There was a shout from far below. A hoarse old voice. The boy called the dogs to him and started to retrace his steps, the dogs bustling around his legs. Jago reckoned that if the kid had kept going, and continued around the hillside he would have crossed, with his dogs, the line of his own descent.
He breathed hard and forgot the cave. He had a good view of the house. Jago felt calm, as if his earlier confusions were settled, as if he had signed a last will and testament. Why was he there? He knew the answer to that. What would he do? Take time to learn. He would not stampede down the hill. They would know he had been there, he promised them that. Specific action? He needed time to decide and would not be hustled: that preconceived ideas were usually rubbish was a lesson he had learned at the Bank. Learn and assimilate, they preached. Then act.
The dogs milled around the back door, and the old man who had called was gunning his van. Marcantonio’s football game was over and he had slipped into the passenger seat. The boy with the dogs, recognisable by his shirt, had a crash helmet on his head now, the visor over his face. He drove away on a scooter, the van following.
Jago lay on his stomach. The shadows were longer, and the day died.
The investigator called from his apartment in the Moabit district and spoke to a friend who was also at home, an apartment overlooking the Ionian Sea, at the Catanzaro marina. From his time with the ROS, the GICO and the Squadra Mobile, Fred Seitz had learned that bureaucratic labyrinths were best avoided by personal and discreet contacts. He did not explain why he needed help, and would return the favour in the future. He was told the implications of a failed inquiry.
‘This is the situation, Fred. For this prosecutor much rests on it, not least his prestige. The operation is called Scorpion Fly and the target is Bernardo Cancello, from the hills above Locri. He’s not in the first flight but is still considered a high-value target. His two sons are in gaol – they’ll be old men when they’re freed. He has a grandson, Marcantonio, who will succeed him. The aim of the investigation was to arrest the target – Bravo Charlie to us – and cut down the family. I don’t know how much evidence can be laid against him, but the immediate problem is that the old man has gone to ground so cannot be arrested. Normally, Fred, as you know, we rely on phone intercepts for nailing locations. This family doesn’t use electronic communication so we have to deploy human surveillance. I can get the air force up, with heat-seeking gadgets, more easily than a skilled surveillance team. The prosecutor’s running out of time – he has only a few days left. Anything that interferes with his remaining time would be a serious blow to him. The competition among the prosecutors and magistrates for surveillance teams is intense. No result, the team is withdrawn. I think this investigation is floundering. That’s a black mark against the prosecutor. These people fight like feral cats. Sometimes I watch those wildlife films from the Serengeti. There’s an old wildebeest, legs going, unable to graze because its teeth are rotten, can’t keep up with the herd. High in the sky, there’s a speck. The old wildebeest knows it’s there, and that there’ll be another, and another. Vultures sense weakness. They’ll drop, circle and land. Whether the animal is dead or still alive, they’ll start to feast. Understand what I’m saying, Fred?’
He went back to his packing.
‘What does he think it’ll be like, going after those people? Does he think it’s some sort of squirrel shoot – out with an air rifle? Is he dumb, ignorant or both?’
Bagsy said, ‘Not too sure, Carlo. But the people down in Reggio are going to blow a gasket when they hear a freelancer, our national, is plodding about close to a prime investigation target.’
‘Why me?’
‘Good question, Carlo.’
The building had the echoing quiet of any government institution at a weekend. A file had been flipped in Carlo’s direction: Jago Browne, copies of a confirmed air ticket, a decent-quality picture of him going onto a pier at Rome. All that was in the file would be backed up on the phone, and there was a contact address. Carlo could play gruff but in fact he appreciated being dragged out of his home, and had driven fast to get there. Bagsy would have skipped a pub session to field him. They went back a long way.
‘I tried your successor out there. Can’t do much arm-twisting at a range of fifteen hundred miles. He refused – pretty much made an issue of it. He wasn’t going to traipse down to Calabria and tell them that a loose-cannon Brit was about to screw them up big-time – and I don’t blame him. He has to work there. It’s liaison, as you know, and that’s a two-way trade. He’s better off out of the bad-news zone. You speak the language.’
‘What’s our line?’
‘Grovel?’