She would take him there, but first she would learn more about him. It would be necessary to lose inhibitions. She was confident she knew what was correct, what was needed from him. He had not asked what action she had taken, as a campaigner and voice of protest, to rouse the fury of the gangs. She could only have told him that they did not know her name. The car was at the back of the block.
She would drive. They went north, close to the sea, and soon were on the great highway, which the birdwatcher had described as the milch-cow of the Mafia. Excitement gripped her. She tossed aside inhibition. She would play a part in the creation of chaos. He needed her help. When it was done, whatever it was, it would have her handprint on it. She felt a flush of pride. Of course he was a fool – what else could he be?
She asked him about his past.
Jago did not think she was truly interested, but if they talked about his youth, his studying and his breakthrough job, he would not be able to interrogate her. When he tried, she deflected him.
He spoke of Canning Town, his mother, cul-de-sacs with violent histories – flowers laid on anniversaries – and his school.
‘Are we going to the village tonight?’
He spoke of a school that commemorated martyrs, men of faith, the inspiration of a teacher and the influence of a captain of finance.
‘Whether it matters or not, Consolata – that’s a beautiful name – I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll get there, and hope for an opportunity. What will it be like? I’ll find out when I’m there, then work out what’s possible. Something to hurt and make them angry . . .’
He talked of university, a useful course, ambition growing, not knowing why the captain of finance had selected him, whether he had salved a fat cat’s conscience or encountered a Samaritan.
‘Marcantonio was strutting about, arrogant. If I can knock him off balance, he’ll be humiliated. Can’t ask for more than that. Can I get close to him?’
He talked about his first job, and supposed that work in this part of Italy was baking pizza, sweeping streets, pushing paper in a town hall or serving in a shop. He talked about the City, what he did there and how opportunities came on a conveyor-belt, then about the Berlin transfer because he had been marked out for fast-tracking.
He coughed. ‘I know what I want to do – and I’m frightened. Sort of beyond my experience.’
Her hand came off the wheel, and found his. She never looked at him – kept her eyes on the road. When vehicles drove towards them, he saw in the headlights that her face was calm. The hand was there to comfort him, did its job, then went back to the wheel. There was a great lit area to their left and across the bay, endless high lights, and he saw the dark shapes of heavy ships.
‘What’s that?’
‘The port of Gioia Tauro.’
‘It’s huge.’
‘The biggest in the Mediterranean. The life blood of southern Italy.’
‘What industry does it support? Is it export primarily?’
Again her laughter, brittle. ‘It’s for import. It keeps this part of Italy alive. It’s the chokepoint for the European cocaine trade. Jago, some 80 per cent of all cocaine in Europe comes through this port. We are talking not in kilos but in tons, not millions of euros but billions. To keep the trade flourishing the ’Ndrangheta must employ many thousands of men. Where you are going there is a small family, not unimportant but of minor influence. Marcantonio is old enough to cut a girl’s face but not old enough to be a prominent player. We talk about “winning”. A boy, not old enough to shave each day, is angry because a car is damaged. Creating rage – is that “winning”? I repeat what I said to you. They do not know who I am, so I do not criticise you, I help you.’
She turned off the highway. The window was down and he smelt the sea and heard the wind. The little car chugged towards a small town, and the moon made silver lines on the rippling water.
Consolata said, ‘I think, Jago, you smell. Do not be frightened. And I also smell. Each time they make you frightened, it is their victory. We cannot smell and go to war.’
Fred stood outside the camper, and smoked his pipe. He could hear his wife’s rhythmic breathing. The smoke broke the scent of the sea. He was among the dunes and could feel the wind and see the small navigation lights of a freighter in the Baltic’s lanes.