Dead Lagoon - 4 (37 page)

He circled round to stand behind the chair in which he had been sitting and leant on it, using the back as a lectern.

‘Let me say first of all that I wouldn’t get mixed up in anything like that now. They say that a week is a long time in politics, but the things that have happened in the past few months have astonished even me. If you’d told me last November that we’d be looking at victory in the municipal elections and the very real possibility of achieving a presence at national level within a year, I’d have thought you were crazy.’

He smiled nostalgically.

‘It’s hard to remember now that at that time we were more of a debating club than a credible political force. The idea was to galvanize people into rethinking everything they had taken for granted for too long, to smash the mould and suggest radical new solutions to the problems confronting the city we all love. Part of our strategy was to establish contacts with like-minded groups on the mainland. We talked to the regional
Leghe,
of course, but also to the German-language separatist movement in the Alto Adige, and to various Ladino and Friulano groups. But our closest relationship was with the newly-independent Republic of Croatia, not only because of our historical ties with that region, but because the Croats had achieved what the rest of us could still only dream about – the dissolution of the spurious nation state and the reclamation of regional independence, cultural integrity and political autarchy.’

Zen yawned loudly and lit a cigarette.

‘Save me the speeches.’

Dal Maschio looked at him intently.

‘You’re good at sneering, aren’t you?’

There was no reply. Dal Maschio nodded.

‘It’s all right. I understand. I used to feel the same way myself. It’s a way of protecting yourself against feeling, against action. If you admitted your identity as a Venetian, born and bred in these islands, speaking this dialect and conditioned to the core by those experiences, you would not only have to admit all the pain and pride which such an admission would bring with it, you would also have to act to preserve and defend those values. You would either have to be prepared to fight, or to admit your laziness and your cowardice. Much easier just to avoid the issue by sneering.’

‘You said you were going to tell me about Durridge. Either do so, or fuck off out of here.’

Dal Maschio shrugged and smiled.

‘As I say, the Croats were an inspiration for everyone in the separatist movement, but their successful struggle had a special significance for us Venetians. The Dalmatian coastline of the new Croatia was of course the first and last outpost of the Venetian empire. Its beautiful and historic towns were all built by our forebears, and one day, perhaps, our flag may fly there once more. However that may be, the Croat and Venetian peoples cannot be indifferent to each other. So when I was approached by one of the Croatian delegation with a proposal which promised to be mutually beneficial, I was naturally inclined to look on it with favour.’

Abandoning his pose, he walked round the chair and sat down in it, crossing his legs.

‘They wanted Ivan Durridge, or rather
. I’d never heard of the man, but my Croatian contact filled me in. Durridge was a Serb, from Sarajevo, and he was responsible for some of the worst atrocities committed during the war. I won’t attempt to list the things he did. Some of them are too obscene to mention. I was shown pictures and eye-witness reports by the survivors. Can you imagine a woman and her daughters having their eyelids cut off, being repeatedly raped and then forced to watch their sons and brothers impaled? That was the least of
crimes, and here he was living in luxury on his private island in the lagoon!’

He jabbed a finger peremptorily at Zen.

‘And as if all that wasn’t enough, he was also gunrunning for the Bosnian Serbs in the current conflict. That’s why the investigation into his disappearance was hushed up by the secret services. You remember the scandal over the Gladio organization which was set up to sabotage a possible Communist takeover after the war? Gladio had arms caches all over Italy, yet only a few have come to light. With things changing so rapidly here, the secret service chiefs wanted those dumps cleaned out as fast as possible, and of course they weren’t averse to lining their pockets at the same time. Ivan Durridge satisfied both requirements. He took the guns off their hands and paid money into the Swiss bank account of their choice in return.’

‘How much money did the Croatians pay you?’ Zen demanded.

Dal Maschio shook his head sadly.

‘You may find this hard to believe, Zen, but it wasn’t actually about money. It was about establishing credibility and goodwill with a potential ally and trading-partner in the federal and regional Europe of the future.’

‘And it didn’t bother you that all those fine words cost a man his life?’

Dal Maschio got to his feet again and walked towards Zen, waving his arms to emphasize his words.

‘That had nothing to do with us! The plan was to fly Durridge up to Gorizia, then “accidentally” stray over the border and land him at a prearranged spot just inside Slovenia. The Croatian commandos who had immobilized Durridge before I landed the helicopter would then drive him to Zagreb, where he would be put on trial for his war crimes. That’s what I was told was going to happen, and that’s what I believe.’

He sighed.

‘Unfortunately Durridge had other ideas, and maybe he was right. He’d been pretty badly beaten up by the time I got there. Gavagnin said he reckoned they would have killed him if it hadn’t been for that phone call from his sister. They held a gun to his balls while he talked to her, but that made them realize that they needed him alive and functioning until we took off, to prevent the alarm being raised. Unfortunately once we were airborne they made the mistake of relaxing their vigilance. The next thing we knew, Durridge opened the door and jumped out.’

Dal Maschio shrugged.

‘As I’ve said, I wouldn’t do it again. The stakes are too high to fool around with stunts like that now. On the other hand, I’m not ashamed of what I did. The Croats are our ideological and political allies, and Ivan Durridge was a war criminal.’

‘While you’re just a common criminal,’ said Zen, tossing his cigarette butt into an ashtray.

‘I’ve never been charged with any criminal offence, much less convicted of one. And I never will be.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

‘Mere bravado,’ exclaimed Dal Maschio contemptuously. ‘If you had any solid evidence against me you wouldn’t be standing here making empty threats, you’d have me under arrest. But there’s nothing to connect me or any member of the movement with the Durridge kidnapping, apart from an unsubstantiated statement by some taxi skipper.’

‘How did Giulio Bon get hold of Durridge’s boat?’ demanded Zen.

‘He found it cast adrift in the lagoon.’

‘One of your helicopters appears in the air traffic control records as flying from the Lido to Gorizia on the day Durridge vanished. The route passes over both the
ottagono
and Sant’Ariano. Is that supposed to be a coincidence?’

‘Neither more nor less of a coincidence than the fact that the road to Verona passes through Padua and Vicenza,’ Dal Maschio returned promptly. ‘I was flying from the Lido to Gorizia. Which way did you expect me to go, via the Po valley?’

‘Why were you going in the first place?’

‘I was delivering a cargo of fish to a restaurant in Gorizia owned by a friend in the Friulano separatist movement. It was a genuine order, and I have the waybills and invoices to prove it.’

Noting the expression on Zen’s face, he laughed.

‘You’ve got nothing against me but scraps and rags of circumstantial evidence that wouldn’t serve to convict a known criminal, let alone the city’s mayor elect. And thanks to the Questore’s prompt response to our article this morning about your disgraceful treatment of Contessa Zulian, your mandate for action expires in just a few hours. Francesco Bruno evidently has a very acute sense for the prevailing political realities. Face it, Zen, you’re beaten.’

He stepped forward suddenly, gripping Zen’s arms.

‘But if only you will, you can convert that defeat into victory! You’re one of us, Zen! You know you are! And we’re the winning team. Already now, and increasingly in the future. We’ve got the little people with us already, because we speak the language they understand. Now we need to get the professionals on board, the educated middle class with managerial skills. People like you!’

Zen shook himself free.

‘What are you doing in Rome?’ cried Dal Maschio. ‘The regime you serve is morally and financially bankrupt. It’s exactly the same as working for the KGB after the collapse of the Soviet Union. The centre can’t hold any longer, Zen. The periphery is where the action is. In the new Europe, the periphery
is
the centre. It’s time to come home. Time to come back to your roots, back to what is real and meaningful and enduring.’

Zen turned away.

‘Save the rhetoric for your meeting.’

‘It’s not just rhetoric, and you know it! Do you want a Europe that is like an airport terminal where every language is spoken badly, where any currency is accepted but there is nothing but soulless trash to buy and fake food to eat? You don’t! You can’t!’

‘Neither do I want one where politicans conspire to commit criminal offences aided and abetted by corrupt policemen in the pay of the local mob.’

Dal Maschio shrugged.

‘You probably won’t believe me, but I swear I never had the slightest notion that Gavagnin was involved with a drugs racket. That was another part of his life altogether. He didn’t confide in me and I didn’t pry. In any case, given that there’s a market in illicit drugs, why should the Sicilians make all the money? No, I’m only joking …’

Zen regarded him bleakly.

‘I think you’d better go.’

Dal Maschio glanced at his watch and began to button up his coat.

‘Sooner or later you’re going to have to choose, Zen. The new Europe will be no place for rootless drifters and cosmopolitans with no sense of belonging. It will be full of frontiers, both physical and ideological, and they will be rigorously patrolled. You will have to be able to produce your papers or suffer the consequences.’

He leant towards Zen, almost whispering.

‘There can be no true friends without true enemies. Unless we hate what we are not, we cannot love what we are. These are the old truths we are painfully rediscovering after a century and more of sentimental cant. Those who deny them deny their family, their heritage, their culture, their birthright, their very selves! They will not lightly be forgiven.’

He walked out of the room and downstairs. Zen stood quite still, listening intently to the clatter of Dal Maschio’s footsteps as though they were a message telling him what to do next. The slam of the front door seemed to release him from this act of attention. He strode to the landing and grabbed his coat and hat.

Outside, the wind had freshened. It skittered about the courtyard, banking off the angled walls and blowing back from fissures barely wide enough to sidle down. At the far end of the street leading towards the Cannaregio a man could be seen emerging from the shadows into the cone of yellow light cast by a streetlamp. Zen jammed his hat firmly on his head and set off in the same direction, the hem of his coat billowing about him.

Dal Maschio kept up a brisk pace until he reached the lighted thoroughfare crowded with commuters heading for the station. Here he slowed to a relaxed but still purposeful stride which allowed him to respond in the appropriate way to the many greetings he received. For a privileged few he paused long enough to exchange a few remarks and slap a shoulder playfully, but most received no more than a smile and a nod acknowledging their existence but indicating that he was a busy and important man who could not be expected to recognize everyone who recognized him.

Zen adjusted the distance between them to take account of the situation, closing in as the crowds became thicker, falling back again as they crossed the Scalzi bridge and entered the relatively deserted streets beyond. Here Dal Maschio was accosted less often, but he nearly always stopped to speak. An area like Santa Croce, with its ugly tenements, failing shops and ageing population, was the heartland of the
Nuova Repubblica Veneta
, and its leader could not afford to leave anyone feeling slighted or ignored.