by Aidan Conway
“Where is Maria, sir?”
“Maria?”
“I know she isn’t dead, sir. Please save me and yourself the time. We have murders piling up in this city and I haven’t got time for sick criminal games.”
The judge gave him a glare and a growl worthy of the theatre.
“I don’t know what you’re saying, Inspector.”
“Well, in that case, I’m sure you won’t mind if I take a look around the flat,” Rossi replied, getting to his feet. From the flat’s dark interior behind the judge there was the sound of a door and then a voice as an above-average height, athletic female figure emerged to occupy one half of the doorframe with her elegant silhouette.
“That won’t be necessary, Inspector. I am Maria Marini.”
She was dressed in black leggings, ankle boots, and a ribbed woollen sweater emphasizing her full breasts and harmonious figure. She moved with nothing other than feline elegance. Slender but athletic. Rossi would have said, if pressed for adjectives, taut, toned. Rossi noted, too, that her breathing was fully under control. Something of a Houdini. In different circumstances, he might have begun by saying, ‘well, Madam, I think you have some explaining to do,’ but before he could, Maria Marini had sat down next to her father and, lighting up a cigarette, initiated proceedings.
“If you will hear me out, I will explain everything that happened that day and why.”
Was she trying to take control? Carrara, still reeling from the shock, or the chase, or both, had his face in his hands, his eyes flicking from Rossi to Marini and back. Rossi, however, seemed calm despite knowing everything now had been turned on its head.
“Well, perhaps you would like to begin,” he offered.
She tapped some ash off her cigarette.
“Let me say first that my life is still in danger, as is that of my father. No one but we four gathered here knows that I am alive. No one else knows that the unfortunate young woman who was murdered, was mistaken for me. She was the tragic victim of an error in, let’s say, someone’s planning. A series of coincidences and pure chance meant that she was in my car that evening when her assassin believed he would be murdering me.”
“What was your relationship with the dead girl?” Rossi enquired. “Perhaps you could begin by giving us at least her name. Does she have a family, that you know of? Why was she there?”
Marini raised a hand at Rossi’s questioning.
“I said I would tell you everything, Inspector. But you must first realize that my life had been threatened, and my father, too, had been warned that if he didn’t stop his investigations, if certain persons were not allowed to carry out their criminal activities with impunity, free from judicial investigation or observation, then both our lives were to be considered expendable. That is the first backdrop to this story.”
“Mafia?” Rossi enquired.
“Ruthless people, Inspector, who answer to no one, and I mean no one.”
“And your relationship with the MPD?”
“As you know, I was working for the MPD, Inspector, but as I am sure you also know, I work – worked – for secret service agencies. I had been ordered to infiltrate the ranks of the MPD and to pass on information to intermediaries. Their activities were deemed to be potentially subversive. I had been doing what I believed was the right thing, for the good of the country, for national security. When I was approached to infiltrate the movement, I naturally obeyed. It was my choice but then I found myself being drawn deeper and deeper into areas and missions going beyond the remit of government and state control. What I was being told to do was becoming increasingly more suspect, more sinister. It was no longer clear for whom or for what I was working. I had a crisis of conscience and I confronted my superiors, my handlers, and that is when I realized I was too far in to be able to escape, at least by normal means. I was warned in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t continue to furnish information on the MPD and collaborate in certain black ops then I may have ended up, in their words, as ‘a casualty’. They warned me that my father, too, was ‘a high risk individual’ and that if I didn’t collaborate it might not have been possible to guarantee his safety any longer.”
She stubbed out her half-smoked cigarette before continuing the monologue.
“So, I decided to rebel and for the two or three months preceding the murder I was passing on low-level, useless, or false information as I now believed the MPD was working for Italy and not against it, that the real subversives were my paymasters. I had by then forged a very close, and, yes, intimate relationship with Luca. We had begun to make plans, to think of a better future for us and for the country. It wasn’t easy, given the stress that we were all under and so, after a rather torrid time, things came to a head. The separation. His drinking, the threats, though I always knew he was more bark than bite. Luca could never kill. That much I know. For me, what mattered, the only thing that mattered, was that they were wrong and I couldn’t go along with it anymore, so I switched sides, if you will.
“I couldn’t keep up the pretence indefinitely, however, and they began to question my efficiency, my commitment. I was confronted again, this time in the form of an ultimatum, and I was warned that if I didn’t get back onside there would be serious consequences for me and my family and, try as I might, I found myself with no ‘exit strategy’.”
“You couldn’t approach anyone in the police, the judiciary? Was there no one you could trust?” Rossi interjected.
“There are people I trust but they didn’t have the means to prevent my being detected. I could have fled but they would have found me, sooner or later, and besides, my father here, would have been completely exposed.”
“And the girl?”
Whether it was studied or real, some sign of emotion – regret or melancholy – flashed across her otherwise granitic expression.
“I had befriended a young woman, Kristina, a Ukrainian or a Russian – she was fuzzy about that – but an illegal immigrant. I was working with other NGOs. There, too, I had a surveillance brief, keeping an eye out for subversives, using them as cover for other ops. Initially, she had come looking for help and we got talking. She did some casual work for me, odd jobs, admin and the like, and we became friends. I was helping her to find steady employment with the aim of securing her a permesso di soggiorno, a residence permit, which would mean she would be able to stay in the country legally. I had also been teaching her to drive.
“On the night of the murder, I picked her up near her home, which was on my route from work. She asked if she could drive, and I said yes. It was a normal thing we did. I should add, though, that our relationship had begun to change and that she had, perhaps, become slightly obsessed with me. I was beginning to realize she may have even wanted more than friendship. She looked up to me, my success, my confidence. She had even started to dress like me.
“At first I thought nothing of it. I was flattered even but I think she had also been working on and off as an escort as she sometimes had expensive gifts and hard cash. Anyway, she was not particularly stable in that way but she was a good girl, nonetheless. That night she was wearing a three-quarter length mac, the same style as my own – everyone in Rome’s got them this year – and I had teased her about it. We actually looked remarkably similar, the same build – she had been sporty, like me – and the same colour hair tied back usually in a ponytail.
“I had to pick up some extra groceries and there was a lot of traffic. I needed to go to a couple of shops and didn’t want to double park, so I suggested she drive the car to the garage and that we might meet at my flat. I had just got to the counter to pay when I realized I’d left my purse in the car. The shopkeeper said I could pay the next day, but I said I would prefer to return that same evening. Even so, I left with the shopping and made my way on foot to the car park, just in case Kristina didn’t see the purse. I didn’t want it to be in sight on the passenger seat as it would have been an easy temptation for a thief.
“When I got to th
e car park, I went down the ramp to the spot where I usually parked and where I had told Kristina to leave the car. As I turned the corner, I saw a man hurrying past me and away from the scene. He had a heavy-looking holdall in one hand. He hesitated for a moment, looked at me and I saw his face. I also saw a ring flash as he wiped sweat from his brow. It was then that I noticed the blood. I thought he could have hurt himself breaking into a car or that he was an addict or in some sort of trouble. That’s why I took some steps towards him, thinking he might need help but I stopped. His expression was not encouraging. I then hurried towards the parking space and that’s when I made the awful discovery.
“I am sure I needn’t describe the scene other than to say it was sickening. I felt sick physically but I am also ashamed to say that in that moment I saw an opportunity I could not afford to let slip. I had the chance to disappear from the face of the earth and save my life and that of my father. I checked her pulse but there was nothing that could be done. Her skull had been smashed in, her spine crushed by the blows. She had few personal effects, no rings and such like that could identify her, and she had no papers. I dragged the body out of view so that it wouldn’t be discovered immediately.
“I took my few personal possessions from the car and planted one or two things on the body – my ID, a bank card, the spare set of keys that were always in the car – then left as soon as I could. I headed straight for my flat to collect some items I couldn’t leave there, taking care not to be seen. I even picked up a wig from a Chinese shop. That’s the kind of thing we learn in my line of work. From the flat I called my father via an encrypted proxy and we agreed on the plan to have him report me missing and then identify the body. I took some essential belongings but nothing that might be noticed and then went to the Tiber, abandoning my handbag where it would quickly be found.”
“And everything seemed to be going so well,” said Rossi, “and while you are here enjoying your freedom, Luca Spinelli is in a prison cell awaiting trial for a crime he could never have committed.”
“If I come forward, if I were to testify, my life would be over. Do you have an idea who we are dealing with?”
“So, Mr Spinelli must just wait, until the elections are over, before finally being freed when the trial collapses?”
“At least he is alive, Inspector.”
Rossi smoothed his face with both hands. He’d been ready for something big but this was one hell of a story. The killer, a killer, was still on the loose but which was which? Was it one and the same person, or some perverse copycat scenario, an opportunist assassin riding the wave of serial killer hysteria?
“Can we presume,” a now calmer Carrara interjected, “that Kristina’s murder was dressed up as a serial killer murder, in order to camouflage what would have been your assassination by ‘them’?”
“Presumably, they decided to kill two birds with one stone. By taking me out, they would have dispensed with a troublesome rogue agent getting way out of control while implicating Luca and making the political capital they needed. It fitted in perfectly with the strategy I had been implementing on a more subtle, long-term basis. Once the media machine got going, the MPD would be in deep, deep water and without Luca working on the campaign they would be seriously short-handed.”
She had it all worked out, thought Rossi, studying her cool delivery, like a slick barrister cruising through a pliant courtroom.
“The only error they made was that they didn’t get their hands on my computer. They must be really sore about that. I’m surprised they didn’t turn the flat upside down.”
“I’m sure someone had a look,” said Rossi. “Don’t think that I know half of what the crime squad is up to. They were in your flat but it was clean.”
“And here,” said Carrara, “how come they haven’t come snooping around here?”
“Well, I’m dead for one thing. My father arranged a no-questions-asked safe house for me. The guards don’t know me and I never came here when I was undercover, so when I need to get into the building I either pretend to be someone’s maid or use some other ruse. My father has put me on a list of approved persons with my new ID. She opened a cupboard door and took out a carrier bag. Here’s one of my outfits,” she said. It contained what Rossi could see were overalls and a blonde wig.
“Besides, my father’s bodyguard is still reliable. Our enemies would have to neutralize them all if they wanted to get in here and that would bring too much out into the light; it would be hard to manage the reaction.”
“But if that ever were to happen,” said the judge, joining the proceedings, “there are certain documents in the hands of a very few trusted people that could subsequently come into the public domain. I wouldn’t be around to see the consequences but the revelations would create some considerable problems for not a few people in high places. That is the only life insurance policy I possess at the moment.”
“And how do you know that this place isn’t bugged?” said Rossi.
“It’s been swept,” the judge replied. “I believe that is the term. In my position, certain things can still be guaranteed, procured. I have access to certain privileges, certain channels of communication which mere mortals, shall we say, can only dream of. Even so, in my situation I am always vulnerable. We live on a knife-edge, Inspector. A very interesting knife-edge, at the best of times, but devilishly sharp, nonetheless.”
“And when the time is right, my father can see to it that I have a new identity. I could start again and eventually see my son.”
“Presuming, of course,” said Rossi, “that I don’t just put the cuffs on you both, now, and bring you in.”
Maria reached for another cigarette.
“And what would there be to gain by doing that, Inspector?”
“Justice, Spinelli’s freedom, the truth?”
She lit the cigarette.
“Don’t you want to catch the real killer, Inspector? Or do you want my father to be next? If they want to kill him, they will. They can put a bomb under his car. If they want to kill me, they will. That was made very clear to me. Do you want that on your conscience?”
“You can feel it, Inspector,” said the judge, “when the state begins to abandon you. You are old enough to remember Falcone and Borsellino. The heroes of the anti-mafia slowly, inexorably, and fatally left to face their enemies alone, once they had over-reached, once they had come too close to the wrong people at the wrong time. Once they had become too good at their jobs. It can happen to the best of people, Inspector, the most well-intentioned servants of the law. In fact, being the best can mean signing your own death warrant. The mediocre types trouble few people. I rather think you would fall into the former category, Inspector.”
Rossi weighed up whether it was a compliment, a threat, or both. He began pacing the room then stopped.
“So I must compromise? That is what you are saying? So that we are all then involved. I too become de facto an accessory to the fact? All are implicated so no one has to take sole responsibility? A strange kind of solidarity, don’t you think? Or is that just ‘what everybody does’? Cosi fan tutti? I thought that was the sort of thing we were against. All this cosy, corrupt, complicity.”
“We are appealing to your better nature, Inspector, to your higher principles,” said Maria, “not to your knowledge of procedure, and besides, there may be more ways than one in which I can help you.”
“You can help me?” said Rossi. “Go on. Really. Now I’m intrigued!”
“Well, I am an agent, Inspector, whether I’ve gone AWOL or not the fact remains. And as a secret services agent, I am answerable to no judicial police authority, both in factual operative terms and, if you like, in moral terms. Like it or not, agents can investigate as and when they please. And before you say it,” she added, raising a hand to silence Carrara now who was bridling at this latest show of arrogance, “before you tell me that it is precisely this kind of chasing shadows, when we get involved, which causes you all your problems, you will
remember I told you I saw the face of the killer. What I didn’t tell you is that I had seen that face before.”
Thirty-Nine
Jibril and Cristian had given Iannelli a lot to think about: the overcrowding, the lack of privacy, the damp, the inadequate bedding, and monotonous diet. He wanted to know if these privations were the fruit of cost-cutting and creaming-off of funds? And funded it was, to the tune of many millions of government euros. But he didn’t see much of that trickling down to the exhausted and traumatized occupants but rather more to the NGOs and cooperatives delivering the services. Cristian and other volunteers were doing good work as were many of the islanders, but he had also seen secret films that had made the Centre for Identification and Expulsion or CIE look more like a prison camp. It showed functionaries ordering men and women to strip naked, outdoors, as doctors carried out inspections or others tossed out packs of replacement clothing and bathing materials. Were they criminals? Had they committed some unspeakable crime that might explain but never excuse such humiliation? No.
Many of the men were desperate to pick up with their lives and reach loved ones and family members in that ever more abstract realm called the outside world. Here, in Sicily, in the sunshine, as the mocking winter breezes wafted dust and sand along the palm-lined promenade, the sudden and absurd stasis and frustration reminded Iannelli of Camus’s The Plague. It was a severe test of character, a war of sorts.
He knew that in this unfortunate set of circumstances there was at least an element of design. There was human nature to consider and human refusal of nature too. But opportunism surfaced when opportunities presented themselves and unscrupulous opportunism organized to maximize the possible return was, in this context, only one thing. Mafia. Mafia of the simplest and most sublime kind. The straightforward purchasing of any privilege, position, power, access to favours, concessions, impunity, and wealth-making situations which a human individual represented. The only question was how far la piovra – the Sicilian for octopus and by extension Cosa Nostra itself – could reach, or had already reached with its ever-probing tentacles.