‘Agazio Curmaci is almost certainly a santista, or maybe even higher,’ said Arconti. ‘All the signs are there.’
‘I thought a santista was a rank above the boss of a locale,’ said Blume. ‘It seems weird he could be both above and below the boss at the same time.’
‘It’s not really a rank. It’s more a function. A santista is dedicated to interfacing with the authorities and the world of business. He will be a member of Rotary clubs, Masonic lodges, business associations, political parties, planning committees and so on. He’ll exchange political favours and will appear as legitimate as possible. But, and this is where the Ndrangheta excels, a santista is even allowed to help the police if he sees it as being in the long- term interest of the Society. He can sacrifice his companions. If he is a santista, then he’s sort of outside the Society and inside it too. He’s allowed to make decisions that go far beyond his official title. Not only could Curmaci overrule Tony, he could even overrule Old Megale if he felt it was in the best interests of the Society.’
‘But his comrades don’t know he’s a santista?’
‘Not necessarily.’
‘And you do?’
Arconti looked flustered. ‘No, I don’t. But I have a feeling.’
‘A feeling that Curmaci can do what he pleases?’
‘Not what he pleases. There are rules, and they are intricate. The Ndrangheta has a system that allows for controlled betrayal of parts for the sake of the general preservation of the whole. Cosa Nostra never managed it. In some ways it’s hard not to admire these people.’
‘Are you saying that because you’re Calabrian, too, Magistrate?’
‘I am proud as well as ashamed of what my people can do,’ said Arconti. ‘Look at Megale, the “Prefect of Westphalia”, to give the murderous old goatherd his full honorific title. He controls a vast fortune that he made by buying up thousands of offices and homes in East Germany after the collapse of Communism, most of which he did from behind bars. Or take his son, Tony; or better, Agazio Curmaci. They too have untold wealth, but live like they’ve taken a vow of poverty. Their families live in tumbledown houses in Locri. It’s not just money that drives them, Blume. Remember that.’
The magistrate paused and raised his left arm in the air as if trying to gauge the weight of something. ‘Old Megale was released from prison in Germany last week. Don’t you think it’s odd that those two clowns with the pills, the Cuzzocrea brothers, should turn up, a few days before the release?’
‘No,’ said Blume. ‘I don’t see it as odd. I don’t see the connection.’
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said the magistrate. ‘I’m just thinking out loud. Old Megale is in his eighties, and maybe he’s wondering who should succeed him. Then again, maybe not. Is his adopted son the appointed heir and successor? Somewhere off to the side, above or below Tony and not so easy to place in the hierarchy, is Agazio Curmaci.’
‘They sound like the sort of people who want to kill each other,’ said Blume.
‘Tony Megale and Agazio Curmaci have known each other since for ever, long before Curmaci went to Germany. Perhaps they are close friends. We cannot tell from the outside. And if anyone has reason to be bitter about being overlooked by Old Megale, it is Pietro, who is not only the first-born son, but, probably, Old Megale’s only real child. It seems Megale decided a long time ago that Pietro was not up to the job.’
‘Where’s this Pietro?’
Arconti, as if he had been waiting for this question, pulled out a black-and-white photo that looked like it had been taken in the late nineteenth century. ‘That’s him.’
Blume looked at the photo, and handed it back. ‘Is he normal? He doesn’t seem to have full control over his facial muscles.’
‘He’s borderline retarded. He’s still in Calabria. He and his wife look after Tony Megale’s son, a kid named Enrico. They have no children of their own.’
‘If they look after Tony’s kid, then there can’t be too much envy between Tony and Pietro, no? Agazio Curmaci, on the other hand, sounds like a usurper.’
‘It’s hard to tell. Pietro and his wife live practically next door to Curmaci’s wife and children. Tony’s son and Curmaci’s son are the same age, go to the same school. Yet in Germany the fathers operate in two different spheres. Tony Megale’s line of business is criminal, Curmaci moves in very legitimate circles. He’s not going to be pleased at having his name linked, however indirectly, to those two we captured.’
‘We caught them fair and square, without any tip-offs,’ said Blume. ‘I don’t see how Tony Megale could have planned that to undermine Curmaci.’
‘I agree,’ said the magistrate. ‘Also, it’s the sort of ploy Curmaci might use against Tony, not vice versa. Curmaci is subtler. It’s just that I can’t be sure we really were the architects of that operation. If the doctor had not committed “suicide” and if the death had not been very suspicious, the operation would not have begun. We would not have found the connection leading to the Cuzzocrea brothers, who led us to Curmaci’s wife, who led us to Curmaci. All this time I have had a sensation of being led by the nose.’
‘By Curmaci towards Curmaci,’ said Blume. ‘It doesn’t really add up.’
Arconti pushed himself away from his chaotic desk. ‘You’re right. I’ve passed everything into the expert hands of the anti-Mafia magistrates and the DIA. They’re better equipped than us to deal with these things. Unless, of course, you think you would be suited to that line of work.’
‘My speciality is unorganized crime,’ said Blume. ‘It’s a bit late now to question my career choice.’
‘It’s never too late for that,’ said Arconti. ‘And you’re still young.’
‘Only compared to you,’ said Blume.
‘See, that’s simply not polite. True, but not polite. I have heard people complain about your bluntness, Commissioner. But if you’re interested, I know someone.’
‘Interested in what?’ asked Blume.
‘A change of scenery. A new departure in your career,’ said Arconti.
‘Have you been talking about me to someone?’
‘Yes, and that someone has been looking at you and your strange past. He tells me you had American parents. I was wondering about your name.’
‘Did he tell you anything else?’
‘Not really. Interested?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Blume. He had once entertained ideas of joining the DIA, but like a lot of other things in life, it had not worked out. Until a few years ago, Blume would have regarded a DIA takeover of a case as probably a good thing; now he was not so sure. Clean, focused and effective in the early 1990s, the DIA and its judicial arm, the DDA, were like erstwhile youthful idealists who had become more tired and compromised as they grew older together, both of them being absorbed into the corrupted political system they had once dared to challenge.
‘All right, then. I am pleased to hear you are happy in your current position.’
‘That is not what I said.’
‘As for me,’ Arconti continued, ignoring Blume, ‘I have stayed away from the anti-Mafia magistrates, but I don’t think they would have me anyway. One needs to come across as a bit more… a bit more…’ He gazed wistfully out the window in search of the word he was looking for.
‘Dynamic?’ offered Blume.
‘Yes… or…’
‘Decisive?’
‘Most of all, you need to be a bit uncaring, which is why I thought of you.’
‘You’re just sore because I called you old. I am actually a very caring person,’ said Blume.
‘People say you are reticent and secretive. Not very clubbable.’
‘I simply believe that you should never tell a friend anything you would conceal from an enemy,’ said Blume.
‘That attitude is what makes you ideal for Mafia work. I’ve seen this happen time and again in investigations, and it has happened to me. You seek a confession from a crime boss, and next thing you know he’s implicated half your colleagues, three dear friends and all your superiors. It takes a special type of person to deal with that. Someone who can survive alone. Once you have a confession, if you get one, you can’t be sure who’s telling the truth any more. Maybe you’re being played by your informer or maybe you have been fooled for years by colleagues
