The moon in Aries. Or Taurus in Jupiter. Or perhaps Aquarius in Alpha Centauri.
His wife Isabella was crazy about astrology. She said people’s fates were written in the stars. She had become a real expert in that bullshit. Every so often she would launch into lengthy explanations about the astral reasons for various events in their lives. She was Pisces (with Scorpio rising), he was Aries (with Virgo rising), and they had met when Saturn was on the cusp with Planet Fuck-Knows.
How can you make any sense of it?
Carbone not only couldn’t make any sense of it, he didn’t give a damn. All the same, he would listen to her. He loved her and believed this obsession would fade away, sooner or later. Besides, it could have been worse. The wife of one of his colleagues had gone crazy for exercise, and the poor guy was forced to spend Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in some lousy gym in Bolzano. On top of that, Carbone thought, if he did not pay her enough attention, then Sagittarius in opposition to something or other might drive her into somebody else’s arms. Maybe a well-hung Taurus.
Isabella was still, in her fifties, a beautiful woman. Which was why Carbone would just keep quiet and nod, muttering only the occasional astonished “Ah.”
Carbone should have called Isabella today to ask what his horoscope said. (“Aries: the stars will grant you a pleasant opportunity to piss on the heads of your opponents. Mind your cock doesn’t catch cold . . .”)
Carbone sneered. He did not know if he had ever been so happy in his life. He had Herr Wegener’s telephone records in front of him. They had been brought to him by a guy who was almost certainly Secret Service, whom he had met during what the papers had dubbed a “terrorism emergency.” Someone he could swap favours with and know he would not cause too many ripples.
The way he saw it, cultivating that kind of friendship was part of his job description. And it didn’t matter if his friend had blood on his hands. In some situations, you could not afford to be choosy.
If you want peace, according to the Latin motto Carbone had learned at school, then prepare for war. And every now and again, he thought, patting the bulky stack of papers on his desk, you actually had to go to war. Not in order to destroy an opponent (although that, too, of course) but above all, as he saw it, to scare off potential enemies. As the French liked to say, pour encourager les autres.
Of course, you had to win the war. And win it outright. Strike a decisive blow.
Carbone stood up, opened the minibar he’d had installed in his office, and poured himself a glass of Fernet. “To Blitzkrieg,” he said, raising his glass, before realising that the men who had coined that expression had ended up bogged down in a long war of attrition. Too bad for them. It wouldn’t happen to him.
He had the ultimate weapon. A sledgehammer.
The telephone records.
Prosecutors would have given years of their lives to get their hands on these papers, he’d told Herr Wegener, although in his heart of hearts he thought he was exaggerating.
It wasn’t true.
These records – which would have given any prosecutor an ulcer, since, on account of where they had come from, they could never be used in court – were a nuclear bomb.
The names of the subscribers, in black and white, underlined and carefully annotated. Businessmen above suspicion. Officers of the Treasury Police. Politicians. Prominent individuals. All of these people had had contacts with Wegener, and Carbone could now hold a gun to their heads. A wonderful, bright future was unfolding before him. He would be able to piss on all of them.
He would have to be careful, of course. They were people who could refute everything point by point, and a number on a telephone company record did not necessarily mean anything. Their phones had not been tapped. All Carbone had was numbers: he did not know the content of the calls, only that there had been contact between these people and Wegener. Still, there had been investigations based on much less than this that he had brought to a successful conclusion. Working in secret, without arousing suspicion, he would have to put together an irrefutable case, find concrete evidence – solid, bullet-proof evidence. It would involve a lot of work and a fair amount of risk. Even so, the stack of yellowing paper on his desk was pure gold.
The real cherry on this dynamite cake was the only telephone number, circled in red and with several question marks scribbled next to it, which Herr Wegener had never dialled. Not in a thousand years. Of that he was certain.
It was not a matter of instinct. It was plain, investigative logic.
Why? Because otherwise, what had happened would not have happened.
Simple.
What star sign was Wegener?
Captain Carbone sat at his desk and allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath. He did not want to sound overexcited. Herr Wegener might . . . What? he asked himself, smiling.
Nothing.
There was nothing he could do to him.
Not anymore. Not after what he was going to tell him.
Goodbye, Kobold.
Here’s your horoscope, he thought as he dialled Wegener’s number. You’re dead!
At the fourth ring, Wegener picked up. “Who is it?”
The man with the goatee raised the sledgehammer. “Carbone,” he said.
“Go on.”
Carbone paused before he struck home.
“I know who Klaus is.”