No Mortal Thing

‘You came to tell me . . .’.

The German spoke up. He was good at taking blame and accepting shit. He talked about a bank worker and a pizzeria in Berlin’s smart Charlottenburg, the young man’s intervention, a girl’s face disfigured and . . .

‘Would you get to the point?’

Fred spoke good enough Italian. He told the prosecutor of an error made, a file left visible on a computer screen, a message calling him from the room. The bank worker’s disappearance, a vandalised car . . .

‘The car was the property of the grandson of Bernardo Cancello? And the vandalism was the act of a Briton, Jago Browne?’ The prosecutor spoke reasonable English. ‘What was the act of vandalism?’

Fred told him. A uniformed policeman from Bismarckstrasse had checked Marcantonio’s address. The vehicle had been parked outside and two parallel lines had been scraped on the bodywork: expensive to repair.

‘He’s there. Your man, Browne, has reached us. Last night, officers on surveillance duty witnessed an unidentified man scratch the sides of a City-Van outside the home of that padrino. The vehicle is an artisan’s transport, old and worthless. He is there for what purpose other than to scratch cars?’

Fred said he didn’t know what the Englishman, who had no military training, no police experience, no law-enforcement knowledge, intended. He was in the sales division of a bank specialising in attracting investors. It was unlikely he had either accomplices or a lethal weapon.

Carlo did not intervene. They had come to help in any way possible, to be present, demonstrate solidarity and liaise. He saw the cigarette ground out and another lit. He reckoned Fred had done well in the circumstances.

‘He is now in hiding. I think that soon they will find him. If they do, they will kill him. To me that is irrelevant. I am looking for Bernardo Cancello. I am coming towards the end of a lengthy investigation that depends on his capture. With a stranger close to him, he will have gone even further into those goddamn mountains where an army can disappear. Will I try to save him and thereby wreck the last hours of my mission? Or do I leave him to his fate? I don’t doubt its certainty. At the end of the week I lose my assets, my eyes on the ground, and start on another case. I shall have failed. Where I work there is danger in failure. Each time I fail, or we fail, they have won. They exploit all victories. Your man is helping me to fail. Have you anything else to say?’

Fred nodded in agreement with all that had been said – no medals in confrontation – and said that their bosses expected them to remain in Calabria until the bank worker could be located and brought home: repatriated, alive or dead. The prosecutor scribbled a name on a sheet of paper and a phone number in the carabinieri building on Via Aschenez. A file was opened and a meeting ended.

A final word: ‘And stay the fuck out of my way.’



They were outside.

‘You did well,’ Carlo told him.

Fred clasped the scrap of paper with the name and number. They’d get some paperwork done.

‘Just have to look on the bright side,’ Carlo said. ‘Achieve what’s possible . . . It’s what we do every day.’

Fred said, ‘Yes.’

‘Can’t do any more. Won’t be anything new.’

‘Because we’re just the little people. I said it’s “unlikely” that he had accomplices. But he can’t have got himself this far without help.’

‘In the time he had available, it would have been impossible.’

‘Don’t sell him short,’ Fred said. ‘I did – I won’t again.’

The sun shone as they emerged from the building.

‘Is this any business of ours?’

‘We should make it our business.’

Carlo paused on the pavement. ‘Tell me, he has no experience of the military, no training in covert warfare, has never fought hand to hand, except perhaps as a kid. Is he better off for knowing nothing? Or is he a lamb to the slaughter? I don’t know.’

Fred frowned. ‘Might be better off. He’s not dependent on support, back-up, no rule book in his pocket, no commander bleating in his ear. And he’s a true volunteer. I think he’s better off. But he is not quite alone because he has a helper. God, what do I know?’



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