Medusa - 9

by Michael Dibdin

  Zen wrapped his coat around him.

  ‘Well, thank you very much, signora. How much do I owe you for the grappa?’

  Marta shrugged dismissively and walked him to the door.

  ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it. You must come back some time when the restaurant is open. It can get quite lively in season.’

  Her tone of voice belied her words.

  ‘I’ll try to do that,’ Zen lied.

  Once clear of the front door, the force of the wind almost swept him off his feet. He climbed into the waiting taxi, which immediately swung round in a circle and started down the dirt track. Looking back, Zen saw Marta still standing in the open doorway.

  ‘Good dinner?’ the driver asked.

  ‘They were closed.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. Who in his right mind would drive all the way up here? But you can’t talk sense to these yuppies from the north. They come down here looking for the simple life and authentic values. I could tell them a thing or two about that! My father used to farm around here. Not as a sharecropper – we owned the land. Of course, all the kids had to do their bit too, but as soon as he died we sold up. Un lavoro massacrante, dottore. Back-breaking labour, hour after hour, day after day. These incomers are pleasant enough people in their way, but frankly they don’t have the brains that God gave hens. Finti contadini is what they are. It’s all make-believe. The real country people couldn’t wait to quit, any who had the chance. Some of my friends even volunteered for the carabinieri or the army, just to get out. When we were in our teens, we used to go down to the sea on a Saturday night in summer, looking for some fun. All the girls used to laugh at us with our peasant tans that stopped at the biceps, the nape of the neck and the knees. But we were out in the sun all day working! Mind you, that was back before they put cancer in the sunlight.’

  He broke off briefly as they approached the junction with the paved road.

  ‘Have you booked a hotel, dottore?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘I can recommend a very good one. Modern, clean, quiet and very good value, right by the …’

  ‘Do any night trains stop at Pesaro?’

  A brief pause. The man obviously didn’t know, but equally obviously wasn’t going to admit it.

  ‘Well, yes. A few. Are you heading north or south?’

  ‘North.’

  ‘Milan?’

  ‘Switzerland.’

  A much longer pause.

  ‘Ah, well, in that case you want to take the plane from Bologna. Too late now of course, but you can get a good night’s sleep at this hotel I was talking about, run by a friend of mine as it happens, so there won’t be any problems about you arriving so late, and then get off bright and early tomorrow morning.’

  ‘No, I think I’ll look into the trains.’

  ‘But it’ll take hours, dottore! Maybe even days!’

  ‘That’s fine. I need some time to think.’

  XII

  ‘Il Paradiso è all’Ombra delle Spade.’ Yes, he thought. ‘Paradise lies in the Shadow of the Swords.’ He must have passed the First World War memorial at the heart of this part of Rome, the district he called his ‘village’, at least twice a day for over twenty years, but the concluding phrase of its simple, poignant inscription never failed to move him.

  The sun had already slid down below the line of rooftops to the west, casting shadows that reached across the broad boulevard. Alberto moved like a tank through the groups of afternoon shoppers shuffling about as aimlessly as the windblown dead leaves of the lindens that lined the kerb.

  All’Ombra delle Spade. He had lived there all his life, but what did they know of such things, these infantile adults in their quilted acrylic jackets and two-tone designer sports shoes? He tried not to despise them, although he knew that they would despise him. They were rather to be pitied. Yes, get the latest-style clothing, the latest mobile phone, the most powerful motorbike, the most fashionable pedigree dog. Get it all, if you can! It won’t make you happy, but it may eventually bring you what you least desire but most need: the knowledge that happiness is an illusion.

  Almost half a million Italians had passed over into those paradisiacal shadows during the Great War, with another million crippled for life, but the country had quickly recovered. Now, though, the Italians were dying out. The birth rate was amongst the lowest in the world, with the population predicted to decline by a third in the next fifty years. That meant the end of the extended family that had held the nation together for centuries. And when you looked at the coddled brats who were the end result of this genetic experiment in self-immolation, it was hard to argue that this was a case of pochi ma buoni. It was as if the Italians had collectively lost the will to live. The only reason that the population rate had remained roughly stable until now was the continual influx of illegal immigrants, who of course spawned like sardines. Italy had suffered countless invasions in the course of her long and chequered history, but never before had the nation’s very survival been dependent on the fecundity of the invaders. The ultimate invasion, the ultimate defeat.

  But all that was still decades away, when he would be dead and buried. In the meantime, he was at peace with himself. He had done his duty, and that was all that anyone could do. There were even a few pleasures left in life, such as lunch. Alberto’s tongue explored his hefty rear molars, worrying away at a tuft of pork that had got jammed into a crevice. One ate well at Da Dante. Solid, rich Roman food, in a solid, rich Roman establishment on Via dei Gracchi, in the heart of solid, rich Roman Prati. Nice crowd, too, the right sort, even though these days most of them wouldn’t know who the Gracchi were. They could recite the names of a hundred characters from the latest movies and TV shows, but they wouldn’t have a clue about the Gracchi, particularly the kids. Half of them couldn’t remember 1975, let alone 175 BC. Some old dead guys, who cares? The arrogance of the young.

  He knew who the Gracchi had been. Servants of the Latin people, and upholders of their rights against the corrupt and indolent landowners who had enriched themselves with war booty while leaving the soldiers who had fought those wars too poor to support their families. True, the Gracchi had broken the law, but only to defend a higher law and a nobler con¬ cept of the historic good of their city and country. They had willingly sacrificed their own interests, and indeed their lives, for the greater interest of the community and the nation as a whole. Which was all he had ever striven to do. To act for the greater long-term good of the people. Nothing for himself. No one could ever reproach him for that. And where laws had been broken, it had always and only been to keep a more important law intact.

  One of his three mobiles rang. The encrypted line.

  ‘Pronto.’

  ‘It’s Cazzola, capo.’

  ‘Hold.’

  Alberto walked to the end of the block, then turned right into a quiet side street.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’m afraid we seem to have lost contact.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘The target told his girlfriend yesterday that he had to go to Venice to sort out some problems with the family lawyer regarding his mother’s will.’

  ‘That sounds plausible. His family’s from Venice and his mother died recently.’

  ‘But he also told her that the police were sending him to Padua to report on the status of an on-going murder investigation. I checked with our friends in Padua. There are no murder cases underway there.’

  Alberto heaved a rhetorical sigh.

  ‘Wonderful. So he’s realized that the apartment has been bugged and is using the equipment to feed us a pack of lies.’

  ‘Unless it’s a cover story he was feeding the girlfriend so that he can go off and visit his mistress somewhere.’

  ‘He doesn’t have a mistress.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Congratulations, Cazzola. This is a major set-back. Not only are the bugs and phone tap now useless, but he now has conf
irmation of the importance of the operation.’

  ‘It’s not my fault, capo! I swear I did everything by the book.’

  ‘All right, all right. No point in worrying about that now. You’ve lost him. When and how?’

  ‘Well, it was the girlfriend’s birthday and they went out for lunch at a restaurant in the country. Before they left, he told her to drop him at the station in Lucca when they got back, so I waited there.’

  ‘Instead of which she drove him to an unknown destination.’

  ‘No, no, they came to the station, and I overheard him buying a ticket to Florence. I’d already monitored him telling the girlfriend that he was going to change there to the Eurostar for Venice…’

  ‘Get to the point, Cazzola! I’ve got an important appointment in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Well, I followed, of course, taking a seat in the next carriage so as to prevent subsequent recognition, but with a good view of the target through the connecting door. All by the book.’

  A pause.

  ‘Only when the train arrived at Santa Maria Novella, he wasn’t on it,’ Alberto commented wearily.

  ‘No. He got up to have a smoke while the train stopped at Pistoia and didn’t return to his original seat. I assumed that he’d taken another one, in the part of the carriage I couldn’t see from where I was sitting. I caught the next train back to Pistoia, but there was no sign of him there either.’

  Alberto glanced at his watch. There was no time to get angry, and no point.

  ‘Don’t worry about it, Cazzola. He’ll show up sooner or later. Meanwhile, get on with the other items we discussed. Go and visit Passarini’s sister first. The usual procedure. Who knows, you might even run into our missing target. I have a feeling that our paths are converging. In which case, just make sure you get there first.’

  He slammed the phone shut, returning to the boulevard and starting to walk briskly. That it should come to this, he thought. Here he was, an old man in an increasingly strange land, facing the supreme crisis of his career and at the mercy of a dolt who wouldn’t be worth wasting a bullet on when the time came. But there was no question of using the good people, except for information gathering and logistical support. For the dirty work, he had only himself and the faithful but incompetent Cazzola to depend on.

  Too bad he couldn’t have this Aurelio Zen on his side. He’d checked him out on the database as soon as that carabinieri colonel in Bolzano had reported Zen’s involvement with the case. He sounded like a good man. A bit younger than him, but essentially the same generation, the sort who understood. They’d stopped making them after ’68. Had a reputation for going his own way and using irregular methods, but there was nothing wrong with that as long as the cause was just. No reported political affiliations. There had been some sort of fuss when an operative named Lessi had tried to implicate Zen in the death of one of his colleagues down in Sicily, but nothing had come of it. Reportedly Lessi had always been regarded as a bit of a loose cannon on deck and had disappeared from view after being forcibly retired, much to everyone’s relief.

  Anyway, Zen was of no real importance, Alberto reminded himself. The key to the whole affair remained Gabriele Passarini, the one remaining member of the original Medusa cell besides himself. Once he had been taken care of, the police could sniff and snoop around to their hearts’ content. He would then retire to his house here in Prati, close the shutters, ignore the news and relax, conscious of a job well done and a life well spent.

  He turned his thoughts to his imminent meeting with some people from the Ministry of Defence that had been requested, in terms that amounted to an order, ‘to clarify the situation’. In other words, to ensure that their arses would be covered if anything went wrong. Alberto hadn’t felt it appropriate to refuse, but he had cited reasons of security for changing the venue from the Ministry itself to Forte Boccea, the headquarters of the military intelligence service.

  They had in turn declined that option, obviously not wanting to give Alberto home advantage any more than he wanted to play away at their ground. The result had been a compromise, in the form of a largely disused barracks and training camp in the heart of Prati, just a few minutes from Alberto’s home. The detour from the restaurant where he had eaten lunch had added ten minutes, and Cazzola’s call another five, but he would still be just in time.

  He had given the meeting a considerable amount of thought, to the point of debating whether or not to wear his uniform. In the end he had decided against it, on the grounds that any overt display of his status and authority would be outweighed by the implication that this was a purely military matter. These men would be either high-level civil servants or up-and-coming politicians. Either way, their goal was to rise in a political hierarchy where military rank counted for nothing. They would wear suits, so he was wearing a suit.

  He had also spent much time considering what exactly to tell them. This was almost impossible to decide in advance, since he couldn’t be sure how much they already knew and to what extent they might be prepared to give him a free hand, if only to keep their distance from the whole affair. In the end he had formulated a menu of possible options that he hoped would cover most eventualities, but it still remained to choose and execute his responses correctly on the spot and without apparent hesitation. These people might be civilians, but it would be an error to assume that because of this they were necessarily stupid.

  The urban villas to his right had given way to a blank stretch of high wall topped with angled barbed wire and signs reading Zona Militare. A few minutes later, Alberto reached the gate, showed his identification to the sentry at the gate and warmly acknowledged his respectful salute. Matters had improved beyond all recognition since the government had ended the draft. Now the intake consisted of young men who were personally pre-selected for the military virtues, instead of a gaggle of resentful scum resigned to the bleak prospect of two years’ servitude as the cost of keeping the army democratic and the country safe from a possible armed coup.

  ‘Your guests are already here, sir,’ the sentry said, pointing to a black limousine drawn up on the other side of the courtyard, where a bored-looking driver in a peaked cap and dark glasses leant against the right front wing, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.

  ‘When did they arrive?’

  ‘About ten minutes ago. Three of them. They were shown up to the former deputy commander’s office in B wing.’

  Alberto checked his watch. They had arrived early, damn it, trying to score a point before the meeting had even started. Well, if they wanted to play stupid power games, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.

  ‘Is the colonel back from lunch?’ he asked the sentry.

  ‘Not yet, sir.’

  ‘Contact the senior lieutenant on duty and tell him to proceed to the commander’s office on the double.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Alberto walked straight across the courtyard, through a door in the archway leading to the parade ground, and up two flights of stone steps. He glanced cautiously along the corridor at the top, then turned right and entered the first door he came to.

  It was not a grand room, but it felt inhabited and businesslike. There were papers and files on the desk, and large maps and framed certificates of military awards on the walls. Best of all, Alberto knew the man in nominal command of this moribund establishment, having dropped in from time to time when he was feeling nostalgic for the old days. He also knew that the colonel’s lunch was invariably followed by a two- hour siesta at his private quarters on the other side of the parade ground.

  The door behind him opened. It was the duty lieutenant. Alberto gave him his instructions and then went behind the desk. The chair was an old-fashioned swivelling affair in very dark oak. He adjusted the height of the seat until his shoes barely touched the ground, took a pen and a piece of paper from the stationery tray and began to write at random as the door opened again.

  ‘Ah, there you
are!’ Alberto remarked urbanely as the three men walked in escorted by the young officer. ‘I was beginning to wonder what had become of you. Please, take a seat. Lieutenant, fetch another chair.’

  ‘There’s no need for that,’ snapped one of the Ministry officials. ‘I prefer to stand. I’ve been sitting for almost fifteen minutes in the office next door as it is!’

  Alberto looked duly concerned.

  ‘Really? I do apologize. You must have been shown to the wrong room.’

  The three newcomers looked uncertainly at each other as the lieutenant saluted and left. The one who had spoken waved the other two impatiently into the chairs on their side of the huge desk. He was in his mid-thirties, prickly and pushy, and made no attempt to conceal his distaste at the manner of the reception that he and his aides had been accorded.

  ‘I am Francesco Belardinelli, principal private secretary to the deputy Minister,’ he told Alberto. ‘You know what we’re here to discuss. There seems to be some considerable degree of divergence about the precise facts involved. Please be good enough to give us the whole story in your own words. Keep it brief, though. I can only spare an hour, and thanks to this mistake we have already wasted a quarter of it.’

  The younger of the two aides switched on a small tape recorder and placed it on the desk, then took out a notebook and poised a pen over it. His older colleague sat tight, looking up at the ceiling like a builder checking for signs of damp. The secretary and the spin doctor, thought Alberto. He felt like a schoolboy hauled up before the headmaster to explain how the window of the old lady’s house on the corner came to be broken. Fortunately he had his answer ready.

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t comply with your wishes,’ he said.

  Francesco Belardinelli eyed him with incandescent frigidity.

  ‘What is that supposed to mean?’