God's Dog by Diego Marani Page B

was, he could not run the risk of keeping that phone in his possession. When he had memorised its contents as best he could, he took out the battery and removed the microchip, broke it in two and threw the pieces into the vases of cut flowers on the altar. Now he had to brace himself to return to the convent.
    In Civitavecchia Harbour three men were waiting nervously in the embarkation parking lot. Two of them were seated in a car, with the windows down. The third, a thin man with very fair hair, was pacing up and down in front of the bonnet, smoking a cigarette. Then he propped his elbows up on one of the open windows.
    â€˜You and Boris stay in the car. I’ll do the talking.’ The others nodded. It was almost evening, and lights were going on along the quays. The ferry from Genoa was drawing alongside: all lit up, it set the water foaming, its funnels sending out clouds of black smoke. The cars began rattling down the gangway, and soon a long queue had formed at the exit from the parking lot. The fair-haired man threw down his butt end and got into the driving seat. A group of harbour-workers in blue overalls set off towards the bar, taking off their caps and wiping the sweat from their foreheads. One of them, who had stayed behind, went up to the car and said in a low voice: ‘That’s the one, that yellow TIR that’s coming down right now.’
    The fair-haired man switched on the engine and looked towards the yellow truck that was bumping down the gangway. He turned the car round on the quay, tyres screeching, and joined the queue of cars leaving the harbour. The truck slithered after him. They made their way slowly forward, one behind the other, as far as the service area outside Santa Severa, where the truck driver parked in the small empty square and went to check the tarpaulins. He was middle-aged, fresh-complexioned, solidly-built and slow-moving; his head was shaven, but his chin bore the faint suggestion of a beard. He had a ring in his left ear, a snake tattooed on his upper arm, and he was wearing shorts and flashy trainers. The fair-haired man stopped the car some distance away from him, just beyond the turn-off to the petrol station. He gave the others a tense nod, pulled something out from under the seat and walked off towards the truck, then addressed the man behind the trailer.
    â€˜Good evening, I’m Sergio’s contact.’
    The driver pretended not to hear; he just stood there, tightening a strap. The fair-haired man went a bit closer.
    â€˜Semtex. Altogether, a kilo in all. Plus the detonators. We’ve agreed on a price,’ he said, lowering his voice. The driver nodded. The fair-haired man took a folded newspaper out from under his shirt.
    â€˜To be handed over in two installments. Next one, same place, same time.’
    The driver nodded, stuffed the newspaper into his trouser pocket, winked, went off towards the driver’s cab and started the engine; the truck moved slowly off, suddenly lit up from nose to tail with coloured lights. The sky over the dark sea, still red from the sunset, was casting a golden glow over the houses in the little bay. The fair-haired man was just about to go back to the car when he heard shouting. Two four-by-fours with darkened windows were now blocking the car’s exit, one in front and one behind. Armed men were surrounding it, ordering the other two to get out and put up their hands. The fair-haired man squatted down among the bushes in the flower-bed and proceeded on all fours towards the wall of the motorway restaurant. The truck slithered slowly down the road leading to the petrol station on the other side of the little square, and there the fair-haired man climbed into it through the open window. At that moment two police cars drove into the service area, sirens blaring. Scarlet in the face, the driver first tried to push the man out again, then pulled him up on to the seat and gestured to him to hide on the bunk bed,