“What’s wrong with you?”
“Cancer and being woken up by uninvited visitors.”
A sharp jab—Trotti winced—and then Angellini pressed on the plunger and the yellow liquid was pushed through the needle into the deformed skin. “He even put the kid on the line,” Angellini said in a matter-of-fact tone.
“You spoke with Anna?”
“She seemed to be enjoying herself. Well, perhaps not quite, but she certainly didn’t sound very subdued.” He unscrewed the needle and threw the empty cartridge into a shoebox. “But I don’t see why you’re asking me all these questions.”
“The child’s life is in danger.”
“You know her?”
Trotti nodded. “I know the father.”
“A taxi driver.”
“He used to work for me—a long time ago.”
Angellini put the medical paraphernalia away and, crouching down beside the tray, the kimono scarcely covering his body, poured coffee into the two cups. He handed one to Trotti.
“What was the man’s voice like?”
“Don’t ask me, for heaven’s sake. It’s all monitored.”
“What do you mean, monitored?”
“On the tapes.”
“What tapes?”
Angellini picked up the knife and the roll. Speaking casually while he spread butter with the knife, he said, “All incoming calls are recorded. Standard practice in most newspapers since Moro’s kidnapping. You never know when the Red Brigades are going to give you a ring.”
Trotti stood up. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He moved towards the door and opened it; it screeched against the floor. “Don’t go away too far—and thanks for the coffee.”
He ran down the dark corridor.
15
THE WORKMEN WORE loose blue dungarees and hats made of folded brown paper. There was the sound of hammering and a low whine of feedback. A fingernail, scraping against a microphone, was amplified and the jarring sound echoed across Piazza Vittoria.
Trotti crossed the square. His head ached—four hours in the smoke-filled laboratory of the Polizia Scientifica—and he needed the fresh air. He also needed to be alone.
He stepped over the electric cables that lay on the cobbles of Piazza Vittoria.
“Commissario, we don’t see much of you.”
He sat down just inside the Bar Duomo and the proprietress brought him an analcolico and a saucer of pitted olives.
“I’ll take a sandwich, too,” he said, looking up at her.
She was a widow—her husband had died in an air crash while visiting Sicily—and for the last ten years she had run the bar single-handed. She had two daughters; when Trotti had left for Bari, they were little girls with blonde ringlets. Now they were in their early teens, a bit younger than Pioppi, and were rather plump. They were not as pretty as their mother, who had somehow managed to keep the figure of her youth. If anything, she had grown prettier with the passing years.
A friendly, happy smile and beautiful dark eyes. Signora Allegra; of course her clients called her “the merry widow.”
He sipped at the aperitivo while Signora Allegra prepared his sandwich behind the zinc bar. “They drive me mad with this noise.”
“Noise?”
“The hammering and banging and those wretched loudspeakers.” She laughed. “Yet another political rally tonight.” She nodded towards the piazza while her hands busied themselves with the operation of slicing salami. “The Socialists this time. And they are pulling out all the stops, they’ve even got the First Secretary speaking. He’s come up specially from Rome. Obviously they place a lot of importance upon our local elections. Down in Rome the Communists and the Socialists are at each other’s necks—with the Communists saying that a deal with the Red Brigades is out of the question while the Socialists maintain that Moro’s life is more important than political ideals. But up here, in our little provincial backwater, the PCI and the PSI are good bedmates.” She laughed again and Trotti smiled. “Our Communist mayor knows that he needs the support of the Socialists; and thanks to the Communists the local Socialists have a share in the power. So they can afford to overlook their national differences. A gherkin, Commissario?”
“Yes please.”
She brought him the sandwich wrapped in a paper serviette and placed it on the tablecloth.
Trotti looked out into the piazza and said softly, “These meetings remind me of the rallies when we were little.”
“I don’t remember.” Her eyes flashed.
A long time ago he had phoned up the transport department and checked on her driving license. She was the same age as him. “Of course not, signora.”
Like a surfacing whale, the coffee machine began to spout. Steam poured from the thin metal tap. She took no notice. She was standing by his table and he could smell her gentle perfume.
“And your wife, Commissario? I no longer see you with her in town.”
“Lately I have been very busy.”
“Women need affection, Commissario.”
For a few moments their eyes met; then he turned away and caught sight of himself in the tinted mirror behind the bar. His face looked back at him—a thin face, a narrow nose and closely set eyes. His dark hair oiled and no longer as thick as it once was. Thin creases running down his cheeks.
Like an old man, he thought, and he bit angrily at the sandwich.
Then he took another sip at his drink.
Signora Allegra had moved away and she was now wiping glasses with a stiff cotton cloth. Another whine of feedback came through the door.
“I’m an old man,” Trotti said softly.
She laughed lightly. “Commissario, I think you are fishing for compliments.” Her laugh was light like the sound of the glasses that she neatly arranged along the shelf.
The memory of her laughter accompanied him back to the Questura.
16
GINO WAS SITTING back in his chair, his hands folded across the plumpness of his belly. He looked benign, like a favorite uncle. It was the effect of the thick lenses that magnified his sightless eyes.
Principessa dozed beneath the desk.
“They’re waiting for you.” Gino jerked a thumb towards the small antechamber where visitors could sit and thumb old magazines—Famiglia Cristiana, il Carabiniere—while waiting for the law and its officers to take their ponderous, inexorable course.
“You can send them through in a minute—but first, get me Spadano on the phone.”
Trotti went into his office and started to tidy. He opened the windows, letting the enclosed air escape into the mid-morning. Outside it was hot and it was getting hotter; on the roof, the pigeons cooed languidly. Trotti’s eyes ached. For no apparent reason, the radiator started to vibrate with distant banging. He put several folders into a pile and tidied up the newspapers. He stopped to look at the headlines on the morning’s Corriere della Sera. A photograph of one of the directors shot in the leg, and the continuing debate on Moro. “Reasons of State cannot outweigh humanitarian reasons,” the Socialist First Secretary said. “We must save Moro at all costs.”
Trotti snorted.
“Spadano’s on the line.” Gino banged against the wooden hatch panel. “Number six.”
Trotti picked up the telephone and pressed the blinking rectangle.
“Hello, Spadano?”
“Capitano Spadano. Who am I speaking to?”
“Commissario Trotti. Good morning.”
“Ah, you, Trotti.” The voice was less aggrieved but more cautious. “How can I help you? You realize I am busy. I imagine you’ve heard the news.”
“What news?”
“There’s just been a communiqué from the Red Brigades—in Rome, Genoa, Turin and Milan. It looks genuine—at least at first sight.”
“What do they say?”
“Communiqué Number Nine states that Aldo Moro has been executed. And at the same time,” Spadano went on in a brisk, military tone, “Signora Moro has rece
ived a farewell note from her husband.”
Trotti turned to look out of the window. The neighboring roofs were dazzling beneath the high sun.
Spadano was still talking: “And I quote, ‘Dear Norina, they have told me that they are going to kill me in a few minutes. I kiss you one last time. Kiss the children,’ signed Aldo.”
“So it’s certain?”
“Nothing is certain until we find his corpse. However, the Red Brigades have been silent for eleven days. Moro’s assassination now would certainly fit in with the logic of their strategy.”
The pigeons continued to coo.
“So you can understand, Trotti, that I am busy.”
“I am busy, too, Capitano Spadano.”
“Of course. How can I help you?”
Trotti breathed deeply. “It’s about the gypsies—the camp on the far side of the river. I believe that one of your men arrested a gypsy yesterday in Borgo Genovese.”
“Yes?”
“Can you confirm?”
Spadano sounded irritated. “I have more important things to do at the moment. It’s quite possible—really, Trotti, I don’t know.”
“Please check. It is important, Capitano. I had come to an agreement with their chief—and now it looks as though I can’t keep to my side of the agreement. I can’t expect them to understand the difference between Carabinieri and Pubblica Sicurezza.”
“A pity,” Spadano replied drily. “I’ll ring you back—but please understand it’s not easy. I’ve got other—”
“When?” Trotti interrupted.
“Within the hour,” and without another word, the captain of Carabinieri hung up.
Trotti put the receiver down slowly and then took a packet of sweets—aniseed—from the top drawer. Perhaps he was being stupid. One of the most powerful men of the country had probably been executed—and he was worrying about a handful of nomads. He sat in silence for a few minutes while he thought and while he sucked noisily at the pale lozenge of boiled sugar.
“Okay, Gino, you can send them in.”
Signor Rossi wore a tweed jacket that was too large for him; it had a large check pattern, the color of boiled rutabaga and parsnips. It stood away from the collar of his poplin shirt. But the material, Trotti noticed, was smooth and of good quality.
“Please come in.”
He entered the office, steering his wife by the arm. She was broad but a lot shorter than her husband. She was dressed completely in black. Her strong legs were scarred with protuberant veins.
“Kindly be seated, signora.” Trotti helped her to a chair. “It is kind of you to come in like this. I am most grateful and I am sure that there are some points we can clear up.” He smiled as he returned to his desk. “Points of mutual interest.”
“We didn’t need any help.” Rossi’s tone was belligerent. He had lowered his large frame into one of the canvas armchairs; he looked both angry and apprehensive, like a man being sent unjustly to his death. He had a large face and large, flat cheeks. A thin nose and a few strands across an almost bald head. His hair was the same color as his jacket.
“Are you sure?”
“I could have paid.”
“That is not the way to deal with kidnappers.” Trotti added, “And I’m afraid it’s illegal.”
“That’s our problem. Anna’s our girl—all that we’ve got left.”
Trotti sat back in his chair and let the tension slowly ease from the room. Again he smiled at Signora Rossi. She cast her eyes downward and looked at her old hands. Her only concession to fashion was a simple silver necklace.
“You’d care for a drink perhaps?”
Rossi said, “No.”
His wife looked up. “Commissario, we own a bar. We didn’t come here for a drink. We’re here because you asked us to come—and because we are worried about our granddaughter.”
“You have seen the article in the Provincia Padana?
“Of course.”
“The kidnappers have contacted you?”
The old woman looked down at her hand. Rossi answered, “Nothing at all.”
“Strange they should contact the newspaper without first contacting you.”
The large man moved forward in his chair. “What exactly did they say? Have they got her? She’s alive, isn’t she? Isn’t she?… Because if they’ve touched so much as a hair …” His voice was throttled by the prospect of his own rage. His wife calmed him, softly tapping the shapeless, clenched fist.
Trotti said, “She is quite well.”
He raised his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“She was in perfect health last night—you can hear for yourself.” Trotti opened the hatch. “Gino, is Magagna around?”
“Yes.”
“Get him to bring a recorder—and a tape of the message.”
They sat for a few awkward minutes waiting for Magagna to bring proof of the child’s continuing existence. When Magagna arrived he placed the recorder on the desk, plugged it in and inserted the tape.
“It now looks as though it’s a hoax,” he whispered to Trotti.
Rossi glared. “What?”
“The communiqué from the Red Brigades. It’s not in their jargon and it’s been written out with a different typewriter.”
“You can hurry up,” Rossi said.
Magagna saluted. “I’m down the corridor,” he said and left.
Trotti pushed the button on the cassette recorder and the small reels began to turn behind their perspex barrier. Rossi and his wife leaned forward, staring at the machine as though it were a newborn baby, somehow both reassuring and—by implication—terrifying. The threat of responsibility.
Silence until the tape scratched with the beginning of its recording.
“The Provincia?” A man’s voice, slightly muffled.
“City desk. Angellini.”
“We’ve got the child—she’s with us and safe.”
“What child?”
“Ermagni’s daughter.”
“Who’s Ermagni? What child?”
“Anna Ermagni. We have her—the daughter of the taxi driver.”
“Who is she? Why have you kidnapped her?”
“Twenty million lire and she will be home with her parents tomorrow. She is quite safe. Twenty million in used notes by tomorrow morning. We will contact you again. Tell the parents. Tell the parents that if they want to see their daughter alive and well—if they want to see her again—they must pay. Twenty million.”
There was a short pause and then Angellini asked, “How do they know that she’s alive? How do they know that you haven’t killed her?”
“I am a man of honor.”
“Men of honor don’t kidnap children.”
“She is well.” A suspicion of irritation.
“I must speak with the child. How old is she? I must hear from her.”
“That is impossible.”
“The parents will not pay.”
Another pause, the muffled sound of hands about the mouthpiece. “Wait.” It sounded as though he was speaking through a stuffed cloth and that the cloth had slipped. The voice was clearer. “Here she is.”
“Hello.”
Again a long pause accompanied by the sound of movement.
“Hello.” A girl’s voice.
“Ciao.” Angellini sounded falsely cheerful.
“Ciao.”
“Anna?”
“Yes. Is that you, Grandpapa?”
“I am a friend of your father’s, Anna.”
An intake of breath. “I don’t like my papa.”
“You don’t like him? And your mama?”
“I like the nonna and I like my grandpapa. I miss them but I am very well. I want to …”
The voice was stopped as though against its will.
“Tell them to prepare the money.” The man again, with the loudness of false conviction. “Twenty million.”
Click and the hum of the phone died; the reels continued to turn but now in silence. Trot
ti stopped the machine.
“At least she is alive.”
“A bastard.” Rossi, now quite pale and his lips drawn. “A murderous, southern bastard.”
“Southern?”
“You can hear the accent.” He was almost shouting. “You can hear as well as I can, Commissario. A Calabrian—one of my own people.”
“Where are you from?” Trotti asked while at the same time taking a notebook from the drawer. He started to take notes, writing with a fifty lire ballpoint pen.
“Calabria—yes, I’m from Calabria. But I work, Commissario, I have worked all my life.” And he held up his hands as an objective proof. They were large and ugly, shapeless. “With these I have worked. We are not all criminals or bandits. I left school when I was eleven and for twenty years I worked on the pylons. The electricity men came and I helped them. Mussolini said that in the twentieth century every Italian should have electricity in his house. We used to work with donkeys, we used to climb the hills and there were days when I’d travel twenty miles to work on a breakfast of dry bread and goat’s milk. It was hard work—but I have never been afraid of hard work.”
“Then you came here?”
Rossi’s face flared into a short-lived rage. “You ask me questions. Why aren’t you looking for Anna? Why do you waste your time?”
“She may have been taken in an attempt to harm you.” Trotti added softly, “I must know everything if I am to find her. When did you come here?”
The anger disappeared as quickly as it had come. “I wanted a better job and I was too old to climb the hills—even if the money was a lot better on the whole after the end of the war. I had a brother—God rest his soul—who was working in the textile factory—he died of lung cancer. I worked with him for five years. Then in 1952, I had put enough aside—with the help of Graziella, who worked in the factory too—I had enough for the bar.” He shrugged slightly and the collar of his jacket moved away from the shirt. “We’ve done well for ourselves but nobody has helped us. And we haven’t stolen. What we have got we have earned by our own efforts.” He leaned forward to tap at the tape recorder. “And I will lose it all—lose it happily—just so that we can have our Anna back. She is all we have—now that our daughter is gone. The rest—the house, the bar, the villa near Rimini, I’ll sell it all. I want Anna.”
Converging Parallels Page 10
