The Night of Rome Page 22

  With Stecca, too, Sebastiano skipped the conventional chitchat. He’d decided to spend something extra to strand the city in a world of shit. A hundred thousand. If for no other reason than that the mouths to be fed in that authority full of piranhas were too many to count. With a greasy smile, the guy grabbed the little cinder block of cash wrapped in packing paper and rubber bands. And he made sure that he’d heard him clearly.

  “A week of wildcat strikes, right?”

  “That’s right. From tomorrow until April 9th. Easter Sunday and Easter Monday included.”

  “That’s going to be a mess.”

  “Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  “How’m I supposed to do it?”

  “However you see fit. Picket lines outside the parking areas. Sabotage the vehicles. Maybe even occupy something up on the Capitoline Hill. I want to see Rome collapse.”

  “That’s not a problem. There’s always some bullshit to protest about. Maybe we can invent that this thing with the German about putting badges and even more crew on the buses to check tickets, call it anti-union.”

  “You take care of it. You’re the labor organizer.”

  “By the way, I wanted to tell you something about the new hires. Seeing that the Communists are in charge now, I was thinking of going thirty-seventy. After all, it doesn’t much matter, since Settechiappe picks them all. Malgradi’s friend, you know him, right?”

  “Leave Malgradi out of this.”

  “Why? Okay, he’s not deputy mayor anymore, but the party in Rome . . . ”

  Sebastiano lost his patience.

  “Do your job and forget about politics, that’s not your subject.”

  Stecca gesticulated apologetically and tried suggesting an aperitif in a wine bar at the Pigneto. Sebastiano dismissed him.

  “Start tonight.”

  PUB AR MURETTO. PRATI QUARTER. APRIL 2ND. EVENING.

  Sebastiano arrived in Prati late in the evening. He found him inside the pub. The same place they’d first met. Because, seeing how things had gone, superstition recommended not playing around with the kabbalah of locations. He was hungry, and he ordered a steak, rare, and a side of grilled vegetables.

  “You going to have something to eat, Luca?”

  “Later. Right now let’s talk about work.”

  Sebastiano set out the plan. First of all, they were going to need to mobilize a hundred or so ultra kids from the soccer stadium curves, as well as the hitters under the Anacletis.

  “But weren’t the gypsies out of the running?”

  “And now they’re coming back, one by one.”

  Wagner nodded, satisfied with the explanation. Sebastiano continued.

  “We’ll start with the welcome centers for immigrants and for the homeless. Between tomorrow and the next day, they won’t be able to make so much as a cappuccino. Tonight, burn everything that can catch fire. Then move on to the gypsy camps. The Anacletis will have to take care of that. And when, in two or three days, the mountains of garbage in the streets reach a height of a yard, a yard and a half, well we’ll set fire to them too. Billowing clouds of dioxin. We’re going to need to sow panic in the historic center.”

  Sebastiano gestured for the waiter to clear the table. He slowly drank a glass of mineral water, wiped his lips, and went on.

  “Then we move on to the construction sites.”

  “I’ve got an idea, Sebastia’. We can start at Vigna Clara, there’s an abandoned station there that they say they want to get running again for the jubilee . . . we’ll go out and we’ll flatten it. What do you say?”

  “It strikes me as an excellent idea. I thought of something else, too, Wagner.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  “A trigger for the revolt. Somebody’s going to wonder why Rome is starting to crawl with gangs of nut jobs, right?”

  “Sure, bound to.”

  “Well, I think I’ve figured out the right rabbit that all the other hounds can chase. Newspapers, politicians, the more the merrier.”

  “Which would be?”

  “There’s a girl I know. Wide-awake and ravenous about money. I told her that if she makes up a story tonight about how two negroes roughed her up at Tor Sapienza, then we can start our campaign of filth from there. And then, like I told you, in a single night we can take out all the welcome centers. A vendetta. It’s going to have to look like a vendetta waged by Rome and her people. The spontaneous revolt of a city that just can’t take any more.”

  Wagner was impressed. That Sebastiano was a worthy successor to Samurai. And he, Wagner: would he ever be up to his level?

  “Don’t disappoint me, Wagner.”

  Wagner raised both hands to his chest as if he were swearing an oath.

  “Trust me, Sebastia’. This time, no bullshit. What about that other thing, the thing about the bastard?”

  “Leave two men circulating through the clubs and keeping an eye on his house; after all, if he comes back, Bogdan will take care of informing me. Put all the other men out on the streets. We start in two hours. I’ll take care of the girl. You’ll find her in tears and with her pants pulled down on a park bench in Tor Sapienza.”

  Sebastiano slowly massaged his face and took a look at his watch. It was eleven.

  “I’m suddenly feeling a yen for sweets. I think I’ll have a tiramisú.”

  “And I’m going to get a calzone,” said Wagner.

  CAPITOLINE HILL. THE MAYOR’S OFFICE. TUESDAY APRIL 8TH. MORNING.

  Rome was burning. Martin Giardino was burning.

  The burning sensation was driving him crazy. His eyes, at this point, were a frightful painter’s palette of broken capillaries. And there were no eyedrops capable of alleviating his torment. The mayor slowly ran a tissue over his eyelids, wiping away an oozing mess of tears and mucus. In the last four days, he hadn’t got more than three hours’ sleep a night; more than that, though, the city’s air was dense with a pestilential, stinging soot. Soot from the bonfires of garbage that, over the past twenty-four hours, had begun to catch in the city center as well. Easter celebrations had seemed like the Feast of the Apocalypse.

  More than once, in his moments of greatest malaise, he’d decided that perhaps Malgradi was right. No one could redeem Rome and it might have been better to just take a step back. Which, in any case, might become inevitable at this point. No mayor on earth would have been able to put up with the burden of that catastrophe for more than a few days. To save the city, they were going to have to send for a special commissioner.

  Standing there, looking out from his balcony above the Forum, Giardino was yanked out of his hypnotic thoughts by Polimeni’s voice. He’d even forgotten that he’d ever tried to get in touch with him and, for that matter, that office of his—by now an open port flooded with a frantic stream of council members, city commissioners, officers from the army, the police force, the Carabinieri corps, and emergency management executives—was starting to look like a raft crawling with shipwrecked sailors.

  “Ciao, Martin.”

  The mayor said nothing. He just started silently crying. Polimeni put his arms around him.

  “You need to try to get some sleep.”

  “I just can’t. It’s a nightmare. An absolute nightmare. You know yourself that we can’t go on for much longer like this. Another day, maybe two? At least tell me why. I just want to know why.”

  Polimeni shook his head.

  “There’s something that doesn’t add up in all this for me either. There are inexplicable coincidences. Rome isn’t London and it’s not Los Angeles either. A revolt this size needs a sophisticated mastermind, and especially one with a steady hand. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to imagine anyone capable of riding this city with such a firm grip that they can force an apocalypse of this scope upon it. To say nothing of the unions. I talked to t
he national head offices and they told me that they’re as upset and baffled as I am. Never before have they failed so utterly to get a few hotheads in the city-controlled authorities to fall in line.”

  “Well then?”

  By now Giardino’s voice was nothing but a keening lament.

  “That means the bad guys are kicking up all this trouble to get their hands back on the city. And we . . . ”

  “We?” the mayor interrupted, anxiously.

  “We’ll hold out. This can’t last much longer, Martin. Because one of two things has to happen. Either someone will pull out of this inferno, starting with the labor unions of AMA and ATAC. Or else whoever took the leash off these animals, soon, very soon, before there’s nothing left to collect, will establish a price for putting the muzzle back on them.”

  “What price?”

  Polimeni took a very deep breath.

  “If l knew that, then I’d be able to tell you who’s behind this, too. Unfortunately, the bad news is that we’re not going to be doing the negotiating.”

  The mayor’s direct line rang. Giardino grabbed the receiver. Chiara Visone’s voice betrayed, even within its crystalline tone, the weight of anxiety.

  “Ciao, Martin, any news?”

  “What news should there be?”

  “The unions. AMA and ATAC. What answer did they give to your most recent offers?”

  “No go. They don’t seem interested in a new hiring package, nor in a renegotiation of work shifts and overtime. They’re a blank wall.”

  “Incredible.”

  “Tell me about it. You have any ideas?”

  “Maybe. But it won’t do any good to talk about it on the phone. Maybe I’ll come by later on.”

  Chiara Visone ended the call and slumped back in her ergonomic chair in her office at the Chamber of Deputies. Piazza del Parlamento had a lunar appearance, garrisoned as it was by hundreds of policemen in riot gear, as well as army troop trucks.

  She pulled out her smartphone, ran through the directory, and made yet another call to Sebastiano. For six days he’d been ignoring her texts and for six days the only voice on his line was that of his voicemail. She couldn’t think, she didn’t want to think the thought that, nonetheless, had been steadily making way in her head until it had become a certainty.

  “Vodafone, the user is not available, please leave a message . . . ” She ended the call.

  Yes. That’s right. Sebastiano was behind all this.

  But how far was he willing to push it? And above all, how could he be stopped? The party demanded a solution. Either things got back to normal or else it might mean her head. She went to the ANSA news site. She’d been doing it compulsively, every since Rome first caught fire. On the banner crawl of the latest news she saw an item that froze her to her seat.

  Fatal Accident in the City. Well-Known Italian Business­man Is Killed in London.

  She read on, as a grim presentiment crept over her.

  In a terrible car crash in London, Pasquale Pistracchio . . . an Italian businessman . . . was killed today. He was well known for his history with the extreme right wing in the capital . . . he is survived by a wife and two daughters . . .

  Frodo. Dead in a “terrible car crash.”

  The trip to London.

  The envelope with the cash.

  The unsuccessful search of Sebastiano’s bags, and the way he’d used her as an unsuspecting courier.

  The search.

  Frodo. How did the customs officers know . . .

  Frodo!

  She thumbed through her directory until she found Alex’s number. She called her. The young woman answered on the fourth ring. Her tone of voice was cold, unfriendly. Chiara ventured a question. There was no answer.

  “Seba is very angry with you, darling.”

  “Tell him I’m desperately trying to get in touch with him. I absolutely must talk to him. Immediately.”

  The call ended.

  Frodo. Now she understood just how far Sebastiano was willing to go.

  And she was scared.

  A PRISON IN NORTHERN ITALY. TUESDAY, APRIL 8TH. AFTERNOON.

  Setola saw Samurai enter the visiting room, and he realized that it hadn’t been a bad idea to board a train. Actually, though, with the usual uneasiness that always accompanied him on those trips, he wondered if he hadn’t acted too late. And, as always, he avoided giving an answer that probably would just have terrified him.

  Samurai carefully settled into the chair on the other side of the table and stared at the lawyer as his mouth twisted into a grimace of disgust.

  “There’s an insufferable odor in here. Did you jump into a sewer before coming in, counselor?”

  Setola flushed red.

  “I come from Rome . . . The air has been unbreathable for days . . . You know what’s go . . . ”

  “I know very well what’s going on in Rome. Everyone’s talking about it. Which is one reason why it would have been helpful to see you a few days earlier. Or am I mistaken?”

  “I never thought that the person you know would push things this far . . . ”

  “You always make the mistake of thinking too much, counselor. I pay you in order to avoid having more problems than I currently do. In fact, I pay you to solve problems and, if possible, prevent new ones from cropping up. Don’t force me to try to come up with other solutions.”

  Now the lawyer was at a loss for words.

  “No, you see . . . Of course not. In fact, if you authorize me to do so, this evening, the minute I get back to Rome, I could talk to the person . . . ”

  “He should have been talked to before.”

  “I reported your exact words to him, but he . . . ”

  Samurai clenched his fists.

  “He, he, he . . . Stop talking about him. First a war, and we didn’t win it. And now the apocalypse. Rome is burning. Who can all this possibly help?”

  “You know better than I do that it isn’t simple . . . Especially when a young person feels the weight of having to . . . well . . . manage and perhaps finally imagine himself independent . . . ”

  “Independent of whom? Anyone who’s truly out of their skull needs to be stopped, counselor. By any means possible, if necessary.”

  “Well, you ought to consider that in my situation . . . ”

  “Shut up. Let me think.”

  Setola had never seen him like this. Samurai’s eyes had narrowed to two slits. The muscles on his neck were strained in an effort not justified by the resting position. He shivered. He’d only ever seen anything like it in Namibia. But that was a cheetah about to finish off a kudu antelope.

  Samurai closed his eyes.

  Independent.

  Sebastiano wanted to be independent.

  He might have been excessively harsh on Setola, but he didn’t give a damn. No, the real problem was Sebastiano. Independent. It was bound to happen sooner or later. And it really irked him that he was unable to be out in the field to play this game to its conclusion. Sebastiano had disobeyed. And yet . . . those who are on the ground, in the field, have a clearer view, are better able to appreciate the reality. That traitor Frodo had been neutralized, and his assets had been secured. And now, Rome was burning. Whereas he, Samurai, would have bent like a reed in a strong wind, waiting for the storm to end, Sebastiano had instead taken his inspiration from the old Roman saying, si vis pacem, para bellum. If what you seek is peace, prepare for war. Instead of riding out the tempest, he had unleashed it.

  However much Samurai hated to admit it, it might even have been the most successful strategy. Samurai Cunctator—to use the Latin term for delayer or procrastinator that was synonymous with the great general Fabius, who invented guerrilla warfare in the Second Carthaginian War and defeated Hannibal’s superior forces—humiliated by his younger lieutenant’s impatienc
e. Humiliated, yes, but it was the general who stalled for time who beat Hannibal in the end. The thought of Fabio Desideri’s mutiny tormented him. His time behind bars had created a power vacuum. And that young man—he remembered him as a little bit of a lightweight, but vicious, so deeply vicious—was trying to fill the vacuum. Nature, it’s well known, abhors a vacuum. Had Sebastiano been right to hit back immediately? Now Fabio Desideri was on the run. But just scaring someone away isn’t the same as victory. Victory is when you can show off your enemy’s corpse. Not when your enemy is safe and sound and in hiding. But that wasn’t all. Sebastiano had acted exactly as he, Samurai, would have done if he’d been his age. That thought sent a stab of pain into his heart. And an uncontrollable spasm into his neck muscles.

  Was that, then, the real point?

  Old age?

  Samurai slowly got up from his seat, putting all his weight on his forearms.

  “The next time I see you here, Rome had better resemble the Garden of Eden and you had better smell as sweet as a flowering garden. Hurry up and get back home, and get yourself a shower.”