One. Two. Three.
The captain picked up at the third ring. Wegener could hear the murmur of the television news, mixed with the evening’s domestic sounds. Isabella was washing up. He could make out her voice in the background, singing a tune.
He did not say hello or give his name, but got straight to the point. “I need the villa’s telephone records,” he said.
“I don’t like being disturbed at home.”
“And I don’t like your tone. The last three months. Actually, let’s make it six.”
The captain laughed. “Are you joking?”
“And I need them urgently.”
“It’s not like buying a few oranges from the greengrocer.”
“I still don’t like your tone.”
There was a bit of bustle as the receiver was put down on a hard surface, followed by footsteps and the sound of a door closing. The clatter of dishes stopped abruptly, and so did the singing.
The captain came back to the telephone. “It would have to be signed off by a judge, which is a major hassle, not to mention risky. You’re well known, somebody might notice what I’m doing, and I’d have to face questions I can’t answer.”
“It’s not a request.”
“There are prosecutors who’d trade two years of their lives for your telephone records. Have you thought of that? And what if I get caught and these records end up in the hands of one of them?”
“You’re not a prosecutor. Prosecutors decide. You don’t decide a fucking thing. You just have to be cleverer than they are. We’re in the same boat, Carbone. If I go down . . .”
“That’s outside my jurisdiction.”
“I have a name. Klaus. I want to know who he is.”
“You’re asking me to—”
“I told you,” Herr Wegener cut in. “It’s not a request.”
He hung up. Irritably, he rubbed his chin. The prospect of dinner made him feel nauseous, but he dialled the internal number all the same and ordered Georg to bring him a sandwich and something sweet to drink. Peach tea, iced, with a lot of sugar. He needed energy. And coffee, please. Thank you.
He had to stay awake. Alert. His men could call any minute, and he had to be ready. Except that nobody had called. Not yesterday, not today.
He walked up and down, his fists in his pockets, trying to clear his mind. The Standartenführer had taught him that patience was a formidable weapon. As he paced the room, he tried to follow that advice.
Georg knocked at the door, entered and put a plate of ham sandwiches, a pitcher of peach tea and a cup of coffee on the desk, then withdrew, shutting the door behind him.
As he ate, Wegener spread a detailed map of South Tyrol on the desk and studied it for the umpteenth time. He had spent the whole of Sunday on that map, racking his brain, constructing theories, and had always reached the same conclusion. Marlene did not have many options.
His instinct and his reason told him that she had fled north and not south. Marlene did not speak Italian very well, whereas in Austria or Switzerland no one would notice her accent. Austria or Switzerland. Wegener considered Switzerland, but for purely logical reasons plumped for Austria.
The Swiss border was better protected than the Austrian one. More guards, more border posts. Marlene had no contacts who could get her across without her being subjected to a thorough check.
Or did she?
He was consumed with doubt. Was there another traitor working with her? A traitor who belonged to his organisation? Or maybe someone from outside? Perhaps this Klaus belonged to the competition. At the same time, Herr Wegener was tormented by the fact that there was no organisation from Neumarkt to Brenner, or from the Reschen Pass to the Puster, powerful enough to dare challenge him. Except for them.
But they were something else.
No, South Tyrol was his.
There were only a few mavericks, a few gangs of blowhards, hot-heads of no importance, whom Herr Wegener tolerated. Had he underestimated them? Was Klaus one of these loudmouths who were all muscle and no brain? And how had he met Marlene? Where? When? How had he managed to seduce her? What had he promised her that he, Herr Wegener, could not buy her?
Did she love him?
Herr Wegener hated these questions almost as much as he hated waiting, but what he hated even more was being distracted from his thoughts. So when Georg came into his study without knocking, he let out an irritable curse.
“You have visitors, sir,” Georg announced, out of breath. “They’ve just driven in through the gate.”
“Why didn’t you stop them?”
“Sir . . .” Georg was worried.
Wegener went to the window and parted the curtains. Two cars had just parked by the front steps. Two black Mercedes, the latest model. He did not recognise any of the four men who got out, two from each car, but instantly knew the breed. Bodyguards. Athletic bodies, cautious gestures. Professionals.
He did recognise the silver-haired man in the elegant charcoal coat who got out of the front car immediately afterwards, leaning on a cane. The man looked up and gave a sign of greeting.
Wegener knew who he was, who had sent him and what he wanted. The only thing he did not know, and this filled him with anger, was how they had found out so quickly.
The Consortium.