End Games - 11 Read Online Free Page B

out here. What do I know?’
    Zen stared at him in silence for a moment.
    ‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to determine.’
    Nicola Mantega’s appearance was of a classic Calabrian type, with thick, lustrous black hair, a crumpled, oval face that barely contained all the troubles it had seen, a florid moustache and an expression of terminal depression.
    ‘Let’s just go back over that final phone call,’ Zen said. ‘You rang Signor Newman at ten thirty-two on the Tuesday morning …’
    ‘It was some time that morning, yes.’
    ‘It was at the time I stated. Newman hired a mobile phone and we have obtained a copy of the records. What we don’t have is a transcript of what was said, but you have stated that you told him that some new factors had arisen regarding final arrangements for the film project, and that you needed to meet again. You then suggested that he come to dinner at your house at seven that evening, but he never turned up.’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Nor did he return to his hotel that night. In short, he was almost certainly kidnapped on his way to that meeting at your villa, Signor Mantega. An arrangement which only he and you knew about.’
    ‘He must have been followed. If the kidnappers are professionals, they would have had him under surveillance for days.’
    ‘Perhaps, but how did they know that he was a suitable prospect? How did they know who he was and what he might be worth? For that matter, how did they know he was here at all?’
    On the wall of Zen’s office hung an elegantly designed notice proclaiming the vision statement of the new Italian police, thick with catchphrases such as la nostra missione, i nostri valori, competenza professionale, integrità, creatività e innovazione . As so often in the past, Zen decided to go for the last two.
    ‘Acting on my orders, one of my officers interviewed your wife this morning while you were at work,’ he said. ‘She denied all knowledge of any guest having been invited for dinner on the evening in question.’
    Mantega was staring at Zen with an expression of baffled indignation.
    ‘I didn’t tell her,’ he said at last.
    Zen nodded, as though this little misunderstanding had now been cleared up.
    ‘Of course! You were planning to cook yourself. Some local delicacy, no doubt, to remind your guest of his origins. Stewed tripe in tomato sauce, perhaps.’
    ‘What is the meaning of these insinuations?’ Mantega demanded angrily. ‘Signor Newman is an American. I wouldn’t have dreamt of offering him one of our traditional Calabrian dishes. We are only too well aware that they are often unappreciated by foreigners.’
    He glared pointedly at Zen.
    ‘I didn’t mention the occasion to my wife because I did not intend her to be present. As I keep trying to get you to understand, this was not a social event. The business that Signor Newman and I had to discuss was extremely confidential. I planned to receive him outside on the terrazza . It has a wonderful view of the city below, and there we could talk freely. As for food, there was some leftover parmigiana di melanzane in the fridge that I could warm up.’
    Mantega was well into his stride by now.
    ‘I did in fact tell my wife when I returned from work that night, but she may well not have been listening to me. Such is often the case. I’ll remind her of what happened as soon as I get home. If it comes to her making a sworn testimony in the future, I’m sure that her story will tally with mine.’
    ‘I’m sure it will,’ said Zen drily. ‘And she will probably deny ever having spoken to my subordinate. All right, you may go.’
    Mantega frowned and stood up, shrugging awkwardly.
    ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ he said in a defensive tone.
    ‘You’ve been a model witness,’ Zen returned. ‘In fact I shall hold you up as an example to the people I have still to question, some of whom may be less helpful. “Why can’t you be as co-operative as Signor Mantega?” I