
“Okay, where’s the camera? I’m guessing you’ve shoved it between your tits, and I’m going to have to reach in there and search for it.”
All three men were laughing. Linda shook her head. She was telling Piccolo to wait.
“We all enjoy a good search and seizure every once in a while. When I’m done you’re going to give these two blow jobs for good measure.” He turned to the two men. “Never say I never did anything for you.”
Piccolo kept filming, though she was shaking with rage. Colajacono stripped off Linda’s coat, her sweater, and then her blouse. She stood there in her bra.
Colajacono said, “Should I check between your tits first or between your legs?”
“Wait,” Linda Nardi said. “I’ll tell you where it is.”
This was the signal. Piccolo stashed the video camera under the trailer, took out her gun, and opened the door.
“Hands in the air, all of you,” she said.
Don’t shoot them, Giulia, don’t shoot. We can fuck them over better alive.
Incredulous, Colajacono hesitated a moment, glancing regretfully at the pistol he’d laid on the table. But the look on Piccolo’s face dissuaded him from lunging for it—it was clear she was dying for an excuse to shoot him. The realization that he was in deep shit seemed to sink in, and his face went slack.
“Now lie down on the floor,” Piccolo ordered. Linda pulled on her clothes and left.
Piccolo let several minutes pass, giving the journalist time to get out of the camp with the video camera. In the meantime, she listened in amusement as Colajacono swung from swears to threats and back.
“You’re finished, Colajacono. We’ve got it all on film, including the attempted rape of a journalist.”
“You fucking whore. You filthy dyke.”
Piccolo laughed. “You shouldn’t bother provoking me. I won’t lay a finger on a piece of shit like you. I’ll let your cellmates see to that. Do you know what they do to police officers who end up inside? You’ll spend a few years sucking cock and taking it up the ass. Now get up.”
Colajacono stood. He was trembling with rage.
“The video camera’s outside the camp. In fact, it’s already on its way to the newspaper. You have until midnight tomorrow to tell us who was with Nadia in the Bella Blu private lounge on the night of December 23. If you tell us we’ll check it out, and if it’s true things will end there. Otherwise, you’ll see yourself all over TV and the Internet.”
Colajacono looked at her, sincerely bewildered. “How the fuck should I know who Nadia was with at Bella Blu?”
“Ask your friend Mircea—he knows. He took her out to dinner and handed her over to someone who took her to Bella Blu and then killed her.”
“You’re a fucking moron. It was that shepherd, Vasile.”
Piccolo shook her head. “Give us the name. Otherwise, you’ll be the star of the most watched video on YouTube.”
She left him there to think things over.