End Games - 11 (28 page)

He ordered a beer and found himself wondering what Mirella was going to wear. The two outfits he had seen her in so far had been so different that they didn’t provide much of a clue. In fact, thinking back, Tom realised that almost everything had been different on each occasion: the style of her hair, the make-up she wore, even her body language. It was almost as if the person he had seen on those two occasions had not in fact been the same but a pair of identical twins, structurally similar but each with a completely different personality. He smiled to himself at the absurd thought. Anyway, identical twins might just about be possible, but triplets would be pushing it, so pretty soon he’d get a take on who she really was – or rather, who she wanted him to think she was. Tom found this final insight rather disturbing. I’d never have had an idea like that back home, he thought. This place is complexing me. He wasn’t sure whether he was entirely comfortable with that.

The answer to his question about her appearance proved to be yet another enigma, so different from either of her previous personae that Tom didn’t even recognise her until she sat down at his table. Beneath a bulky blue padded coat she was wearing a prim suit in a clashing shade of muddy brown. No make-up, no jewellery, her hair drawn fiercely back and bunched in a tight bun. All in all, she looked like a small-town dental hygienist dolled up for a tough job interview in the big city. Guess I’m not going to get laid tonight, thought Tom, although under the circumstances there wouldn’t have been any chance of that anyway.

‘You seem surprised to see me,’ Mirella said.

Tom didn’t have a ready answer, so he just smiled.

‘Now then,’ she went on, ‘you told me your name on the phone but I didn’t understand it.’

‘It’s Tom. Thomas. Tommaso.’

‘Tommaso.’

He loved the way she lingered on the double consonant, caressing it with her lips as though reluctant to let it go.

‘
Un bel nome
.’

A surly servitor appeared at their table. Mirella ordered some kind of pizza. Tom said he would have the same.

‘So you’re staying out here?’

Tom nodded.

‘Just around the corner. The Rende International Residence.’

‘Oh, you must be rich! I’ve only been there once, when one of my friends got married. They held the wedding reception there. Isn’t it very expensive?’

‘Well, I’m not paying. I’ve been hired by a friend of my father’s who’s working for an American film company. They’re planning to make a movie here, only he doesn’t speak Italian so he needs me to translate for him. Not my normal line of work, but you know what they say – another day, another
dolore
. I mean
dollaro
.’

‘Films!
Oddio, che bello!
I’ve always wanted to work in films.’

‘Well, you’ve certainly got the looks for it!’

What a lame, pathetic, dumbfuck line, he thought, but she seemed pleased by the compliment.

‘It isn’t as glamorous as it sounds,’ Tom went on quickly, with what he hoped was just the right touch of sophisticated world-weariness. ‘But what about you? Do you work?’

Mirella responded with a light, airy explosion of breath and upward dab of her startling eyes that perfectly expressed disgust, contempt and fatalistic resignation.

‘An office job with the provincial authorities. It’s very secure, very boring and I know precisely how much I’ll be earning when I reach retirement age.’

The food came.

‘So what do you do?’ Mirella asked after scarfing down two slabs of pizza with admirable greed and concentration.

‘I’m a chef. Trained, qualified and with good references. I’ve worked at some celebrity restaurants in the United States and now I’m thinking of moving here and opening up my own place. This is where my roots are, after all.’

‘So you said. What’s your family name?’

Tom paused over a long swallow of beer. If he told her the truth, she would immediately make the connection to his murdered father, who had inflicted enough damage in years gone by. Tom did not intend to let him strangle this relationship at birth from beyond the grave.

‘I’m not entirely sure,’ he said. ‘My father’s family was certainly Calabrian, but they changed their name when they moved to America and I haven’t had time to follow up that angle. These film people work you pretty hard! I’ll need to do some research in the archives. Perhaps you could help with that, Mirella. Anyway, we can talk about that some other time. In the end, I’m more interested in my future than my past.’

‘The essential is to keep them in balance.’

And so it went on. They continued to make pleasant small talk, but the conversation refused to get hot. The place itself didn’t help – it had by now been invaded by a gang of languid adolescents wearing baggy jeans with the crotch down by their knees – but Tom also sensed an inner reticence in Mirella, a desire to avoid moving towards intimacy. That was typically Calabrian, of course, and for that matter he himself had been parsimonious with the truth, but it perhaps explained why he found himself being rather more frank than he had intended when she asked her next question, as if to show her the way, to demonstrate that he was prepared to risk trusting her.

‘But I’ve also heard that this movie you’re talking about is not going to happen. Didn’t you see that interview on television with Luciano Aldobrandini? He claimed the whole thing was a fraud!’

Tom sighed theatrically.

‘He may be right. Listen, Mirella. This is in the strictest confidence, but there’s another project involved.’

By now she had finished eating, in her graceful, dedicated, methodical way, and was all attention.

‘What’s that?’

‘They think they’ve found Alaric’s tomb.’

She laughed then, for the first time.

‘You’re joking!’

Tom shrugged urbanely.

‘I doubt that they are. There’s a lot of money involved, and these people are heavyweights when it comes to business. The head of the whole outfit flew in today by private jet and they’re planning to …’

He stopped himself just in time, and covered up by reaching for his cigarettes, then dolefully replacing them.

‘I forgot, no smoking now!’

Mirella regarded him in a way he wished to prolong for the rest of his earthly existence.

‘There’s a bar next door,’ she said. ‘Let’s have our coffees there and smoke outside.’

He was about to answer when his mobile woke like a colicky baby. It was Martin Nguyen and he didn’t sound happy.

‘Where the fuck are you? I called your room and there was no answer.’

‘Slipped out to buy some cigarettes, Mr Nguyen. I’ll be there in a few minutes.’

He threw much too much money on the table and, when they were both standing, grasped Mirella’s arm for a moment, just above the elbow, and pulled her towards him.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘My boss wants me back right away. But listen …’

He tried to meet her eyes, but they were averted. It was then that, for the first time, he smelt her skin, a faint caprine odour like mild goat’s cheese, earthy and creamy. But this smell wasn’t about food.

‘
Grazie per la bella serata
,’ Mirella said, disentangling herself effortlessly.

‘May I call you again?’ Tom found himself saying.

She smiled vaguely, and was gone.

Jake was woken by a call from Madrona, wanting to know if he’d got there okay. She’d been worried about him, she said. Madrona worried about everything – getting pregnant, not getting pregnant, global warming, bird flu, you name it. It was one of the many things Jake found cute about her, although he sometimes kind of sensed, like a chill draught on the back of the neck, that it might turn out to be a real ball-buster later on.

He calmed her down and then jack-knifed out of bed. The clock said some crazy-ass time, but Jake had already figured that the way to handle this trip was like some gaming environment you’re unfamiliar with. He knew he would need to accumulate a lot more experience points before he was fully up to speed, but one key factor was that the time on the clocks here was game time. Not real time, which Madrona had said was like midday, but the right time in the game. Same with everything else. This hotel Martin had booked him into wouldn’t have made the cut as a second-class casino in Reno, but in the game scenario it was hot shit. That was okay. Jake could flex with the best.

He dug out his laptop, got online and slipped effortlessly into various roles, doing damage, saving the world, getting killed a couple of times. Then he checked out Madrona’s blog – bunch of bitching about how she was having a really heavy period this month – sent a chatroom up in flames, cruised a few porno sites till he found one that rang his bells, jerked off, took a shower and got dressed. Round about ten, game time, he rode the marble-floored lift down to the lobby, feeling totally mellowed out. Martin Nguyen was in the bar nursing a glass of what looked like iced tea but probably wasn’t. Jake was tempted to make an edgy remark about him needing something to settle his delicate stomach. He himself didn’t either drink or smoke. Hell, he didn’t even
smoke
.

‘Dude,’ said Jake.

Martin grunted. He still didn’t look that hot, but Jake had to admire the way, when he’d got nauseous in the car on those bends, he’d just held the puke in his mouth and then swallowed it down again long enough to tell the driver to pull over.

‘Where can I get a menu?’

Martin took another gulp of whisky.

‘Kitchen’s closed.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Place is run like a mom and pop corner store. Dinner’s seven till nine-thirty, then fuck you till breakfast.’

‘Damn. I could really use some foie gras with PBJ.’

Martin grabbed his mouth real fast.

‘Got invited to the opening of this new place in Belltown couple of days back,’ Jake went on. ‘That’s their signature dish. Pan-seared foie gras with peanut butter and jelly. Awesome combo. What’s the food like here?’

‘Kind of an Italian feel,’ Martin replied in a highly stressed tone. ‘I’ll have Tom get them to fix you a sandwich or something just as soon as the little shit shows up.’

‘Tom?’

‘Pete Newman’s boy. I hired him to be my mouthpiece. He claims to be out buying smokes, but I heard him on the phone earlier schmoozing some bimbo. I’ll fire him once we’ve figured out what the deal is on this tomb site.’

He signalled the waiter to freshen up his drink. Then he caught Jake’s disapproving look.

‘Inappropriate, huh? Yeah, I guess you’re right. But what we’re going to be doing later on tonight is even more inappropriate. Smashing our way into a world heritage site and stealing priceless historic artefacts which are government property?’

He waved largely at their bleak, bedazzled surroundings.

‘You think Italian hotels suck? Imagine what their jails are like.’

‘What’s the deal with those Iraqis?’

‘I’ll call them in once we get there. My biggest challenge has been getting the equipment to the site. It’s not like the towelheads don’t know how to operate the machines. They’re Halliburton trained, for God’s sake. But the rules of the road over in Iraq are basically down to what size gun you carry, so I couldn’t just turn them loose in the traffic over here. Apart from anything else, the poor fucks would be scared shitless. They still haven’t gotten over being told that they can’t even carry side arms. In the end, I fixed to have the hardware delivered by truck to a disused quarry near the site. Don’t worry, it’ll all come together just fine, unless –’

‘Here I am, Mr Nguyen!’

It was Tom, breathless and superficially solicitous, but looking way more pleased with himself than the purchase of a pack of smokes warranted. Martin slipped him a fifty and told him to pass it on to the right people and get Jake fed.

‘I read that material you emailed me,’ Martin said to Jake when they were alone again. ‘Let’s just see if I’ve got the story straight. I mean, if we get arrested, then I want to know what it is I’m supposed to lie about.’

‘You mean like talk me through it? Might challenge my attention span. Can’t you do me a PowerPoint presentation?’

‘I don’t have the facilities for that, Jake. I’ll try and keep it brief. Just listen up and tell me if I’ve got anything wrong.’

‘Sure, Mart. You’re the boss.’

Nguyen ignored this crack.

‘The material you sent me, plus some follow-up research I did online, tells me that we’re looking for the Great Menorah, one of the sacred vessels of the original temple in Jerusalem. It’s of cast gold, hollow within, with a hexagonal base and seven branches representing the planets plus the sun, and weighs in at about one hundred pounds. It stood beside the Ark of the Covenant in the Temple and was captured by the Romans when they sacked the city two thousand years ago.’

‘Correct.’

‘So the Romans take it back with them. We know that for sure because there’s an image of Jewish slaves carrying it in the triumphal procession carved on the Arch of Titus, after which it was stashed away in one of their temples. Seems they really hated the Jews. It wasn’t enough to beat them in battle, they had to steal their nutty one-god religion. Anyway, three and a half centuries later it’s the Romans’ turn to get conquered. Alaric cleans the city out, then heads south and ends up dying in this fleapit. His Goth homies bury him under the river with all the goodies he’d plundered, then do a total deniability with extreme prejudice operation on the work force.’

‘You got it.’

Martin knocked back his drink.

‘Let’s go outside,’ he told Jake. ‘I need to smoke.’

They stepped out into the muscular embrace of the night air. Thunder rumbled and stumbled and then a fragmentation bomb exploded overhead, showering huge drops of water on the patio and the parched lawns, hedges and trees, raising a cool, sensuous freshness that reeked of growth and decay.

‘Wow!’ said Jake. ‘They do like weather here too?’

‘So if the story about Alaric is true,’ Martin resumed, ‘then there must be a ton of other valuable stuff in the tomb, worth probably billions, supposing you could find a buyer. But we’re not interested in the money, just the menorah, right?’