by Aidan Conway
“But also important not to let prejudice or emotion have a distorting effect on the logic,” replied Rossi.
“Quite the teacher today, Michael.”
Rossi laughed.
“Just like to keep my eye on the ball. We’re trying to prevent anything big from getting off the ground. There’s quite a bit of apprehension knocking around, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You mean from the safety of my cocoon? My ‘bacteria-free’ environment?”
“I didn’t mean you’re out of touch,” said Rossi, sensing that his comment might have made the tiniest of dents in Iannelli’s thick skin. “How could you be out of touch?”
Any offence taken was short-lived as Iannelli fired back: “We had a staffer at the press gig. Seems the prefect, was giving it the old ‘no stone left unturned’ routine. They also came out with this ‘rudimentary device’ story. That’s total bullshit, isn’t it? You know it is.”
“They may want to keep the lid on certain things for now,” said Rossi. “It could be strategic. That’s as far as I’m prepared to go.”
“What about GIS mapping and tracking? Are you involved with that?”
Rossi shook his head.
“They extrapolate what we need based on requests, or they point us in certain directions, but instinct, intelligence, and plain old on-the-ground work still plays its part.”
“Not to mention the grasses,” said Iannelli. “Anyone on the payroll yet? And where are they getting the expertise from? You know it was at least a kilo of military-grade explosive.”
“I thought I was asking you the questions today, Dario,” said Rossi. “Once again it seems we are digressing, and I get the feeling you’re an old hand at the game.”
Both men managed to smile. Yes, Dario wanted answers. It was in his nature to start a fight to get them, and he couldn’t fail to be uptight living the way he now was. But the battle was one in which they fed off each other, needed each other. It was at times like this that Rossi wondered why Iannelli hadn’t just become a cop instead. God knows, for dogged determination, not to mention technical knowledge, he could have substituted more than a few of the so-called high-level operatives he’d run into in the course of his career. Perhaps it was the same reason people who love buildings don’t study architecture: because they don’t want to end up having to build concrete shopping centres paid for by on-the-ground Mafia money.
“So you’re trying to solve this Prenestina case in your spare time too?” said Iannelli. “You’re going to be a busy boy. Unless of course there’s a link,” he added with a half-smile. Iannelli was waiting to see if Rossi would give him some confirmation or some hint of a lead.
But Rossi was none the wiser either.
“I don’t like loose ends, Dario. And I don’t like it when there’s even the suggestion that one life might be worth more than another.”
“Are you saying these guys got a rough deal? Apart from burning to death I mean.”
“All I’m saying is that when a case passes out of the spotlight, well, maybe something tells me to go and sniff around a bit more.”
“It was definitely arson though, wasn’t it?”
“For me, without a shadow of a doubt, and murder.”
“Deliberate then?”
“Maybe meant to be a crude warning, but anyone who gives warnings like that will be happy to have hit the jackpot. Then there was some story about an illegal vodka operation, which could have been a convenient way of making sure it went sky high.”
“Possible,” said Iannelli.
“Right. But Forensics also found the remains of a timer switch, some quick-fix repair job or home-brewing hack. I’m not so sure it wasn’t all a set-up, all evidence conveniently incinerated. And that’s off the record, for the record. The only other opening is the guy who survived for a week.”
“The Russian?”
“Yes,” said Rossi. “Gigi’s stirring up the embers, as it were, but it’s a total shot in the dark.”
Rossi looked at his watch. It was getting late. Iannelli meanwhile seemed to be weighing up this news of a second front of sorts. He knew Rossi’s way of thinking. Lateral, usually, and capable of opening up the most hermetically sealed of cases.
“Well, at least you’ve got yourself a name, and a description,” he said finally. “Keeping it to yourself for now?”
Rossi nodded. His phone was buzzing.
“Keep your ear to the ground, won’t you,” said Rossi, excusing himself to take the call, and walking first, by habit, to the window, then remembering the role windows could play in getting yourself shot.
“Mick, Gigi.”
“Yep.”
“Didn’t get much out of anybody today. I got more change out of the cleaning staff. Seems there was one other burns nurse there the whole week that our man was in. Very dedicated to her work, according to my source. Saintly type. She’s been off duty but comes back tomorrow. It’s the best I could get.”
“So he never spoke?”
“Can’t confirm that yet.”
“Did they say anything about DI Lallana? What did he get out of them?”
“Nothing much,” said Carrara. “He didn’t exactly dig deep.”
“OK. I think it might be worth giving this Mother Teresa a proper interview. See you in the morning at the office.”
Rossi slipped the phone back into his pocket. It was nearly dark. Iannelli had resumed his reading.
“I’d better be off, Dario,” said Rossi, sensing the melancholy descending now like an evening dew.
“Enjoy your freedom,” said Iannelli lifting only his eyes first then rousing himself and getting to his feet to shake Rossi’s hand.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Rossi. “Still got the same e-mail?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The wonders of encryption and secret service IT protection. It all goes through their secure servers and is totally safe and untraceable. They have the advantage of being able to monitor who’s sending it to me too, which I’m not so happy about, but it’s actually turned out that it keeps me safer. And it’s spared me a major headache with my contacts list. So this relic of my former life remains,” he added with an attempt at a smile.
Rossi emerged from the building’s cool interior into the warm, semi-liquid, heavy evening air. He breathed in the scent of jasmine from some hidden garden. A heady Roman night. So this was the price to pay for staying alive, being excluded from life’s feast. He wondered if he would be able to live a similar existence. Still, anyone could take a pop at him, if they wanted, and his enemies could be anywhere. It would all be over in an instant. As he walked back to the car a few remembered words from a school poem played like the chorus of a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Yes. Another day was ending. How suddenly the evening came.
It was late but Cardinal Terranova had no intention of turning in. Besides, there was work to do.
It was not such a bad life, he reflected, lying gently to himself as he rose again from his desk. But at some stage one must accept reality. Accept. Yes. He looked out of the window although there was little to see in the darkness. He had the gardens, the cloisters, the gentle trickling of the fountains and the silence. It gave him ample time to think and to read and reflect.
Especially when he could not sleep.
Now, he was a retired “man of the cloth”. Officially, he had left behind the cleric’s life and was free now to pursue his interests and see out the rest of his days in this benign imprisonment. He was not really free, of course. He could no longer come and go as he pleased. But it had been his choice and it had, he supposed, been his fault.
So this was a compromise. He continued to exercise his considerable power through his contacts, and a select and restricted circle of persons guarded the truth. Mechanisms had been put in place to guarantee that, both now and hereafter. If it were, however, in any way a known secret that he was here, given time, rumours might circulate, as they had about other senior clerics’ cond
uct, sexuality, or financial affairs. Yet “the system” still held up in such matters, although he knew that in this new age, this rising tide of technology was set to sweep away the certainties so long guaranteed by the former status quo. It would require a major “repositioning of the brand”, as it were, a large-scale overhaul of their practices if they were to maintain the level of compliancy and intrinsic trust hitherto enjoyed.
That though was no longer his task and others would set about it with gusto and diligence. They would salvage what they could, like Crusoe – Protestant though he was – going back and forth to the ship. The prudent and visionary among them would secure the essentials and these would see them through.
Retirement had exerted a rapid and sudden changing effect. So used to a life of fervid mental activity and commitments, his body and mind had now fallen into more natural states. He was simply growing old. It had come quickly and suddenly but that which had been put off could not be held back. His face had changed. No longer wearing the old garb had also changed his appearance as well as his own attitude to himself. One or two relics remained. He conserved in a drawer his cardinal’s ring, which from time to time he would slip onto his finger before consigning it once again to the recesses of memory.
He wore it now too, and twisted and caressed it as he reflected.
He was not short of company if he wanted it. His welfare was also attended to by a succession of personnel, social assistants who maintained his apartments and prepared his meals, washed and ironed his bed linen and clothes.
He had been asked if he would prefer male or female assistants. He had chosen the former and even if they subsequently sent females and males in almost equal number – this too was the nature of the market, supply and demand – he had been pleased with their dedication and their manners. Some had been silent and submissive women wreathed in brightly coloured silken saris, ladies from India and Bangladesh, Sri Lanka too, he had discovered. Some of the men, barely boys really, had been long-limbed Africans, and one in particular who came intermittently had reminded him so much of Victor.
What had become of Victor, the Nigerian, he did not know. He would never know for sure and that was how it had had to be. The boy had been his undoing, his weakness, allowing himself to be temporarily blackmailed, vulgar word that it was. But he had learnt his lesson. And Marciano, his blackmailer? His end was no mystery. He had been dispatched, and his associates and family knew better than to bleat. The cardinal knew he had been well and truly cornered then by his enemies, yet he had fought back, and faking his own death to live this secret life now had been a price worth paying. But he also knew that other forces were now afoot. Thus, he was newly on his guard and another plan had to be devised. A plan that would serve other key interests too. Yes, others had put their oars in since then, meddling in affairs that did not regard them. They should have known better. Thank goodness for the “network” which always reeled in the loudmouthed before they got dangerously “vocal”.
Yet he still had his doubts. Perhaps he should have taken his own life and ended it honourably when his blackmailer had first confronted him. Instead, he had denied others of their lives so as to cover, in the world, his own mortal sins.
Judas at least had been decisive and, as such, would have deserved to have acquired a sainthood of sorts. The saint of sinners beyond redemption. Some small comfort then for them as they ponder final solutions to their own very personal brand of guilt.
Then he expelled the dark narrative from his mind as if he were a wayward seminarian and went back to his desk, where there was a letter nearing completion.
… in the event of my violent death and the subsequent involvement of the civil authorities you must do the following as specified here below. (Failure to do so will mean that you too will be in grave danger. A copy of this letter, to be opened in the event of my violent death, is in the hands of trusted individuals who, in turn, have their instructions to act accordingly should you fail to follow to the letter these instructions).
There followed a series of imperative statements, a brief inventory.
He closed the letter in the envelope. Then he reached for a box of matches.
He watched, fascinated as ever, as the flame migrated from the thin, twisted and carbonized limb between his finger and thumb, revitalizing the candle’s dead wick in an act of quotidian resurrection. He extinguished it and tossed the charred remnant aside. One life for another. The willing and the unwilling sacrifice. It was all God’s will.
Then he dripped molten blood-red wax onto the envelope and, with his cardinal’s ring, was poised for a moment to leave on it his inviolate seal, before he remembered and stopped and put instead its cooling salve to his own lips before sliding it from his finger. He placed it next to the letter and a few other items he had seen fit to collect for the occasion.
Then he rang his bell and waited for “the courier” who would see to everything else, as he always did.
Twenty-Two
Giancarlo Mondo stood in the glass and steel cubicle suspended above the void of the lift shaft. He was like the last link at the end of a taught chain coiled and turning constantly at the behest of an unseen behemoth.
He made another slight adjustment to his tie, tightening the red silk knot against the stiff juncture of the collars of his powder blue, handmade shirt. As on all such armour hanging in his wardrobe, his initials in a darker hue were embroidered at a point on the right below his ribcage.
And a warrior he was. So he had been told and he had learnt to move and to sway and to parry and then deliver the decisive blow as and when an opportunity presented itself. To cut the deal. To cut the right deal. To make sure that all parties left feeling that they had got what they wanted, whether they had got it or not. To make sure that he came away with the prize. To make sure the others didn’t get a look in. To exile any lingering emotions to some faraway land where others could continue to fritter away their time on this earth, while he defied time’s tyranny by owning as much of the here and now as was humanly possible.
All this, he reflected, had already been achieved. The lift continued to climb. Now he only needed to keep his nerve and, like a tightrope walker, never look down, never look back. Only forward to the goal and then beyond to the next one. It stopped. The doors slid open. He was alone and stepped out, turning right on the soft, yielding carpet, treading with decisive, deliberate steps, dismissing one door after another until he had come to where it would all begin again. He knocked. The door was opened by some unseen hand. Flanked on both sides by two dark-suited and sombre bodyguards, a tall, elegant gentleman in traditional African robes strode forward. He then stretched out a hand laden with gold accessories and gems.
“Dottor Mondo, how very, very good to see you. We have been expecting you.”
Giancarlo returned the greeting, holding the handshake until he sensed beyond the host’s words his host’s will as the muscles then began to relinquish their grip.
“Honoured to meet you, President. Truly honoured.”
***
Time had passed. Outside, through the tinted windows of the suite it was beginning to get dark. To one side there was Vesuvius, a sleeping colossus, and then the broad, majestic sweep of the Bay of Naples. Small boats traversed it. A few white crests had formed here and there while the island of Capri was a calm, supine, sleeping woman’s profile. “Take some time to think it over,” they had said as they broke for refreshments. “We have time, for now.” Giancarlo knew what time was and what it meant. They had cornered him with an offer promising a quantum leap as far as the plans for his own personal enrichment were concerned. It would project him to the next level and even beyond. But for all their repeated assurances, it was an affair which he wouldn’t be in control of. Yes, he would oversee. That went without saying. He alone would give the authorization to use “the channels”, the delivery would depend on him, his men, his trusted intermediaries. But he knew he was a link in the chain and not the blacksmith beatin
g it upon the anvil. And he knew that the hand holding the hammer could sometimes stop or be stayed mid-strike and that sometimes it could slip.
Giancarlo splashed his face with cold water from the pristine taps and took a soft hand towel from the neat pile next to it. For a second, he felt like he was in the tiny cabin of the first marine-blue boat he had taken out on that sea. It was an honest, simple wooden boat. It required love and attention, devotion, to make it seaworthy. And it had been his. A boom of laughter came from beyond the wall. Then just as quickly as it had come to him, the image of the boat vanished from his mind. There was work to be done. An agreement had in principle been reached but now he found himself at a crossroads.
He strode back into the lounge and took up his position again. The main negotiator sat across from him as the President conversed with his retinue in a huddle, oblivious, it seemed, but very much involved.
“This was not mentioned in the preliminaries,” said Giancarlo turning back to face the official reclining now in an armchair, his tie gone, the top two buttons of his shirt undone.
“This is true,” his interlocutor replied, “but it is merely a question of safe passage. Guaranteeing the safe passage of this certain number of units can bring you, personally, a conspicuous reward. Look, let me show you the kind of numbers we are talking here.”
The figures were dizzying. It would be like turning the poisoned water of the bay into fine wine.
“And everything is already in place, Dottor Mondo. The wheels are ready to turn tomorrow, if needs be. Just as soon as you make the necessary calls. You know, in this business, there is a quick turnaround. Prior planning is detailed, meticulous, down to the very last detail and we have our men working on this day and night. They and we identify a route. We are always one or, if all goes well, two steps ahead of our pursuers, shall we say.”