by Aidan Conway
“The FDA?”
“Final drastic action. I decided to resort to the Alexandrian method,” he said, pulling up a new file. “That is Alexander Magna. Alexander the Great.”
“Meaning?” said Rossi, intrigued now as much as he was disturbed by the lingering images still before them on the screen.
“Meaning that instead of trying to open it with my toes, I stood on it.”
“The Gordian knot,” said Rossi.
“Exactly. Not very scientific but effective in its own way.”
He spun the laptop around to show them the fruits of his labours.
“As you can see, the results were not particularly clean, but there is some usable data, possibly in some sort of code and there’s fragments all over the place. Still, better than nothing. I basically dropped a bomb on it.”
“Anything else?”
Gab shook his head.
“Well she was no amateur, that’s for sure.”
Pages of text and figures and random characters, it looked impenetrable.
“Can you do me a printout?” said Rossi. “It can be my crossword for the next five years.”
“Or while you’re suspended,” said Carrara.
“Thanks for reminding me,” replied Rossi, taking the wad of sheets, folding them and tucking them into his jacket pocket.
“And get us a copy of that film, Gigi,” he said. “I love nightmares.”
Sixty-Five
His grandfather’s passing had been very quick in the end. The last, irreversible decline had begun some weeks before, happening in stages, fatal increments of physical change, and though none of them had wanted to acknowledge that fact, they knew he had begun to die. Francesco had been there when it mattered most. His employers had not been fully sympathetic, so he had taken sick leave and unpaid holiday in order to be around as much as possible. He didn’t know if he had a job to go back to. He hardly cared.
He was the man of the house now and had been for some time. He had looked after bureaucratic problems, had helped his mother with the medical paraphernalia and financial matters. He had been a good son. They had both done their best to make sure that it was a dignified end for one who had held dignity to be the bedrock and foundation of humanity. He had always been a sharp dresser but without being showy, as a mark of respect for himself and for those he might encounter. Then they had upped the dose of morphine and, in line with his known if not legally sanctionable wishes, they had eased his passing.
Family had come, old comrades from his partisan days, some old party members. All had paid their respects. And now, as they faced the task of moving on, Francesco and his mother stood in the newly emptied room, unable to forget that this was where his soul had left the world never to return. They would always see his face, feel his presence, his room-filling voice and charisma. His habits, some good and a few bad. But his reputation was assured, his small place in history guaranteed. As a partigiano from the earliest days of the war he had followed his conscience and served his country. Now there were his old clothes to sort out, his papers, the newspaper clippings, the books he had read and reread. Then she stopped from her folding and filling of boxes and from the back of the wardrobe brought forth the rectangular wooden case. She opened it and turned to Francesco. Inside lay the Smith & Wesson pistol, on its side, as if in a long, historic sleep.
“Take it, Franchie,” she said, holding it out in front of her. “This is yours now. Remember what it means.”
Rossi and Carrara were doing their homework in Rossi’s apartment. Carrara was shaking his head and pacing the floor as Rossi, slouched on the sofa, continued to pore over the printouts with the numbers and codes that had come from the Marini files Gab had managed to crack. He had the semblance of a man banking on identifying something in them that could point to hidden motives or figures involved in recent events, willing it to emerge.
“So she’s not dead?” said Carrara.
Rossi didn’t look up but continued to study the printout as he replied.
“Who the hell do you think it was then? Long hair, right height. Unmoved by an explosion that she seems to be waiting to happen. Do you reckon there are many secret service operatives like that? And then the tip-off to Torrini or Silvestre or both to try and frame us in the act of grave robbing.”
“Anyone could be watching our every move, though,” said Carrara, wanting to dispel the scenario now taking shape before their eyes. “If we were getting close to knowing something, knowing the wrong things. Take it back to the day of the bombing. They were already clamming up and closing ranks. They wanted it all to themselves from the beginning.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Rossi, circling now with a red pen and joining up ideas scribbled in the margins.
He sat up, as if a shock had gone through him. Carrara sensed the change in a flash.
“What is it?”
“Might have something here,” he said springing to his feet. He thrust the page he was studying under Carrara’s nose. “Look. Here and here and here,” he said. “The same sequence of letters and numbers. SLVSTR. 2K. 4K. 2K.”
“Silvestre?”
“And the numbers?”
“Two thousand? Four thousand?”
“Payments,” said Rossi. “Payments. We just got lucky.”
Iannelli too had something to puzzle over. He sat at his desk staring at the new message.
And that was it. Again, it would have been sent via an anonymous server, a nonsense address, but how sure could he be that this was a tip-off? He reflected that there might be a plan to hand over information. Perhaps a meet or a drop off. And what if it was a hoax or a trap to get him out in the open?
What to do? His thumb hovered over the call button. Pass it on to Rossi, or anyone in the RSCS for that matter? Rossi hadn’t got back to him yet about the first one, and on reflection, he was beginning to think he had perhaps been hasty about that. He had heard of Rossi’s predicament through the grapevine. He was mildly amused by the cloak-and-dagger circumstances of Rossi’s being caught almost red-handed but he would have bet his paycheque on the whole thing being a set-up to discredit him and get him off the case. Or if he had been where he was alleged to have been that night then there had to be other good reasons. Interesting reasons, if Rossi was involved. So, he would hold fire. Wait and see if there were any developments. After all, the message said “today” and he wasn’t going anywhere. He could wait.
“But we don’t know,” said Carrara. “I mean, they’re just random numbers.” He had taken a seat on the sofa as Rossi paced the apartment in front of him.
“Right,” said Rossi. “But do you think he’s not getting looked after by someone?” He seemed to be formulating a plan now. “What if we put it to him that we know he is? This is too much to be a coincidence and, considering the rest of it, if this came from Maria Marini’s files, which it did, and if that really was her in the CCTV footage, if somehow she is still alive and staged the whole car crash and if that wasn’t her body in the ravine. If all that is true then maybe she is pulling the strings on this one and dog-handling scum like Silvestre. He probably doesn’t even know who he’s working for and doesn’t care. He could be taking a few grand here and there, following orders to keep an eye on us, and this could be the proof.”
“So we take him down?” said Carrara. “It’s hardly going to stand up though, is it? A lousy printout with a few letters and numbers. A cock and bull story so outlandish that we wouldn’t even get the time of day before they’d kicked us out.”
“No,” said Rossi waving an admonishing finger. “We keep this in the family. Just us. And we pay him a visit.”
He reached for his address book, and then flicking through stopped and held it out for Carrara to see.
“You get on to this guy, while I look up Silvestre. He’s an old friend. Just give him the name and tell him I sent you. He’ll do the rest.”
Rossi scrolled through the contacts on his phone.
&
nbsp; “How are you going to persuade him to meet?” said Carrara.
There were the beginnings of a smile at the corners of Rossi’s mouth.
“Let’s just say we intimate that it’s definitely in his interests.”
“Offer him a bribe?”
“Of course.”
Sixty-Six
“Here,” said Rossi, indicating a rough track which led off the wider dirt road they had been walking through the park. The path climbed and wound through some oaks and poplars thinning out then at the entrance to what appeared to be a tunnel or a cave carved into the reddish-ochre rock that formed the hillside.
A place of my choosing. No clever shit. Nice and friendly, right? Rossi had agreed to Silvestre’s conditions, all the “demands” and had given him every impression that it was he who was calling the shots. Carrara, meanwhile, had been onto Rossi’s contact in the Financial Police.
“Old irrigation channels, I believe,” said Rossi. “There’s a cave network. They used to use them for mushroom cultivation. They like the damp and dark.”
“And mushrooms are parasites too,” said Carrara. “Fitting, wouldn’t you say?”
Carrara shone his torch into the pitch darkness. And flicked the safety on his Beretta.
“After you,” said Rossi, his weapon already live.
“Thanks,” said Carrara. “I take it that it’s not 100 per cent safe.”
Rossi pointed to a rusty and half-concealed sign.
BEWARE OF LANDSLIPS AND RAVINES.
They penetrated deep into the tunnel and its sudden other-worldly cold. The rectangle of light from the entrance behind them began to diminish and outside of the torch beam was total blackness.
As they followed the dusty path in search of some sign of life, Rossi was beginning to wonder whether they might not be walking into another set-up. No one knew they were here. Their phones would give no discernible signal. A convenient tunnel collapse and they would already be in their own graves.
“Picked a nice spot, didn’t he?” said Carrara.
“Yes, he did,” said a voice from the gloom. Silvestre emerged in front of them carrying his own torch. “This way gentleman,” he said and continued along the tunnel until it opened out into a modest gallery hewn from the rock. He hung his torch on a hook in the wall above their heads so it gave a more or less even illumination.
“Come here often?” said Rossi looking around at what was evidently a meeting place for practitioners of any number of illicit or questionable activities. Silvestre ignored the comment.
“Now if you’d kindly let me frisk you gentlemen for any thing you might have forgotten to remove and then I think we can all relax.”
Carrara and Rossi obliged him, despite their distaste. Silvestre lifted their weapons from their shoulder holsters but left them with their phones.
“Well, your mobile’s fucked here,” said Silvestre. “Transmitters, phones, all useless. I thought coming down here would simplify matters. He flicked the safeties and tossed the weapons behind him onto the ground.
“So, how can I help you, gents?” he said then, lighting up a cigarette but not offering.
“We want you to back off,” said Rossi. “Call it quits on this story about the church.”
Silvestre blew out a cloud of smoke that hung between them, going nowhere in the clammy air.
“Why should I?” he said. “It’s the truth.”
“Right,” said Rossi. “Like someone just happened to see a light on inside and came to investigate.”
Silvestre shrugged.
“Well, the truth will out, as they say. At least once there’s been a full and thorough investigation.”
“We know you got tipped off,” said Carrara. “And we know you sold out long ago.”
Silvestre felt sure enough of himself to smirk as he drew on his cigarette, as Rossi cut in again before Carrara might lose his cool.
“And what about if we make it easier for everyone,” said Rossi. “Save a bit of strain on the public purse. How about we have no investigation?”
He reached inside his jacket pocket and took out a slightly bulging envelope. Silvestre’s eyes followed its brief trajectory until it halted in front of him in Rossi’s outstretched hand.
“Of course,” Rossi continued, “I would rather you just made it clear to everyone that the door was open after all the other night.”
“And risk perjuring myself?”
“And this is less risky?” said Rossi indicating with a terse movement the envelope in his outstretched hand.
“You will check you haven’t left anything behind before you leave,” said Silvestre flicking ash from his half-smoked cigarette and turning away as if he had concluded matters before then wheeling round. “And then when we meet again.”
“What do you mean, again?” said Carrara.
Silvestre drew on his cigarette, the tip flaring, diabolical in the half-light. Paranoiacally cautious, cynical, he still hadn’t taken the envelope.
“Well, this is the down payment, right? The beginning of a fruitful collaboration. And I could use some regular help regarding certain ‘consignments’ coming into the capital.”
Carrara’s muscles were twitching with a spontaneous desire to show Silvestre whose fists were in control, but Rossi put out a knowing, calming hand.
“Naturally,” said Rossi. “Naturally. Silvestre has a legitimate point. Oh, but wait a minute.”
He turned to Carrara and drew back his hand holding the envelope.
“Gigi, I thought I told you to bring the one stuffed with cash.”
Carrara was shaking his head. Silvestre’s arrogant and detached expression began to change as he watched Rossi open the envelope and remove the papers inside.
“What is this?” Rossi said with mock theatrical surprise. Silvestre was staring now at the sheets in Rossi’s hand. “Payments made to Silvestre, by a certain agent Marini. Two thousand, four thousand.”
He looked up at Silvestre.
“Need I go on? Or do you want me to mention the offshore account? The Swiss bank? They’re not so anonymous anymore, you know. But it seems you spend it as fast as you get it and that has come to not a few people’s attention.”
Despite holding the whip hand in the cave, Silvestre had begun to look like the lion tamer in the ring without his chair. He backed off a couple of steps.
“You can’t prove a damn thing, Rossi!” said Silvestre exploding then within his taught wiry frame and pointing an enraged finger at his accuser. “You haven’t got a shred of proof! You’re bluffing!”
“Try me,” said Rossi, “and our friends in the Guardia di Finanza will be down on you like a tonne of bricks. At best you’ll be under investigation, suspended. Worst-case you’re looking at a scandal. Maybe jail.”
Rossi held up the pages.
“I’ve even got the dates. When she handed it over. It’s all here. So, I got lucky for once. Now, about those doors the other night. What exactly happened? It looks to me like there was a right royal mix-up, wasn’t there?”
It had been another busy day at the office of The List of Shame. There had been calls from every quarter it seemed – messages of solidarity, the usual familiar litany of abuse and death threats. They didn’t come in equal measure but it at least it meant they were making waves. The demo had got plenty of press coverage, and they’d picked up good exposure on the Web too. That was where much of it was happening now. Things got liked, shared and with a bit of luck could go viral. The young especially were instrumental. It was they who could influence and bring about change, create a critical mass of opinion and then what they had been struggling for so long to bring to people’s attention would look suddenly startlingly normal.
As Ginika sifted through the remains of a to-do list of sorts, she came across an e-mail she had printed but hadn’t got round to following up yet. Inspector Michael Rossi. He had heard of the organization, had seen them at the demo and now he was making enquiries about a certain Jibri
l, and that crook who went by the name of the President. Well, she certainly knew about his murderous business. Who didn’t? It was people like the President who profited from the bigotry, who fed the bigotry. Did she know anything about any killings in the past? The enquiry was vague but it was all to do with a very important ongoing investigation and anything might help. He had left a phone number too. Well, she said to herself and looked up at the clock. She had a few minutes and there was no time like the present.
Sixty-Seven
As they emerged into the sunlight from their subterranean rendezvous, Rossi’s phone was hit by a tempest of backed-up messages and missed calls. Iannelli, Maroni, Katia, Yana.
“Who’s first?” he said, stopping to flick through and prioritize them.
Carrara too was getting bombarded.
“Guardia di Finanza,” he said, holding up a hand to signal to Rossi he understood its importance with regard to Silvestre and his cash movements. For a few moments he listened as a quizzical look began to spread across his face.
“But nothing?” said Carrara. “You’re sure? OK, thanks anyway.”
Rossi just watched and waited.
“The GdF have got nothing on Silvestre,” said Carrara, the phone hanging idly in his hand.
“Neither have I,” said Rossi. He went on ahead as Carrara followed, looking on as Rossi passed the bins at the entrance to the park and tossed the envelope and printouts into the recycling bin. Rossi turned round.
“Won’t be needing that anymore,” he said. “It was a set-up,” he explained to a still puzzled-looking Carrara. “I didn’t have a thing on him. Gab was in on it and we made the whole story up.”
“It was all bullshit?”
“Afraid so,” said Rossi. “Saved you the trouble of lying. You looked thoroughly convinced though, and he fell for it hook, line and sinker. It was a bluff.” Carrara was dumbstruck. “I had no other option,” Rossi continued. “Given the time constraints. But I knew he was up to something and then, after seeing the video footage, well, I took a gamble. Marini’s still pulling strings, we get followed and rumbled. He’s the man on our tails. There had to be some little sweetener in it for him somewhere.”
