‘Indeed? Then how did you learn our beautiful language?’
‘From my mother.’
‘Ah! So she at least is Italian.’
‘Was. She passed away four years ago.’
‘My condolences.’
‘Her family was from Puglia. Her parents were American citizens, but when she was five they decided to move back to Italy. My mother was brought up bilingually, and when she was eighteen she went to college in the States. That’s where she met my father. He told me that he’d taken a course in Italian because he was in love and she liked to speak the language when they were alone together.’
A long silence followed this remark.
‘Then there appears to be a discrepancy between what your father told you and what he told me, which was that he had been born here in Calabria.’
The young American stared at him sullenly, and then his eyes lit up.
‘Then the man that you met can’t have been my father! This must all have been a mistake. Some impostor must have taken his place and got kidnapped, and now he’s — ’
‘I quite understand your natural grief and distress,’ Mantega replied, ‘but you must not delude yourself with puerile fantasies. Of course it was your father. He showed me his passport at the outset just as I showed him my documents. The business we were discussing was extremely sensitive and confidential and it was essential that there should be absolute trust on both sides. There is no possibility that I could have been mistaken about his identity.’
Tom Newman was by now openly truculent.
‘Yeah well, I’ve also seen my father’s passport, Signor Mantega. If you had examined it more carefully, you would have noticed that the stated place of birth is the District of Columbia, USA.’
Mantega made the soft Italian gesture that turns away wrath.
‘As it happens, I did notice that, and when he later told me he was Calabrian I naturally mentioned it.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That it was a long story. A very Calabrian reply. He clearly did not intend to discuss the matter. But he must have told you something about his origins. What did he say?’
‘That he was an American,’ Tom replied shortly.
Mantega smiled.
‘A Red Indian?’
‘Of course not! And we don’t call them that any more.’
‘Then where did he say that his family was from? All Americans are from somewhere else. Your country is only a couple of hundred years old.’
‘That’s quite a long time.’
Nicola Mantega’s smile turned into a smug smirk.
‘Long for you, short for us.’
‘He told me that his family had been in the States for generations, and had intermarried so much that no one could figure out where anyone was from. Besides, he didn’t care. “We’re Americans and that’s the end of it,” he used to say. And I don’t care about any of this either. All I want is to get my father back. Those bastards at the film company he was working for have disclaimed all responsibility on the grounds that he was an outside employee and his contract with them says nothing about liability for ransom demands. So the money’s all going to have to come from my family.’
‘Is it a large family?’
‘No. I’m an only child and my father isn’t particularly rich. I just hope the kidnappers realise that and are prepared to be reasonable.’
Nicola Mantega did not pursue this topic. By now they had crossed the col between the valleys of the Savuto and Craticello rivers, and were descending the long sweeping stretch of highway towards the lights of Cosenza nestled in the narrow plain below.
‘You must be exhausted,’ Mantega said. ‘I’ve booked you into the Centrale. It’s part of the Best Western chain — all-American comforts like air-conditioning and room service, and as the name suggests, right in the centre.’
‘Was that where my father stayed?’
‘No, he hired a car and needed to drive around, so for him I suggested a location out in a suburb called Rende, with easy access to the autostrada.’
The Alfa braked sharply as it entered the ramp off the autostrada. Fifteen minutes later, having seen Tom Newman checked into his hotel and made an agreement to get in touch the next day, Mantega climbed back into his car and started to drive home. On the parallel street to the east, two young men on a MotoGuzzi kept pace. The man on the pillion talked incessantly into his mobile phone.
In Viale Trieste, the Alfa pulled up to a public phone booth. It was after midnight, and there was no one about except for a few derelicts. Mantega looked around, then fed a phone card into the machine. A couple of moments later, a white delivery van entered the square at the far end and came speeding round the corner. Mantega started to dial, then broke off at the squeal of tortured rubber and final crash and turned to look. It was quite clear what must have happened. A motorbike had turned into the square from a side-street just as the van hurtled past, and had been knocked to the ground. Luckily the two young men riding on it appeared to be uninjured. They picked themselves up, ran over to the van and started abusing the driver with a verbal violence that seemed likely to turn physical at any second. A stream of obscenity and blasphemy filled the air. Mantega grinned contemptuously and turned his attention back to the phone.
‘Giorgio?’ he said when the number answered. ‘Nicola. He’s arrived.’
‘Too late. Tomorrow, the way we arranged.’
By now the altercation across the street had begun to wind down. The two bikers picked up their machine, revved up the engine and tested the brakes and lights. The van driver was intently scrutinising the front end of his vehicle, picking at the paintwork with his thumbnail. Meanwhile, in the back of the van the fourth member of the team lowered the directional microphone from the circle of plastic mesh forming the centre of one of the zeroes in the phone number emblazoned outside.
Nicola Mantega returned to his car and drove off just as a deafening blast from the MotoGuzzi’s twin exhaust consigned all van drivers to the lowest circle of hell. But the motorcycle had also been modified, and when it doubled back to follow the Alfa up to Mantega’s villa in the foothills above the city, its engine sounded no louder than a kitten’s purr.
Ever since he arrived in Cosenza, Aurelio Zen had been sleeping badly. This was not the fault of the weather, although a few weeks earlier the thermometer had been nudging forty, nor of his accommodation, an efficient, soulless apartment maintained by the police for the use of visiting officers in one of the concrete blocks that disfigured the area around the Questura. It consisted of a sitting room and kitchenette with a dining area, two bedrooms, one of which Zen used as a study, and the best-equipped bathroom he had ever seen. A maid came once a week to clean the floor and change the bedding, and he had arranged for her to wash and iron his clothing as well. Apart from that, he was left entirely alone. The apartment was quiet, air-conditioned and just a few minutes’ walk from his office.
Despite this, he had been sleeping badly, waking for no apparent reason and dreaming too much and far too vividly. Zen had never paid much attention to his dreams, but now they were thrusting themselves on his attention like a swarm of gypsy beggars, most of all in the intermediate state between sleep and waking when he was partly conscious but completely defenceless. As soon as he surfaced sufficiently to realise what was happening, he climbed out of bed, walked through to the state-of-the-art bathroom and took a cool shower before finishing off in a torrent of water as hot as he could bear. Standing naked in the well-equipped kitchen, he then filled the caffetiera and put it on the flame, lit his first cigarette of the day and phoned his wife in Lucca before she left home to open her pharmacy.
Zen had considered asking her to send him some sleeping pills, but he disliked admitting a weakness. Besides, he and Gemma had an unspoken agreement to keep their professional and personal lives separate as far as possible. In fact, he would have found it very difficult to say what they did talk about in these daily ten-to fifteen-minute conversations that seemed to flow along as effortlessly as a river and left him feeling calm, capable
