The Traitor (The Carnivia Trilogy)

by Jonathan Holt

  As she cleared a small overhang, the base came into view below her. It wasn’t much to look at: no more than half a dozen windswept concrete buildings, so ugly they could only be military. Everything seemed derelict. She abseiled another hundred feet before reaching a ledge. There she waited, making sure no one was around.

  Satisfied, she dropped the last fifty feet. A second fence bore a warning that this was a military zone and that trespassing, photography and mapmaking were forbidden under the Italian penal code. A smaller, more recent sign warned that it was also in danger of collapse. A graphic of a snarling guard dog needed no explanation. But there were large rusty gaps in the chain-link and what looked like rabbit holes pocking the ground on either side. If there had ever been dogs here, they’d long since departed.

  She’d read online that the site was still officially used by the Italian Intelligence Agency as an observation post – observing what, she wondered? – but if so, she couldn’t see any signs of it.

  She walked to the nearest building and peered through the broken window. It contained twenty or so bunk beds. But the mattresses and everything else combustible had long since been burnt, only the iron frames and charred bedsprings remaining, strewn across the floor.

  She moved on to the next hut. This one looked more promising. Old papers and bottles were scattered around, as if it had been vacated in a hurry. In the middle was the burnt-out carcass of a billiard table.

  She went inside. On one side of the table was a small metal plaque. “To the men of Gladio, with my warmest admiration, Giulio Andreotti.” Well, at least she was in the right place. She wondered at the personal gift of appreciation from the same prime minister who’d subsequently revealed the network’s existence. It was surprising the departing gladiators hadn’t ripped the plaque off in disgust. Or had leaving it here for others to see been the more pointed comment?

  In a room at the back her heart quickened when she spotted a small safe. But there was nothing inside, only some charred fragments. The Gladio clear-up, if that was what had happened here, had been thorough.

  Or perhaps, she thought, the clear-up had been carried out later, by the Italian security services, when they were handed the site as an observation post.

  She checked the other huts, but the story was the same. In the former mess hut even the empty wine bottles had been smashed, the broken glass crunching like gravel under her feet.

  Well, what did you expect after so long? Documentary evidence? But even though she’d known it was a long shot, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. She’d been hoping for something – anything – that told her the trail wasn’t completely cold.

  Her ears caught the sound of an engine. Going outside, she saw a military truck coming down the track towards her.

  Shit.

  Quickly, she retreated back inside the hut. She watched through the window as the truck pulled up by the buildings and two soldiers in Italian uniforms climbed down, pulling out packets of cigarettes as they did so. Leaning against the truck’s side, they smoked and chatted in the sunshine. Then one of them walked straight towards the building she was hiding in.

  She ducked her head back from the window and held her breath. A moment later, she heard the splash of urine against the wall. “They need to play him in position,” a voice said, suddenly very near; he was still chatting to his companion over his shoulder. She was close enough to smell the sharp reek of his urine. When he’d finished, the men got back in the truck and drove off.

  A routine patrol, she guessed. Just one more pointless duty in a day filled with pointless duties, carrying out an order given by some panicked bureaucrat a decade or more ago and never rescinded.

  She didn’t bother to climb back up her abseil rope but simply walked up the track, the sun blasting off the rock and crumbling tarmac onto her face. High above her, a griffin vulture swooped around the mountaintop and then, without apparently moving a wingtip, floated down to inspect her more closely.

  Pausing to enjoy its magnificent five-foot wingspan, she thought, Well, at least I saw you. So it wasn’t a completely wasted trip.

  Something flashed in the corner of her vision. A windscreen, catching the sun, as a vehicle pulled off the coast road where it snaked round the same mountain, high above her. She could just make out that it was a Land Rover. Tourists, most likely, stopping to admire the view. She waited for them to set off again before she moved.

  After she’d waited ten minutes, she realised they weren’t coming. Which meant that they’d stopped to take more pictures. Or…

  Or they were watching her, waiting for her to move. If she hadn’t paused to look at the griffin vulture, she’d never have spotted them.

  She drove back to the climbing shop, checking occasionally in her rear-view mirror to make sure she wasn’t being followed.

  “Think I chose a bad route,” she said noncommittally to the owner. “Look, do you happen to have a map of the military installations here on Sardinia?”

  The man gave her a look. “You mean, a map of the places we’re not allowed to map?”

  “That’s the one.” Just as nautical maps showed seabed channels and underwater reefs, so climbers needed to know which parts of the mountains were off limits. If anyone had a map like that, it was likely to be him.

  He considered. “As it happens, I do.”

  He pulled out a cylinder of thick paper and unrolled it, weighing its corners down with coffee mugs to reveal a large-scale map of the island. Parts had been hatched with thick red lines. “If you’re worrying about DP, you’re right to.” He pointed to an area in the south-east with one heavily tattooed, muscular arm. “This region here, Quirra, is the largest weapons-testing facility in Europe. Leukaemia levels in the surrounding area are running at up to sixty-five per cent of the population. The shepherds had so many deformed lambs they couldn’t make a living, so they’ve all moved to other parts of the island.”

  By “DP”, she realised, he meant “depleted uranium”, the residue of shells made from radioactive metals.

  “But that’s not the only area they’ve contaminated.” He tapped the island’s north-east corner. “There was meant to be an EU scientific study into Lake Baratz, here. They found so much unexploded ordinance the scientists had to pull out for their own safety. The point is, the Italian government charges international weapons manufacturers a million dollars a day to use these mountains. That money goes straight to Rome. When our regional president managed to get a compensation fund of ten million euros, it was hailed as a great victory. But actually it was less than two weeks’ income for the people who run this place.” He spoke matter-of-factly, as if his anger at these manifold injustices had long since been exhausted.

  “What about other bases?” she said, squinting sideways at the map.

  “Take your pick. Down in the south you’ve got Decimomannu. The largest airport in Italy, and it doesn’t host a single civilian flight. And Capo Taluda.” He pointed again. “That’s where they test white phosphorus. This whole island’s just one big playground for the international military.”

  “Any bases that have been closed or mothballed in, say, the last fifteen years?”

  He considered. “There’s the old US–NATO base on the island of La Maddalena. That was closed about ten years ago.”

  “What’s it used for now?”

  “Not a lot. The base was turned into a fancy hotel. The rest of the island’s just a bird sanctuary. Though I did hear they use it for military exercises from time to time.”

  “What kind of exercises?”

  “Who knows. It’s pretty remote. Whatever they do up there, there wouldn’t be anyone else around to see it.”

  She thought. “Any climbing?”

  “Some. Bouldering on sea cliffs, mostly. But what with the contamination and everything, why would you want to go there?”

  She flashed him a smile. “I like birds, I guess.”

  21

  ONCE AGAIN VENICE had dawned hot
and humid. Kat had to share the vaporetto from the train station at Santa Lucia with a mass of tourists, who shuffled slowly around the deck at each stop like penguins instead of going down inside the boat to make room. Nor was her mood improved by the article she found on page four of Il Gazzettino, headed: “Night Swimmer Found Dead on Beach”. According to the unnamed reporter, a body “wearing goggles and partially undressed” had been found on the beach at the Lido. It was thought, the article went on to say, that the dead man might have decided to sleep outside in the hot weather, and fallen victim to muggers. Even before she saw the quote from Avvocato Marcello, reassuring tourists that Venice was generally a very safe place to visit “so long as sensible precautions are taken to avoid areas with a large itinerant population”, Kat had discerned the prosecutor’s fluttering hand, airily rewriting history.

  On the next page, another article caught her eye.

  NAPOLEON’S IMPERIAL SUITE REOPENS

  AFTER €3M REFURBISHMENT

  After a century of neglect, the Imperial Apartments of the Royal Palace, commissioned by the Emperor Bonaparte after the fall of the Venetian Republic, reopen this week following a €3m refurbishment.

  The refurbishment of the rooms overlooking Piazza San Marco marks the completion of an ambitious programme of restoration for the Royal Palace. The project’s sponsors, who include the Tignelli fashion brand, will mark the occasion with a spectacular gala in the Imperial Ballroom on Monday night.

  At Campo San Zaccaria, the operations room so efficiently set up by Bagnasco had just as efficiently been dismantled, the manpower already allocated to other investigations. Kat went and found Colonel Piola, still dealing with the paperwork from their previous case.

  “How’s it going?” she asked.

  He grimaced and stretched, glad to have the chance to lay down his files for a few minutes. “The usual. The lawyer representing the glassblowing family has come up with the ingenious explanation that they made the glass themselves and shipped it to China, before realising they couldn’t sell it there and returning it to Murano. A failed business venture, in other words, not an attempt to fleece Venice’s tourists. Oh, and the prosecution’s own expert says the Chinese fakes are probably better quality than the stuff the family was knocking out in any case. I wouldn’t be surprised if they drop the whole thing. You?”

  She hesitated. The room was filled with Carabinieri officers tapping at their computers. “Can we do this somewhere else?”

  They went to a small bar on Fondamenta de l’Osmarin. As well as coffee, Aldo ordered a cornetto, a croissant dusted with icing sugar. He was putting on a little weight, she noticed. She wondered if he was looking after himself now he and his wife had separated. She didn’t ask. Their personal lives were off limits to each other now.

  “This is about your Freemasonry case, I take it,” he said, when they’d found a quiet corner.

  “That’s the problem – it’s not my case any more, at least not officially.” She told him about Grimaldo’s intervention, the list Malli found on Cassandre’s computer, and the Masonic cards in his desk.

  “May I see?”

  She took out one of the cards and passed it to him. “I’ve seen this symbol before,” he said immediately.

  “Where?”

  “You recall that Romani case I dealt with a few years ago?” She nodded. It had been not long after she’d joined the Carabinieri. There had been a national panic about the number of gypsies coming into Italy, with the press full of scare stories about pickpockets and white babies being stolen to order. “The city council in their wisdom decided to put all the Romani in one place, the campo nomadi on Via Vallenari. Some wild rumour started doing the rounds, something about an Italian schoolgirl being dragged there against her will… We never found out who started it. But the upshot was that a mob of vigilantes went down to the camp, cut off the power, then set fire to the Romani caravans.” He shook his head. “Three gypsies died, including a bedridden old lady whose son was on a night shift at a local factory. No one was ever arrested. But I remember seeing that symbol sprayed on one of the burnt-out caravans.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “And that’s not all. It cropped up again when some gay tourists were beaten up in Mestre a couple of years ago. Someone had sprayed it on a wall, along with the words ‘Morte ai culatoni’. Death to queers.”

  “Father Calergi told me it was banned because it was being used by right-wing extremists. But he said it was also the sign of an ancient Venetian confraternity.”

  “Then perhaps that’s why they chose it,” he suggested. “Because of the overlap. Has it occurred to you that your Masons may not be Freemasons at all, at least not primarily – that their lodge may have been formed for some specific criminal purpose, and they’re simply using the rituals and structure of Freemasonry to disguise it? After all, what better cover for an illegal conspiracy than an organisation which already exists in the shadows, one where absolute loyalty to your fellow members is a given?”

  It made sense, she realised. Like a partygoer at Carnevale, Cassandre had stepped onto the stage wearing a mask, and they had all obligingly looked at the mask, not the person. Even those like General Saito, who wanted this whole business hushed up because it might bring Freemasonry into disrepute, were thinking about the trappings rather than the crime.

  “Father Calergi hinted at much the same thing,” she said, remembering. “He said that even today, no one really knew what P2’s political agenda had been.”

  “What are Count Tignelli’s political leanings?”

  “Also to the right, I think. He hero-worships Napoleon, of all people. Called him the ‘liberator of Venice’. He’s even sponsored the refurbishment of Napoleon’s Imperial Apartments.”

  “Perhaps he sees himself as Napoleon’s political heir.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “He almost said as much, actually – that Venice today is mired in corruption and vice, just as it was in the last days of the Republic. He suggested that I, as a Carabinieri officer, would surely agree with that.”

  “I’m sure many of our colleagues would.” Piola dusted his lips with a paper napkin and gestured to Viliberto, the owner, for the bill. As usual, Viliberto waved the suggestion away, indicating that it was on the house; and as usual Piola pulled out a five-euro note and dropped it on the counter – probably more, Kat reflected, than the bill would have been in the first place. Piola’s refusal to accept kickbacks, however small, was one of the things that had made her fall for him, back when they did their first investigation together.

  “I’ll ask around,” she said. “Someone will know something.” Venice might be one of the world’s most popular holiday destinations, but it was also a village. Take away the tourists and you were left with just sixty thousand residents, many of whose families had been there for generations. She might not have come across Tignelli before, but he would almost certainly be known to some of her contacts.

  “I take it you won’t be involving General Saito’s niece in these unofficial investigations?”

  She stared at him. “Who?”

  “Lieutenant Bagnasco. Saito’s niece.” He laughed at her horrified expression. “Didn’t you know? You should feel honoured – he could have assigned her to any investigation, but he chose yours.”

  “He wanted to keep an eye on me,” Kat said slowly. “Even if he’s not involved in the black lodge himself, he doesn’t want any scandal that might discredit the Carabinieri.”

  “Or perhaps he wanted to keep an eye on you because it looked like being a big case, and you’re still relatively inexperienced,” Piola said mildly. “Besides, Bagnasco has the makings of a very good officer.”

  “You know her?” Kat said. It was her turn to be surprised: Bagnasco had said she’d only been in Venice a few weeks.

  Piola nodded. “She’s asked me if I’ll mentor her. We’ve had a few chats, that’s all.”

  “Chats? Over dinner, I suppose?”

 
; “Over dinner, yes. Why not?”

  Because she’s using you, Kat thought sadly. Because she knows you’re lonely, and she’s seen an opportunity to advance herself. Bagnasco would never make the mistake she had, of sleeping with a more senior officer, but she might well let that officer think she wanted to.

  She saw from the look Piola gave her that he thought she was jealous; saw, too, that he found the idea rather pleasing. “I’m not jealous,” she said angrily. “I just think she’s trying to run before she can walk.”

  “Well,” he said, still amused, “you’d know all about that.”

  As they left the bar she saw how he glanced automatically at his reflection in the mirror behind the counter. His hair was greying at the sides, and his face had a lived-in, crumpled quality that was part of its charm. There was no doubt: he was still a very good-looking man. And not just physically, either. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that he wore his principles proudly, like one of his Brioni suits; as if he knew how attractive they made him.

  Back at Campo San Zaccaria, she went up to Malli’s attic. The usually ebullient technician gave her a sombre look and scooted his chair over to a table piled high with evidence bags. “Here,” he said, handing one to her. “I have a feeling I should never have looked at that.”

  “I was hoping I could persuade you to look some more.”

  He shook his head. “No, you can’t, and besides, there’s nothing much there.”

  “Nothing much?” she echoed. “So you did find something else besides that list?”

  He hesitated, then rummaged around on another desk until he found a printout. “He’d deleted his search history as well. But what people don’t realise is that a deleted browsing history isn’t erased – it’s stored in a system file called index.dat. Getting it back can be as simple as doing a System Restore.”