by Donna Leon
the day and he would have to wait until
the following day to learn about Filippi. But she did not disappoint.
At three-thirty, just as he was considering going down to ask Vianello
to have a look on the computer, she came into his office, a few papers
in her hand.
"Filippi?" he asked.
"Isn't that the name of a battle?"
"Yes. It's where Bruto and Cassio were defeated."
"By Marc' Antonio?" she asked, not at all to his surprise.
"And Ottaviano," he added for the sake of correctness. "Who then went
on, if memory serves, to defeat Antonio."
"It serves she said, placing the papers on his desk, adding, "A tricky
lot, soldiers."
He nodded at the papers. "Do they lead you to that conclusion, or does
the battle of Filippi?"
"Both," she answered. She explained that she would be leaving the
Questura in an hour because she had an appointment and left his
office.
There didn't seem to be more than a dozen sheets of paper, but they
contained an adequate summary of both men's rise through the ranks of
the military. After graduating from the San Martino Academy, Filippi
went on to the formal military academy in Mantova, where he proved to
be a mediocre cadet. Filippi finished in the middle of his class,
beginning a career that had little to do with battle or its many
dangers. He had spent his early years as 'resource specialist' in a
tank regiment. Promoted, he had served for three years on the staff of
the military attache to Spain. Promoted again, he was posted as
executive officer in charge of procurement for a regiment of
paratroopers, where he remained until his retirement. Glancing back at
Filippi's first posting, Brunetti's attention was caught by the word,
'tank', and his mind flew instantly to his father and the rage into
which that word would catapult him. For two of the war years, while
the Army staggered under the command of General Cavallero, ex-director
of the Ansaldo armaments complex, Brunetti's
father had driven one of their tanks. More than once he had seen the
men of his battalion blown to fragments as the armour plating shattered
like glass under enemy fire.
Toscano had enjoyed a similarly un-bellicose career. Like Filippi, he
had risen effortlessly through the ranks, as though helped along by
gentle puffs of wind from the cheeks of protecting cherubs. After
years in which he had certainly never been disturbed by the sound of
shots fired in anger, Colonello Toscano had been appointed to serve as
military adviser to Parliament, the position from which he had been
encouraged to retire two years before. He now served as professor of
history and military theory at the San Martino Academy.
Beneath the two pages bearing the letterhead of the Army were two more
containing lists of property owned by Filippi and Toscano and by
members of their families, as well as copies of their most recent bank
statements. Perhaps they both had rich wives; perhaps both came from
wealthy families; perhaps both had been careful with their salaries all
those years. Perhaps.
Years ago, when he first met Paola, Brunetti had limited himself to
phoning her only every few days in the hope of disguising his interest
and in the equally vain hope of maintaining what he then defined as his
male superiority. The memory of this awkward restraint came to him as
he dialled Avisani's number in Palermo.
But Avisani, when he heard Brunetti's voice, was as gracious as Paola
had been, all those years ago. "I've wanted to call you, Guido, but
things are crazy here. No one seems to know who's in charge of the
government."
Brunetti marvelled that a reporter as experienced as he should think
anyone would find this worthy of comment but said only, "I thought I'd
call. And nag."
"It's not necessary," Avisani answered with a laugh. "I've had a trawl
through the files, but the only thing I could come
up with aside from what I told you last time is that both of them,
Filippi and Toscano, own enormous amounts of stock in Edilan-Forma."
"What does "enormous" mean?"
"If you've managed to convert to thinking in Euros, perhaps ten million
each."
Brunetti made a low humming noise of interest then asked, "Any idea how
they acquired it?"
Toscano's really belongs to his wife. At least it's listed in her
name."
"You told me Filippi was married to the President's cousin."
"Yes. He is. But the stock is in his name, not hers. It seems that
he was paid in stock while he was on the board."
Neither spoke for a long time until finally Brunetti broke the silence
by saying, "It would be in both of their interests to see that the
price of the stock didn't drop."
"Exactly," agreed Avisani.
"A parliamentary investigation might have just that effect."
This time it was the journalist who answered with a noise, though his
was more a grunt than a hum.
"Did you check the stock?" Brunetti asked.
"Steady as a rock, well, as a rock that continues to move upward and
that gives out steady dividends."
The phone line was silent, but both of them heard the tumble and roll
of the other's calculations and conclusions. Finally Avisani said,
sounding stressed, "I've got to go, Guido. We might wake up tomorrow
morning with no government."
"It's a pity Tommaso d'Aquino is no longer with us," Brunetti observed
mildly.
Confused, Avisani asked, "What?" then amended it to "Why?"
"He might have added that to his proofs of the existence of God."
Another muffled noise and Avisani was gone.
But how, Brunetti wondered, to penetrate the world of the cadets? He
had long held the view that it was no accident that the Mafia had grown
in the home of the Vatican, for both demanded the same fidelity from
their followers and both punished betrayal with death, either earthly
or eternal. The third in this trinity of twisted loyalty was
undoubtedly the military: perhaps the business of imposing death upon
the enemy made it easy to impose it upon their own.
He sat for a long time, dividing his gaze between the wall of his
office and the facade of San Lorenzo, but on neither surface saw he any
way to penetrate the code that reigned at San Martino. Finally he
picked up the phone and called Pucetti. When the officer answered,
Brunetti asked, "How old is Filippi?"
"Eighteen, sir
"Good."
"Why?"
"We can talk to him alone."
"Won't he want a lawyer?"
"Not if he thinks he's smarter than we are."
"And how will you make him think that?"
"I'll send Alvise and Riverre to bring him in."
Brunetti was very pleased by the fact that Pucetti refrained from
laughter or comment, seeing in his discretion sign of both the young
man's intelligence and his charity.
When Brunetti went downstairs an hour later, he found Paolo Filippi in
the interview room, sitting at the head of the rectangular table,
> facing the door. The young man sat straight in the chair, his spine at
least ten centimetres from the back, his hands carefully folded on the
desk in front of him, like a general who has summoned his staff and
waits impatiently for them to arrive. He wore his uniform and had
placed his cap, neatly folded gloves carefully set on its crown, to
his
right. He looked at Brunetti when he and Vianello came in but said
nothing to acknowledge their presence. Brunetti recognized him
instantly as the boy whose ankle he had so delighted in kicking, and he
saw that the recognition was mutual.
Taking his cue from Filippi's silence, Brunetti walked to one side of
the table, Vianello to the other. Brunetti carried a thick blue file,
which he placed in front of him as he sat down. Ignoring the boy, he
reached out and turned on the microphone, then gave the date and the
names of the three people present in the room. He turned to face the
boy and, in a voice he made sound as formulaic as possible, asked
Filippi if he wanted a lawyer to be present, hoping that to the young
man's ears it would sound like the sort of offer a brave man would
spurn.
"Of course not," the boy said, striving for the tone of bored
superiority used by mediocre actors in bad war movies. Brunetti gave
silent thanks for the arrogance of the young.
Quickly, using the same formulaic tone, Brunetti disposed of the
standard questions about name, age, place of residence, and then asked
the boy what he did.
"I'm a student, of course Filippi answered, as though it were
unthinkable that someone his age, from his background, could be
anything other than this.
"At the San Martino Academy?" Brunetti asked.
"You know that," the boy said.
"I'm sorry, but that's not an answer Brunetti said calmly.
In a sulky voice, the boy said, "Yes."
"In what year are you?" Brunetti asked, though he knew the answer and
believed the information to be irrelevant. He wanted to see if Filippi
had learned to answer questions without dispute.
Third."
"Have you spent all three years at the Academy?" Brunetti asked.
"Of course."
"Is it part of your family tradition?"
"What, the Academy?"
"Yes."
"Of course it is. The Academy and then the Army."
"Is your father in the Army, then?"
"He was. He's retired."
"When was that?"
"Three years ago."
"Do you have any idea why your father retired?"
Irritated, the boy asked, "Who do you want to know about, me or my
father? If you want to know about him, then why don't you bring him in
and ask him?"
"In due course Brunetti said calmly, then repeated, "Do you have any
idea why your father retired?"
"Why does anyone retire?" the boy shot back angrily. "He had enough
years and he wanted to do something else."
"Serve on the board of Edilan-Forma?"
The boy waved away the possibility with his hand. The don't know what
he wanted. You'll have to ask him."
As if it followed in logical sequence, Brunetti asked, "Did you know
Ernesto Moro?"
The boy who killed himself?" Filippi asked, Brunetti thought
unnecessarily.
"Yes."
"Yes, I knew him, though he was a year below me."
"Did you take any classes together?"
"No."
"Did you participate in sports together?"
"No."
"Did you have friends in common?"
"No."
"How many students are there at the Academy?" Brunetti asked.
The question puzzled Filippi, who turned to take a quick
look at the silent Vianello, as if the other man might know why this
question was being asked.
When nothing was forthcoming from Vianello, the boy said, "No. Why?"
"It's a small school, fewer than a hundred students
"If you knew that, why did you ask me?" Brunetti was glad to see that
the boy was irritated at having been asked a question to which the
police obviously already knew the answer.
Ignoring Filippi's question, Brunetti said, "I understand it's a good
school."
"Yes. It's very hard to get in."
"And very expensive Brunetti observed neutrally.
"Of course," Filippi said with no attempt to disguise his pride.
"Is preference given to the sons of former students?"
"I should hope so Filippi said.
"Why is that?"
"Because then the right people get in."
"And who are they?" Brunetti asked with mild curiosity, conscious as
he spoke that, if his own son were to use the phrase, 'the right
people', in that same tone, he would feel himself to have failed as a
parent.
"Who?" Filippi demanded.
"The right people."
The sons of officers, of course the boy answered.
"Of course Brunetti repeated. He opened the file and glanced at the
top sheet of paper, which had nothing to do with Filippi or Moro. He
looked at Filippi, back at the paper, then again at the boy. "Do you
remember where you were the night that Cadet Moro was .. ." he began,
deliberately hesitating after the last word before correcting it to,
'died?"
"In my room, I assume the boy answered.
"You assume?"
"Where else would I be?"
Brunetti permitted himself to look across at Vianello, who gave the
most minimal of no cis Brunetti slowly turned the page over and
glanced at the next.
"Was anyone in the room with you?"
"No." The answer was immediate.
"Where was your roommate?"
Filippi reached out and adjusted the folded gloves until they ran
directly from the centre of the peak to the back of the cap. "He must
have been there the boy finally said.
"I see Brunetti said. As if unable to resist the impulse, he glanced
across at Vianello. The Inspector gave another slight nod. Brunetti
looked again at the paper and, from memory, asked, "His name's Davide
Cappellini, isn't it?"
Filippi, suppressing any sign of surprise, answered, "Yes."
"Is he a close friend of yours?" Brunetti asked.
"I suppose so Filippi said with the petulance that only teenagers can
express.
"Only that?"
"Only what?"
That you suppose it. That you aren't sure."
"Of course I'm sure. What else would he be if we've shared a room for
two years?"
"Exactly/ Brunetti permitted himself to observe and bent his attention
to the papers again. After what he realized was a long time, he asked,
"Do you do things together?" Then, before Filippi could ask who he
meant, Brunetti clarified, "You and your roommate, Cadet Cappellini?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do things together Brunetti repeated. "Study? Sports? Other
things?"
"What other things?" Filippi demanded suspiciously.
"Hunting?" Vianello surprised them both by suggesting.
Almost as if he had forgotten the presence of the other policeman,
Filippi whipped his head towards Vianello and demanded, his voice
/> slipping up an octave, "What?"
"Fishing? Hunting?" Vianello asked with innocent curiosity, then
added, "Soccer?"
Filippi reached a hand in the direction of the gloves but stopped
himself and folded both hands together on the desk in front of him. "I
want to have a lawyer here with me," he said.
Mildly, as though Filippi had asked for a glass of water, Brunetti
said, "Of course," leaned forward, gave the time, and said into the
microphone that the interview was being broken off.
When he said that he didn't know a lawyer, the boy was left alone in a
room and allowed to call his father. A few minutes later he came out
and said that his father would be there with a lawyer in about an hour.
Brunetti called an officer to take the boy back to the room where he
