Luckily the exhaust pipe runs along the wall behind me, otherwise I’d have frozen to death already. The problem is the nighttime, when they stop throwing wood on the fire and those bastards keep warm under the covers while I’m down here, naked and chained to a fucking rocking chair that teeters the minute I move.
They’re holding Marino somewhere else. From time to time Paz drags her in and forces her to suck my dick, and when I come she squeezes my balls till I faint. She gets off on little, the Spaniard. She’s devoid of imagination. Were I in her shoes, I’d have dreamed up a freak show.
If I’m not dead yet that’s thanks to the Dottoressa’s stupid idea to infiltrate Balakian’s organization with me. And my ability to improvise quickly. When they caught us, the first thing I did was inform them that she wasn’t my woman but an official from the Italian Ministry of the Interior.
Paz was addled with joy. She thought she’d won the lottery now that she had the chance to take revenge on the cop who had ordered the murder of her husband.
She’d wanted to celebrate with a blowtorch that she’d had made in an abandoned body shop on the outskirts of Munich. But her euphoria didn’t last long: her men started bitching. They weren’t so willing to blow their chances of cutting a deal with the cops and escaping the years in prison destined for them. They understood that their organization was through, and they’d come to terms with that, but the possibility of riding off into the sunset was too attractive to piss away by killing a cop.
They’re still arguing. Paz must be in the minority at the moment, that much is clear, since the pretty Dottoressa hasn’t seen a dick besides mine. She even has her clothes on still.
All things considered, they haven’t gone too hard on me either. I doubt they’re thinking of bargaining for my freedom, since I mean nothing to them, but they don’t want to make any false moves right now.
We had only stayed in Munich one night. The next morning they loaded us onto another van and we drove for a long time, four or five hours at least. I’m positive we’re in Austria now, since at a certain point the asshole driving the van and talking exclusively in German said “Salzburg.” And the city of fucking Mozart is the first you pass over the border on the road that runs from Munich to Vienna.
From what I’d managed to spy under the blindfold that I had on for the entire trip, we must be in the hills or mountains, in a remote house surrounded by snow. The thought of making a run for it on foot was pointless. In order to pull it off, I’d have to kill them all, Paz and her three guard dogs. At first there’d been five of them, but two left. Probably to confer with the rest of the gang.
Every once and a while Paz whispers in Spanish the nasty things she has in store for me. For her satisfaction, I play along, but she doesn’t frighten me. She’d already done the best she could do in the cellar of my restaurant when she killed Martina and Gemma. But on several occasions I’ve been far craftier, far more creative. Gifted. And that makes the difference, that separates her from me.
I’ve accepted pain, and she won’t get anything else out of me. Had she delivered me the cocaine with Tobias that morning, I’d have taught her that when you strip someone’s life away, you have to take possession of everything they have inside. If she were in my goddamn chair, we’d already have covered her childhood and adolescence. Paz can’t even imagine the real pleasure of looking your victim in the eye when he realizes he’s facing the mystery of the afterlife after he’s been robbed of everything else.
And that’s not my fate. It may be small consolation, but in the situation I find myself in, I don’t see anything else that’s positive. So far. Dying still doesn’t suit me.
I have to piss. I have to shout loud and long, otherwise these guys will take their sweet time.
“Hello?! I can’t hold it any longer!”
Here they come. The usual duo. I call them the “monks” because they don’t say a word. They’re ex-soldiers. You can tell by the way they move: cautious, rigid, methodical. The older of the two, a fifty-year-old with close-cropped white hair, I once saw with Slezak. He has snake eyes; likes to kill.
To carry me to the toilet they use a really ingenious system: a snare pole. They slip the cable around my neck, keeping me at a safe distance with the steel rod, and I follow their lead like a good pup.
I take the opportunity to stretch my legs. On my way back I pass by Paz. She doesn’t even dignify me with a look. She’s too busy on her phone.
Another couple of days and I’ll have bedsores. I can already feel the blisters on my cheeks. The smell of food wafts through the room. Someone’s cooking. They’ll bring me leftovers. The other “monk” is supposed to spoon-feed me, but just as he’s about to, he gets up and walks out. He figures feeding me isn’t a necessity.
A car pulls up. Real big from the sound of the engine. The way he raises his voice, must be someone heavy. Paz stands her ground. Someone shouts in pain. They’re working over Marino. Something’s happening. Footsteps. Coming toward me.
Abo Tscherne: I know him well. Before meeting Tobias Slezak, I dealt with him. The first idiot that I tricked into thinking I might be a good buyer. And then there’s Paz, gripping the Dottoressa by the hair. Poor girl, they split her lip. Another guy comes in with a tripod and a video camera. Have they decided to film a porno? A collector’s edition snuff film? It’s a good joke, but I’ll keep it to myself. I doubt they’re in the mood to appreciate it.
The Spaniard picks up an old chair and forces the cop to sit next to me. Abo points to me and barks an order. The errand boy goes out to retrieve a blanket and covers my naked body. No, they’re not interested in shooting just any flick.
Chairs are brought in for Tscherne and Paz. The red light of the camera goes on.
“Say your name,” Abo orders the Dottoressa in the Italian he picked up in jail.
“Angela Marino.”
“What’s your rank?”
“Deputy Chief.”
“What’s his name?”
“Giorgio Pellegrini.”
“Is he a cop too?”
“No. He’s a wanted criminal.”
“And what are you two doing together in Munich?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“But you were the one who furnished him with the new identity of Attilio Sforza and ordered him to kill Tobias Slezak and two of our friends.”
“No, Pellegrini acted alone that time.”
The bitch intends to stab me in the back.
“That’s not true!” I scream.
Paz blows her top. She wants to tear out the liar’s tongue, but they hold her back.
I can’t understand what he’s saying, but it’s clear Abo’s reprimanding her: now’s not the time to lose your cool.
“Was she the one who gave the order to kill Tobias?” Tscherne asks.
“Yeah, I swear.”
“And why would an Italian cop want three dead Austrians on her hands?”
“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” whispers Marino.
But now doesn’t seem like the right moment to. I answer him. I tell him everything I know. The cop isn’t happy about it. She tries to interrupt me. But in a situation like ours, it doesn’t pay to be a hero. And if I convince Abo that deep down I’m not such a bad guy, maybe I’ll be spared Paz’s torture and go out with a bullet to the back of the head.
“I suppose that the Austrian and German police know about your activities,” says Abo, grinning broadly.
Marino doesn’t answer. Can’t answer. She changes tack.
“If you think you stand to gain something by bartering the life of an Italian official, I’d advise you to stop this interrogation,” she says, recovering that arrogant vein that always set her apart. “The more details that emerge, the narrower your chance of a deal becomes, until walking away with your life becomes a luxury none of you can afford.”
I look at her, amazed. Threats! Abo shifts in his chair. He’s not as stupid or clouded by a thirst for revenge as the Spaniard.
“I can give you the name of a go-between to contact,” adds the Dottoressa, “but you have to keep this business confidential. It’s in everyone’s best interest.”
“And who would that be?”
“Inspector Giulio Campagna at Padua Central Police.”
That’s rich. I was expecting her to come up with Doctor So-and-So from the ministry. But a local cop is a shock.
Abo and the Spaniard go out to argue in peace. The errand boy filming the interview stays behind to guard us, but he’s checking the quality of the video. He’s distracted. And as far as I remember doesn’t speak Italian.
“Campagna’s a bit player,” I say to Marino under my breath.
“I couldn’t involve the men who are looking for me right now. Besides, Campagna’s the right man: he’s in contact with Buratti and his partners, and they know how to reach this fucking crew.”
“There’s some murky stuff in that little head of yours. While you wait for the rescue team, you open an avenue for diplomacy.”
“Keep dreaming, Giorgio,” she adds. “No one wants you alive.”
I’d already figured as much, so I amuse myself by needling her.
“You’re not tickled by the idea of me telling people how good you are at giving head?”
“Bet your ass I’m not.”
The guard orders us to shut up. A little time passes before the bosses return to the room.
“It’s a deal. We’ll contact the cop and give him a copy of the video,” says Tscherne. “We can be confident everyone will be satisfied in the end, since the Italian police can’t allow it to wind up in the papers.”
Paz snatches Marino by the hair. “Do you understand? It’s not your life that’s important but the fear of a scandal. That’s the only reason you’ll save your skin, but you better watch your back for the rest of your life, because I’m never going to forgive you.”
The Dottoressa doesn’t accept terms that easily. She wants to know, she won’t relinquish control of the situation entirely. A cop to the core. “How did you find us?”
The Spaniard laughs. “Money. I paid some Russian hackers to circulate Pellegrini’s photo online with a notice: ‘Attention, Killer, Piece of Shit Colluding with the Italian Police.’ The news went viral and interested parties sold you out.”
So, Balakian made a small fortune. Six million of the ministry’s slush funds, plus whatever Paz coughed up.
The Spaniard leads Marino out of the room, and I see my opening to talk to Abo. “Put in a good word with her for me?”
“I’m the grandfather of two children,” he says. “Whenever I go see them, they cry because you made them orphans. And my daughter Sabine does nothing but ask me, ‘Have you found Guntmar’s killer yet?’”
Now I remember him. He was the youngest of the trio. I shot him as soon as I stepped out of the bathroom.
Abo puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Sabine is a strong woman. Just like her mother. There wasn’t a woman in the Hells Angels with balls like her. The only thing I’ll ask of Paz is your heart. Sabine will be happy to have it for a keepsake.”