It was hard for Jago to imagine how this street had been before the end of 1989. The Wall had run down the centre and beyond had been the free-fire area, a death zone. Elke was from the old east and had told him over a sandwich in Ernst Thalman Park that the guards, armed with assault rifles, were given cash bonuses if they shot a fugitive. The street was poorly lit now, but then the high lamps would have produced perpetual daylight.
At that time of morning, dawn, only a few people were about, those with pressing business. The first cigarettes were lit and newspaper headlines glanced at. Jago made for the U-bahn station. A street-cleaning cart followed him along the pavement. The girls and boys at the bank would still be in bed. Perhaps contemplating the gym. Jago Browne couldn’t imagine what the day would bring him. He pressed on, dropping a letter into a postbox as he passed it. The envelope contained a message to the FrauBoss: Dear Wilhelmina, Apologies for my no-show. I’ve been called away on personal business. I’ll be in touch soon. Regards, Jago. It would arrive on Monday morning. He doubted any of his colleagues had seen a cheek slashed with a pistol, that they had vandalised a top-range car, argued with a KrimPol investigator or challenged a youthful gang leader. He wanted more.
Much more? Was he ready to burn his boats?
The motivational speakers talked about thinking ‘outside the box’. Jago would have said he was ‘not quite there’ and that his options remained open. His target? It was a ‘work in progress’, but he was far enough down that road to know that he wanted to stand in front of Marcantonio, showing no fear, and faze the little bastard. If he had to burn his boats, he would, but not yet. He wanted to stand in front of him and see his confusion spread.
His journey had begun. At the station, he bought his train ticket.
Driving fast, in poor visibility, taking a bend on a mountain road, the farmer did not see the animal before he hit it. The vehicle jolted, and the creature flew upside-down past the windscreen to the edge of the road, where the pine trees pressed close. There were dogs of that size but he thought it more likely to have been a rarely seen wolf. A motorbike was speeding towards him, its headlights dazzling. He could hardly see and had to swerve. He thought the earlier impact would have dented his bumper, but the lights weren’t broken. He was fifteen minutes from the outskirts of a village close to Locri, and his bed. He assumed he had killed whatever animal he had hit.
The delays seemed endless, one after another. Stefano was driving Marcantonio home. Now they were in fog. Stefano spoke little: from long association with the padrino, he had learned to hold his tongue until he was asked for his opinion. There was no direct flight between Berlin and Lamezia but there were good connections via Budapest and Nice, then on through Milan. If there had been a direct flight, Marcantonio would not have booked it. He was coming home and took precautions. Any direct flight to the far south would be under close scrutiny. It was always necessary to be careful at home.
As they came through the mountains, the light lifted and the dawn mist was visible in the valleys.
Marcantonio had never needed to consider what any item cost before he purchased it. His grandfather was a millionaire many times over, but used this vehicle, the rusty old Fiat City-Van and Marcantonio followed the example he had been set. He had bought a ticket to Budapest on a budget airline, but the flight had been cancelled because the plane had engine trouble. A feeder flight from Budapest to Milan had already left, so he had been stuck in a transit hall for six hours, then bribed his way onto a tourist charter. From Milan, he had been on the red-eye flight down to Lamezia. Stefano had waited for him, with trademark patience, and had not complained. Instead he had kissed Marcantonio’s cheeks and settled him into the passenger seat. He had cleared out rubbish and a pair of vegetable crates, than rearranged an empty chicken-feed bag so that the rust holes were hidden beneath Marcantonio’s feet.