It was a day of celebration, Mamma’s sixty-third birthday. Their grandson was at home with them. A ship was approaching the docks at Gioia Tauro, and a foreigner was coming in the hope of doing business – Giulietta had slid him a slip of paper with nine figures in a row on it, then had burned it and kissed him. He studied his cards.
Anxiety and worry were to be avoided at his age. He did not tolerate either. Neither would he accept a possible threat to his security. The priest might wish to purge old guilt. Bernardo’s security depended on constant vigilance and confronting danger.
Bernardo smiled – a decision taken – and topped up Father Demetrio’s glass. He played a card. All danger should be confronted.
Consolata was on the beach.
A fisherman was repairing a small net to her right, and a couple lay a hundred yards from her, towards the castle high on the rock, and music came from the café behind. Later she would return her parents’ car and borrow it again the night after next to go back to the place she had named. Tomorrow she would have a radio on, tuned to the local Radio Gamma NonStop. She would hear if he had done anything and thought he would. Consolata had a psychologist’s mind: she could predict men’s actions. She was on her back, soaking up the last of the sun, stretched across the still-damp pink towel.
She thought she had helped him towards a goal. She had provided support and steeled him. She didn’t understand him – couldn’t comprehend why he had travelled so far and on such vague terms, but that didn’t matter: he was there, in place.
She didn’t know what he would do, or the likely consequences of any action he took. A broken window, a vandalised car, paint daubed on a wall in the village – even a fire started. Any of those she could have justified. Her part in them would have been worthwhile – more so than handing out leaflets. If he did something more dramatic she would know of it from the radio – and would know also if the family caught him.
If he was caught he might be hurt. Consolata did not regard that as her responsibility. She had only aided him on his way. If he suffered, it wouldn’t be down to her, whatever the radio said . . . but he was attractive.
Her skin was warm. She had watched him scrub himself clean, washing away his inhibitions. A smile wreathed her face.
The prosecutor’s protection team would have caught his mood.
The shift had changed.
He had seen the little huddles form as they exchanged gossip.
His wife had gone to her mother, the children with her.
He sat in the garden as the light faded. He was low in the easy chair but could see the top of the nearest hills, the depth of the range behind them, and each flaw in the brickwork of the wall that surrounded him. He had dreamed a little. How things would have been if . . . Other prosecutors would be hovering in the courtyard, clutching files, hemmed in by their guards and jostled by photographers. His prisoner would be led past the flash bulbs. A tray of coffee would be brought from the café nearest the barracks, and he would see Bernardo. They would greet each other, a moment of respect. They were such vain men, the high-value targets, and expected to be treated with dignity, the handcuffs hidden from the lenses. It was usual for these ‘great men’ to congratulate the prosecutor responsible for their arrest, as if only a man of immense talent could have achieved it. He had been asked once by a foreign journalist whether he would sidle close to his prisoner while the shock of arrest was still at its height and suggest he might ‘turn’, become a pentito. He had been amazed. Such an idea would offend the prisoner: he would be insulted. The prisoner must initiate such a move. The journalist hadn’t understood. Would the prosecutor see the day when Bernardo was brought by carabinieri helicopter to Reggio?
There were two men on the hillside above the house. The forecast was poor, but he depended on them.
They didn’t talk about kit or food. It was all about what Ciccio had seen and Fabio’s insistence that he describe the man again and again. There was nothing about scorpion flies. They discussed the pistol that Ciccio had drawn and the pepper spray that Fabio had pulled out of his rucksack. Nothing moved on the slope between them and the house. A boy had been out with dogs well below them. They knew his route and had based their hide well clear of him – they were up an escarpment from the track he took and thought themselves far enough away for the dogs not to pick up their scent.
A decision had to be taken: what should they report? They were professionals, well versed in the ways of their world. Communicate to back-up and have those guys at an additional state of alert. They were now on Black. ‘An unknown in camouflage going past, close, then disappearing’ would trigger Amber. Back-up would report to ROS HQ. The weekend-duty officer, bored out of his mind, would log it, then refer it higher. A honcho would be called from his barbecue to receive a garbled message and they would be ordered back. That was the way it went when small stuff was passed up the command chain. If they were recalled, they would never return.