The City-Van struggled on the steeper sections of the road. Stefano had to drive in a low gear when the little engine strained. When they had slowed right down and fumes billowed from the exhaust, he would smile sweetly at his passenger. They didn’t talk. Because Stefano had no English and his passenger no Italian, he could hold a conversation only in sign language. He pointed to his watch to indicate when they would reach their destination. He offered cigarettes out of politeness, which were declined, and a fresh bottle of water, which was accepted.
It had been easier than Stefano had anticipated. That the Englishman would make this journey into the unknown, without the company of his associate, had surprised him. He thought the lawyer from along the coast, Humphrey, had understood and possessed the wisdom to give no sign of it. The associate had shown nerves, was Italian by birth, and might also have grasped what lay in the Englishman’s future. It was not for Stefano to make judgements on what was planned and would happen.
But – but – he had seen the Englishman talking with two men, an hour before a scheduled meeting, who were obviously foreign law enforcement. They had made no attempt to disguise themselves. He had sat beside Giulietta and felt her . . . He wondered where they were now, where they were waiting. They’d have a long wait. The Englishman’s phone, of course, was off and it had been Humphrey’s job to guarantee that basic security procedure. He pointed again to his watch – twenty minutes more on the road. He needed now to have his headlights on and the sole excitement of the journey – other than the bends and cliff faces – was a small deer rushing into the road and freezing in the headlights, then sprinting into the trees. When he pointed to the hands of his watch, he fastened his smile on the Englishman.
He saw the belt buckle, quite heavy, ornate. He saw the teeth and wondered how many were artificial. He saw the length of the fingernails.
The belt would come off – it was usually necessary – and then the Englishman’s trousers would drop but that would not be important. Teeth were always a problem – few of Stefano’s were his own but he was well looked after financially and the artificial ones were comfortable. Natural teeth were a problem because they didn’t degrade. Neither did fingernails. Otherwise, little remained to be shovelled up and buried. He laughed. The Englishman looked sharply at him. There had been a man near to Cosenza, a businessman who had defrauded a significant padrino. The businessman, elderly and arthritic, had had hip-replacement surgery to regain his mobility and the metal – of course – had survived. It had been dangerous to retrieve it afterwards: not willingly given up by the pigs. Men always laughed when it was mentioned over shots of coffee.
Word would seep out. A very few would know. Neither Stefano’s nor the Englishman’s name would feature. But among the ‘very few’ Bernardo’s prestige would be enhanced – as if that were important.
He laughed again. They were high in the mountains, on a plateau, with pine trees close to the road. He steered between deep ruts and potholes, and saw no other vehicle. Stefano thought the man ignorant – but that would make it easier when the time came.
Giulietta’s devotion to the word of God might have matched that of Father Demetrio but did not compare with her mother’s.
She had never been to a service conducted at the Duomo in Reggio. The cathedral was the largest house of God in the region. She found it neither enticing nor attractive – it had gone up hurriedly after the great earthquake. Because her target had led her there, Giulietta – on side lights and unnoticed – double-parked fifty metres from the priest’s car. He had looked around him, seemingly anxious, maybe imagining himself already a fugitive. He had put money into the hand of a thin elderly parking attendant, a meagre gratuity, no doubt. The man who had baptised her had once been overheard to describe her as ‘a sad creature, trapped by that facial aberration’. When Giulietta needed to leave the HiLux, with the distinctive dented front bumper, she would drop a twenty-euro note into his hand and hold a handkerchief across her face to hide her nose.
Her telephone, switched off, lay in her handbag. The Beretta pistol was under her thigh, hurting her flesh. She might leave him alive overnight if the opportunity to take him down didn’t present itself, or until after he had conducted the funeral mass for her nephew. On the other hand, she might end his life in the next few minutes. She smoked. It was risky to light a cigarillo – she must not discard it in a gutter, thereby giving a chance to the forensics technicians, who would search for DNA traces – but she needed to smoke. It relaxed her.