Think Wolf Page 2

  Four, five, six, seven … Seven!

  He almost let out a shout. Seven of the group had survived. Just as he had survived.

  And one had died, just as he might have died if that bullet had cut through an artery.

  He watched them cross the face of the mountain.

  They gradually picked up momentum as they approached the old den, cantering over the last fifty metres, the breeding female in the lead, taking them home, her mate tucked in behind her tail, the three surving pups – pups no longer – with the rolling gait and independent air of increasing maturity, the two older cubs that had stayed with the pack from the previous season bringing up the rear.

  Seeing them like this, it was hard to think of them as a ‘pack’.

  The word sounded savage and vicious, while they were a disciplined, ordered family, each one knowing its role and its place. The female nursed and guarded the young cubs while the male and the older cubs went out hunting. The parents had taken turns feeding the little ones, chewing meat to a pulp, then regurgitating it for the pups to feed on.

  Wow! he thought again.

  They halted outside the den, waited for the female to sniff around, then enter.

  Then the six males, the father and two generations of sons, raised their muzzles to the moon and began to wail like a heavenly choir.

  OoooooOooo‌oooOoooooo!

  Sebastiano Cangio felt like wailing along with them.

  THREE

  Catanzaro, Calabria.

  The wide-screen TV was tuned to Sky News.

  The don must have known what was coming ’cause he told them all to shut the fuck up.

  ‘Gimme a piece of that!’ he said, aiming the remote control at the blonde goddess reading the midday news, boosting the volume. ‘Which whorehouse do they find them in? It ain’t one of ours, I can tell you. OK now, here we go.’

  Guatemala, the printout said. Some place with a mouthful of a name. A jungle scene. A village of shabby bamboo huts.

  ‘The police are cracking down on local drugs lords,’ the blonde was saying. ‘Four tons of unprocessed cocaine were destroyed in this raid alone.’

  The pictures on the screen showed paramilitary police with flamethrowers gutting the village laboratory, burning the crop, prisoners being marched away, their hands tied behind their backs.

  Don Michele pressed the button and the picture disappeared.

  He cursed for a full minute – the cops, their wives, their kids – the peasant coming out in him, the part he usually kept well hidden, the inherited dirt beneath his manicured fingernails showing through.

  He was usually so calm, it stunned them into silence.

  ‘The paramilitaries in Guatemala have wrecked seventeen jungle factories in the last few days. Most of the top men out in the field have been arrested. Some of that stuff was meant for us. I can cover the emergency for a couple of months, then we’ll need to stock up on the open market – whatever the fucking price. What we need now,’ he said, looking from one man to the next, ‘is a solid long-term strategy.’

  He was thinking out loud, not expecting anyone to say a word.

  Simone Candelora counted to three before he opened his mouth, and while he counted a phrase kept hammering through his brain, a phrase that Julius Caesar was supposed to have said when he led his army across the River Rubicon and started the war against the Senate which would turn him into a legend.

  Alea iacta est.

  The die is cast, there’s no going back.

  Candelora took a deep breath. ‘What if we forget South America, Don Michè?’ he said. ‘Maybe there’s a better source.’

  Don Michele let out a snort of laughter. ‘Just listen to the prof!’ he said. Then he turned to the others, said, ‘Why didn’t you lot go to fucking university?’

  The others started to laugh, as if the idea was stupid, and what a joke the boss had cracked, but the don cut through the noise. ‘What have you got in mind, Simò?’

  Simone Candelora was the youngest man in the room, the newest addition to the clan. He stared back at Don Michele for a moment, and he didn’t back down.

  Alea iacta est.

  ‘Asia,’ Candelora said. ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking.’

  The don didn’t move a muscle. ‘You know the place?’ he said at last.

  Maybe the others were taking bets, because the don turned round and told them all to shut it. Everyone knew that the kid had been to college. He had a doctorate in agronomy, whatever that was. But Asia? Come on.

  ‘I know it well,’ Simone said. ‘Last time I was out there for seven months. Thailand, Vietnam, Laos. All the way to the Pacific coast—’

  ‘Doing what?’ someone challenged him.

  Don Michele wasn’t having it. He held up his hand for silence. Then he asked the same thing. ‘What were you doing out there?’

  ‘Studying the layout, Don Michè. The university gave me a travel grant. It’s the promised land out there, rich and fertile, jungle everywhere. It’s got everything you need. It’s hot, it rains a lot, and coppers are thin on the ground.’ He held Don Michele’s gaze for a moment. ‘They grow the stuff all right, but they don’t know how to move it around.’

  The don lit a thin cheroot, blew a stream of smoke into the air. ‘Asia? OK,’ he said, ‘that’s one end of the chain. But where are you thinking of joining up the links?’

  Simone paused for a moment. He could almost hear the others drawing breath.

  Alea iacta est.

  ‘What about Umbria, Don Michè? You’ve got the connections, and the place has quietened down now. It’s still the perfect place to run an operation, boss.’

  He had tacked that ‘boss’ on the end, and was relieved to see the effect it had.

  Don Michele hid a smile by sucking long and hard on his cheroot.

  Simone knew what had happened in Umbria six months before. Don Michele had tried to move in on the earthquake reconstruction, the ocean of cash that was leaking from the European Commission and the International Monetary Fund. Then his men up there had gone and cocked it up.

  Don Michele pulled a face, the corners of his mouth turning down. ‘Umbria? What the fuck are we gonna do up there? Ettore’s handling the distribution, but it’s small time, nothing special. He’s been keeping an eye on that ranger, too.’ More smoke came out, and a sigh came with it. ‘When things cool off, he’ll get what’s coming to him.’

  Simone Candelora knew who the don was talking about. One of the others had told him about the debacle in Umbria. A right disaster by all accounts, and all because of some nosey park ranger.

  ‘Yogi Bear?’ Simone said lightly, joking, but with an edge. ‘We can settle with him any time you say, Don Michè—’

  ‘Not now,’ Don Michele warned, his finger raised. ‘That Cangio’s a nobody, more dangerous dead than alive. More useful living. We leave him to the carabinieri for the time being. Once he’s testified against that general of theirs, they won’t give a flyin’ fuck what happens to Cangio. In the meantime, we get on with business.’

  ‘That’s just what I had in mind.’

  ‘What have you got in mind precisely, Simò?’

  ‘Something quiet. Something small, though it could get bigger. Someone in trouble, you know what I mean, a decent company, a fair name, but the banks and debtors are sucking it dry. A one-man business. The owner’s got to be clean, of course, no track record. Clean as a brand new plate-glass window. Then we move in.’

  Don Michele tugged on his cheroot. ‘And where do we find this holy sucker?’

  ‘I’ve got banking contacts, Don Michè. I can find him.’

  Don Michele stubbed the cheroot and stood up, bringing the meeting to an end.

  He placed his hand on Simone’s shoulder as they all filed out of the room. ‘I fancy a tasty slice of fish, Simò. You ever been to Mamma Rosa’s out on the coast road? Strangolapreti alle vongole, then swordfish steak with fresh dill? We can talk some more about this scheme of yours over l
unch.’

  The others were watching as he climbed into the car with Don Michele. Even if they’d never heard the expression, they were learning what it meant now by bitter experience.

  Alea iacta est …

  The dice were rolling his way.

  FOUR

  A town in Umbria.

  It was ten past nine when he got to the bank.

  The secretary glanced up at him, and let out a sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Signor Marra,’ she said, ‘the finance manager has a busy day ahead of him, and Signor B … well, another gentleman was waiting. I’m sure he’ll see you as soon as he’s free. Would you care to take a seat?’

  What else could he do?

  Could you bite the hand you hoped was going to feed you?

  He sat down, and examined his Eberhard watch. The Chrono 4 would have to go if nothing came of this meeting. That would give him breathing space for … what? A week, ten days at the most. The Jag had gone already, traded in for a bit of cash and a clapped-out Mondeo. The house was up for sale, but the bottom had fallen out of the property market, so it was either give it away or forget about it. For the moment, he was living off his undeclared earnings. If the tax people ever caught up with him on that score, he’d be doing time.

  It was the fourth time he’d been there that month.

  The first time, he had tried anger, but that hadn’t worked. He’d given logic a go the time after that, and he’d been forced to face the fact that the bank was more logical and far less forgiving than he had been led to believe. On the last occasion, he had tried to appeal to the finance manager’s sense of civic pride, only to be told that the bank had been absorbed by a big city bank which was part of a national banking group which had just merged with a larger European holding, and that he, Arnaldo Capaldi, humble finance manager of the local branch bank, was the lowliest of the low in a very long line of obedient servants who could do very little to help Antonio Marra.

  As Capaldi had told him the last time: you can’t mortgage what you haven’t got.

  ‘Would you care for a coffee?’ the secretary asked him.

  Once, he might have said no, but things had changed. Nowadays, he never said no when anything was free. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Two sugars. No, make that three.’

  He was finishing his coffee when the door opened, and Gianni Borlotti came creeping out of the finance manager’s office like a condemned man going to the whipping post, head down, back bent, his face like one of those Smiley stickers with the lips turned down.

  ‘Antonio!’ Borlotti exclaimed, and his face lit up with a brittle Hollywood grin.

  Antonio Marra jumped up, and forced an even brighter smile. ‘Ciao, Gianni. How are things?’

  ‘Things are … you know. Fine, just fine,’ Borlotti managed to say, his bobbing Adam’s apple giving him away. ‘What about you, Antò?’

  Antonio Marra was spared the same embarrassing lie. The finance manager’s door opened, and a wagging finger inviting him to step inside. ‘See you, Gianni,’ Marra said, and turned away. It was a bit like avoiding hot grease by jumping into boiling vegetable oil.

  ‘Signor Marra,’ the finance manager said, a bright smile on his face today, his hand held out in unexpected greeting, ‘I am pleased to say that we have been approached by a potential, and very wealthy, investor. I have his prospectus here, and I’ll be happy to go over the details with you. I believe that you’d do well to consider the proposal.’

  ‘Can I speak with Signor Candelora?’

  ‘You’ve got him.’

  The voice at the other end of the phone went from brisk to pure honey.

  ‘It’s me Signor Candelora, Arnaldo Capaldi. From the bank in Umbria. I do hope the weather’s nice down where you …’

  ‘Listen, Capaldi, you don’t give a dried shit what the weather’s like in Calabria, and I’m not going to waste time telling you. Let’s cut out the two-old-ladies crap, and get straight down to business. Have you got news for me?’

  Capaldi sounded a bit less sure of himself. At least he’d stopped licking arse. ‘I certainly have, Signor Candelora. I doubt that you’d find a better one than this. The company is just perfect. He’s the man you’re looking for.’

  ‘He’s got a spotless sheet?’

  ‘Like a newborn babe’s.’

  Candelora sank back on the pillow, pushed aside the books he’d been consulting. The Michelin Guide to Umbria. The Annual Economic Report on the State of Central Italy. Renewal and Expansion in Umbria after the Earthquake.

  ‘Tell me more, Capaldi. The details. Annual turnover, the size of the plant, number of employees, the type of product that we’re dealing with, the debts and the mortgages, the whole works.’

  In ten minutes, Capaldi had given him the long and the short of it. Some shady dealing, nothing proven, nothing criminal, but that was par for the course. All that was missing was the size of the owner’s shoes and underpants, the altitude and latitude of his factory.

  It was time to give the dog his bone.

  ‘You’re on the ball, Capaldi. Now, what else was there? Oh yeah, your cut … The cash will start to flow once this newborn babe has signed on the dotted line. Give me a blow as soon as the deal’s set up, OK. I’ll be up there like a shot … Oh yeah, thanks, and the same to you. Have a nice day.’

  Candelora snapped the phone shut, tapped it gently against his teeth.

  He put the phone down, opened the silver snuffbox, poured a healthy measure onto the protective glass of the bedside table, chopped and divided it with his platinum card, then took the two lines of coke, one in each nostril.

  He was already buzzing, but a bit more focus always helped. He couldn’t wait to tell Don Michele that the plan was off the ground, that they would soon be the majority shareholder in a small company in the Sibillines National Park.

  An hour ago Marra Truffles had been dead on its feet.

  Now, it was ready to fly.

  FIVE

  Catanzaro, Calabria.

  Don Michele held up the jar, and read the yellow label.

  ‘Are we going into the food industry now, Simò?’

  Simone Candelora felt beads of sweat erupt out on his brow.

  ‘Just untwist the cap, Don Michè, then tell me what you think.’

  The don narrowed his eyes and stared at him. ‘If you’re pissing me about …’ he warned, as he opened the jar, held it to his nose, and inhaled. ‘Truffles?’

  ‘Top wedge, Don Michè. They export them all over the world as pastes and sauces. The USA, Europe, the Middle East, Australia. And that distinctive aroma? The sniffer dogs are trained to ignore it when they’re working at customs.’ He took another identical jar from his pocket, untwisted the lid and handed it to the don. ‘Now, try this one.’

  Don Michele rolled his eyes, his patience running thin.

  ‘Truffle sauce, same brand,’ the boss confirmed with a sniff and a growl.

  ‘Maybe yes, but maybe no,’ Candelora said. ‘Let’s see what this item here can tell us.’

  He took a plastic wallet from his inside pocket, removed a glass ampoule of clear liquid, tore two small sheets of paper from the booklet and lay them down on the desk. He took a smear of sauce from one jar with one square of paper, and then did the same with the other jar and the second piece of paper.

  ‘Is this a fucking chemistry lesson, Simò?’

  Simone Candelora cracked the end of the ampoule and let a few drops of liquid fall on the two pieces of paper smeared with truffle sauce. Inside ten seconds, one of the papers turned blue.

  He handed the instruction leaflet to the don.

  ‘Quick Home Coca Test,’ Don Michele read.

  ‘They sell these kits in the States so parents can check on their delinquent kids. This jar here,’ Simone Candelora pointed, ‘is fifty per cent pure.’

  ‘Marra Truffles?’ the boss said, reading the label carefully now. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Antonio Marra, sole owner and regular fuck-up. Inherited a truff
le reserve and the family business. His father started processing truffles, trying to export them – wanted to compete with the local big boys, but died before he got there. The only son comes along and the company goes bottom up. He’s a regular spender – cars, women, gambling – so he starts borrowing. He’s just about hanging on by the skin of his dick.’

  That made Don Michele laugh. ‘Is he clean, this truffle merchant? Will he play along?’

  Simone Candelora couldn’t keep a straight face. He’d checked the Chamber of Commerce, the local and regional trade associations, the public statements of accounts.

  ‘No problem, Don Michè,’ Simone assured him. ‘He’s perfect. Speeding fines apart, he’s got a clean sheet. What’s even better, he’s up to his eyes in solid debt.’

  Don Michele poked his finger into the jar that had tested positive, then sucked on his finger, closing his eyes for a moment or two, before he opened them wide.

  ‘Help him, Simò,’ he said. ‘Help him.’

  SIX

  Sibillines National Park, Umbria.

  ‘Two months in Todi?’

  ‘They need an assistant manager to tide them over. They’ve got the staff, but they don’t know how a shop works. It’s only for a couple of months, Seb. Todi’s seventy kilometres away. It isn’t in Alaska.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t interested in a career?’

  Lori smiled at that. ‘A career? With a supermarket chain? There’s no such thing, but it is a job and I need it. I can’t depend on you to feed me always, can I? If they start sacking people, I don’t intend to be on the list. I’d like to think that they need me.’

  ‘I need you,’ Cangio said.

  Loredana Salvini was unlike any woman he had met in London.

  She wasn’t pushy, she wasn’t ambitious. She had a healthy appetite in every sense of the word, a bit of puppy fat that drove him wild. They’d been together eight months now, and had managed not to argue. She had nursed him in the hospital, moved in with him when the doctors let him out. She had nursed him, cooked for him, made love to him and treated him like a friend. And now she was going to Todi?