‘Strictly illegal, you know! Non-EU citizens are not permitted to work here without signing their lives away after months of pleading with half a dozen different heads of the bureaucratic hydra for the right to do so. After all, you’re taking bread out of the mouths of all our own poor Italian translators. I really ought to report you to the authorities!’
‘What about my father? He was working here, before…’
Mantega instantly became solemn again.
‘I managed to facilitate that on the basis that the work involved was of limited duration and scope and so straordinario that it could not be undertaken by anyone else. Your case is different. However, we’ll overlook that.’
‘I imagine that happens quite a bit here,’ observed Tom.
‘Of course, of course,’ Mantega returned complacently. ‘Otherwise we’d all be strangled by red tape and nothing would ever get done. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me. I won’t breathe a word.’
Tom gave a guarded nod.
‘So you want to reach an agreement with me concerning Signor Nguyen?’
‘It’s more to do with the people he is representing. You told me that under pretence of preparing to make a film here, they were in fact searching for the tomb of Alaric. As I told you yesterday, many others have tried in vain to locate that fabled hoard of treasure, and it may very well be that the latest arrivals will have no more luck. On the other hand, they no doubt have vastly superior technology at their disposal, so we can’t rule out such a possibility. My point is this: if they do find the tomb, I need to know.’
‘Why?’
Mantega raised his chin and looked at Tom with the air of someone doing his best to express an emotion he has read about but never experienced.
‘Because I am a patriot,’ he declared quietly. ‘Not an Italian patriot, although I consider myself to be both an Italian and a European, in that order. But first and foremost I am a Calabrian!’
He bent forward and grasped Tom’s arm so tightly it hurt.
‘And so are you, my friend, despite your American passport. In our hearts, we are both Calabrians.’
Tom was by now feeling uncomfortable in all sorts of ways.
‘What has all this to do with Rapture Works?’ he replied.
‘It’s very simple. La tomba d’Alarico is a Calabrian heritage site of inestimable archaeological value which must contain a collection of priceless artefacts beside which even the Riace bronzes would pale in comparison. Now then, supposing your employers do find it, what are their intentions?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Precisely. Of course, they may simply wish to have the glory of having made the discovery, and having done so will turn over future exploitation of the site to the appropriate authorities. In that case, I would have no quarrel with them. With a fat grant from Rome and the EU, we could build a superb extension to the Museo Civico in which to accommodate these treasures. People will fly in from all over the world to view them, bringing fame and prosperity to the city and the region. We might even consent to send some of them off to London, Paris and New York as one of those travelling museum shows you have to book tickets to get into. “The Treasures of the Tomb!” All well and good.’
His face darkened.
‘But let us suppose that their intentions are different. Whoever is behind this search has clearly spent a lot of money, and may well be motivated by the prospect of financial gain. The treasure obviously couldn’t be traded on the open market, but it wouldn’t be impossible to locate some Russian billionaire who would pay almost anything to be in possession of such items. Then again, it might end up being scrapped for the intrinsic value of the gold and the precious stones, as has tragically happened so often in the past, thereby destroying this unique and irreplaceable archive of our mutual heritage. The fact is that we simply don’t know what may happen in the event of this illegal search proving successful. I am therefore appealing to you, my friend, to inform me if that happens. Just phone me, at any hour of the day or night, and say, “The package has arrived.” We’ll then arrange a meeting at which you can give me the details. So tell me, Tommaso, are you prepared to perform your duty to the madrepatria?’
‘Well… yes. I mean, I suppose so.’
‘Wonderful! Now let’s go to lunch, and then you can tell me what you want in return. There’s a place just round the corner where I’m a regular.’
Tom had half-hoped that the brunette would still be outside the building, but there was no sign of her. They turned left into a side-street and entered a restaurant which kept such a low profile that Tom supposed that all the clientele must be regulars. This theory appeared to be supported by the number of people who greeted or were greeted by Nicola Mantega as he led the way to their table.
‘So what can I do for you?’ the older man said after rattling off some orders to the waiter in dialect.
‘Well, Signor Mantega — ’
‘Call me Nicola.’
‘The thing is this. I really like it here and I want to be able to stay, only not as a tourist. So I’d have to get one of those work permits. That would be one thing I’d need you for.’
Mantega appeared admirably unperturbed.
‘What kind of work do you have in mind?’
Tom smiled bashfully.
‘Well, this may sound like a crazy idea, but I think it just might work. I can’t remember if I told you this, but I’m a trained chef. I’ve worked in a number of famous restaurants in New York and I’ve picked up a pretty good idea of how the business operates. So my idea is to open a place here, only — and this is maybe where it sounds a bit crazy — it would be an American restaurant. The idea would be to serve steaks, ribs, burgers, salads — ’
He broke off, realising that Mantega wasn’t listening. For a moment Tom was offended, then he noticed the general silence. All the other customers in the crowded restaurant had stopped talking and were gazing at something behind them. Turning, he saw a police officer in uniform accompanied by two others wearing combat fatigues and carrying machine guns. The trio walked down the aisle and stopped at their table.
‘Nicola Mantega?’ the officer asked.
‘Yes.’
‘You are under arrest. Come with us.’
For some reason, Tom expected Mantega to make a fuss, but he evidently understood and accepted the rules of the game.
‘I’m so sorry about this nonsense,’ he told Tom as he got up. ‘Don’t worry about the bill. It will all be taken care of.’
Three o’clock, the police chief had said. There was no clock on the wall, Maria didn’t own a watch and she certainly wasn’t going to stoop to asking the unmannerly lout manning the desk, who had been spying on her with a hard look and a contemptuous smirk throughout the many hours she had spent there. She rolled up the paper wrappings in which she had brought her frugal lunch and stuffed them back into her bag.
At least it didn’t appear that she had been followed. This had been the aspect of returning a second day that had preoccupied her most. The family had of course made their usual futile fuss, but Maria had told them that the doctor she needed to see in order to get the new arthritis medicine had not been available the day before, so she was going to return and try again. This time her son had insisted on driving her, and in the end she’d given in. She wouldn’t let him park outside the clinic and wait for her, though, claiming that it might well take hours. After she had assured herself that he had driven away, she had followed much the same routine as on the previous day, but using a different set of buses around the city centre before finally completing her journey to the Questura on foot, with many detours and false starts. One thing about living in a mountain village was that it kept you agile. Despite her seventy-eight years, Maria could still put on a better turn of speed than most of these languid city dwellers, and she hadn’t noticed anyone hurrying to keep up with her.
In short, it seemed that her elaborate precautions had all been for nothing. Most likely her journey would prove to be too, even supposing that the police chief kept his word. Probably nothing that she had to tell him would seem relevant to what was happening now. It was, after all, ancient history, like the war itself. Bad things had happened but most people had survived, as they always did, and since then the world had moved on. ‘You’re living in the past, nonna!’ was one of her daughter-in-law’s favourite taunts. Maria knew that was true, but she couldn’t help it. Where else was she to live? There was no other environment that would support virtually extinct life forms such as her own. But in the course of the time she had spent waiting yesterday and again today, she had finally worked out what she would tell this Aurelio Zen. It was a mixture of truth and falsehoods, but the falsehoods were of no concern except to the dead.
A clacking of heels presaged the appearance of a uniformed officer, who checked Maria’s identity card and then told her that the chief of police was ready to receive her. They went up two flights in a lift and then down a long corridor into a smart modern office, the sort you saw on television, with incredibly brilliant bulbs embedded in the ceiling like so many tiny suns in heaven and furnishings that clearly hadn’t been made either by or for human beings. The air was stuffy and blue with smoke, but Maria didn’t mind. Her late husband had been a heavy smoker, which was why he was now late, and she still enjoyed the smell.
The chief of police rose politely as she entered, invited her to be seated and told her escort to leave. He was a handsome man with the appearance of a certain kind of priest: tall, lean, of indeterminate age, his aquiline features superficially severe but suggesting a basic bent towards such kindness and indulgence as he might be able to reconcile with the strict rules of his calling. Had she been fifty years younger, Maria would have fallen for him in a moment. As it was, she wanted to mother him, so utterly exhausted and depressed did he look, as though holding himself together only by a stubborn act of will, a quality she herself possessed and admired in others. For a moment she almost felt ashamed to be adding to his problems by demanding this audience. Then she reminded herself of their relative positions on the scale of power and hardened her heart.
‘This has been a very busy day, signora,’ Zen said crisply. ‘I fear I can only spare you a few minutes. Unless, of course, what you have to tell me is of quite extraordinary value and relevance.’
Maria felt herself rising to the challenge thus presented.
‘It is both.’
Zen unclasped his hands in a brief prayer-like gesture, implying that he would be the judge of that.
‘Please proceed.’
‘What I have to say concerns the man found dead up in the old town. On the television the other day, you said that he was a member of the Calopezzati family. That is untrue.’