A Known Evil

by Aidan Conway

  Rossi wanted to believe his own theory but even though he had turned it over repeatedly he kept finding himself back at the beginning. When the politicos smelled blood in the water and saw even the slightest chance for swivelling the whole narrative around to favour their own agendas then they went for it, of course.

  “And it’s not like what we do is viewed in isolation,” Rossi went on. “Crime pays, doesn’t it? Politically, it’s a tool for them to lever themselves to where it is they want to get to. And we’re always in the middle.”

  But he knew there were still too many dangling questions, too many searches for reassurance, for some shred of confirmation.

  “Is it enough?” asked Carrara.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know. Is nothing fresh coming in on the road checks? The new call for witnesses? Anything?”

  “Nothing to report,” said Carrara. “But have you seen this,” he continued showing Rossi an article tucked away in the inside pages of his newspaper.

  Priest Linked to Cardinal is Arrested.

  “Seems this guy was flying millions out of Lausanne into the country on a private jet with papal insignia on behalf of a naval contractor. And there’s a slew of Italian and ISW bank accounts also regularly filled with ‘charitable donations’. Dummy accounts. Numerous banker’s drafts. Money laundering, pure and simple.”

  “Interesting,” said Rossi, taking the paper and scanning for details. “Says he used to be an accountant in the ISW itself and they reckon he was paying off a secret service agent to get safe passage. The cardinal’s not around to defend himself though.”

  “And his people are denying all knowledge of it. The old bad apple excuse.”

  “Probably the tip of the iceberg, too,” said Rossi.

  Back in the office, Rossi was swinging in wide arcs in his chair, his mind firmly on Bonaventura. The remnants of a hurried takeaway lunch were abandoned on the desk. He was underground. Deep underground. Yet he could come out and do this and disappear without a trace. They had to be dealing with a battle-hardened pro.

  “Hang on a minute,” said Carrara, “message here from Maria. I’d missed it.”

  “Go on,” said Rossi. “I’m all ears.”

  “Says she wants to see us. Says it’s ‘potentially big’.”

  “‘Big’ like what?” said Rossi, his residual patience now paper thin.

  “Wait. Says she’s working on fixing up a meet, online, possibly for tonight. Still in the early stages but she thinks it really could be him.”

  “Like the ones you mentioned in the report?” Rossi replied. “They were all dead ends, wind-ups.”

  “No. Says she’s got an identifier. Remember the tattoo?”

  “The tattoo!” Rossi exclaimed. “Who’d be stupid enough to let a tattoo give him away?”

  “That’s exactly the point. She says it’s a tattoo that’s been covered over and it’s on his neck in the same position as the tattoo she saw on the guy leaving the car park.”

  Carrara looked up at Rossi who had put on his best poker face. Did he detect in Carrara’s voice a note? Something? A certain tone? Then Carrara’s head shot down as he started tapping the keys again.

  “Couldn’t he just have cut himself shaving?” Rossi proffered. “And stuck a plaster on it.”

  “Well, unless she did actually get something through her famous ‘channels of communication’. Remember?”

  Rossi raised an eyebrow while still scrutinizing his colleague for any small sign. Any hint that his unease and recent distance could become a problem. But Carrara was absorbed again.

  “S’pose she’d better come and show us what she’s got then,” said Rossi, stretching and yawning. “What do you say?”

  “I’ll set it up. What time?”

  Carrara was in his element now with the renewed promise of action. As long as it wasn’t clouding his judgement, thought Rossi glancing at his watch.

  “I’m going to the hospital in the afternoon. Then I’ve got a few things to see to and after that I’m beginning to think it’s time to go and rustle up some specialist hardware. If this is a night op and we’re going alone we need to be prepared. Sometime after five, maybe six. My place?”

  “Sounds good,” said Carrara rattling out the reply on the keyboard. “But, er, what hardware’s that exactly?” he said, snapping the laptop shut.

  “Ferri,” said Rossi bending back the thumb on his right hand, straightening his index finger and swinging his arm around until he was pointing at Carrara. Plural noun, from Latin ferrum, meaning iron. Or, to lesser mortals, pieces, shooters, or just plain old guns.

  Rossi pushed the buzzer on the door and a familiar face peered out from the room at the back of the shop. The door clicked open. A waft of wood, varnish, and engineering oil filled his nostrils.

  “Michael. It’s been some time. Thinking of taking up shooting again?”

  “I need a favour, Gennaro.”

  There was no reply as the owner made his way towards the counter and began to fiddle with some small mechanism laid out on a leather cloth.

  “It will be a long time before I ask you for another,” said Rossi, handing him then a piece of paper with his order. Gennaro stopped what he was doing and stroked his short, white beard.

  “Can you do it, today?” Rossi asked.

  “Identical,” he said, reading the note. “New.”

  “Apart from the serial numbers.”

  “And life or death I imagine.”

  Rossi nodded.

  “And I can give you my word that nothing will come back to you. Whatever happens.”

  “Your word, Michael?”

  “Yes,” Rossi said. “My word.”

  Sixty-Nine

  “It is an inexact science. What we know about the human brain and its ability to repair itself or even to ‘farm out’ its functions is so minimal. People often won’t accept that we can only give answers based on the statistics before us, the empirical data. Other than that, we are feeling around in the dark. However, on a psychological level, you can at least draw some comfort from the positive signs. In that sense, hope is a legitimate option.”

  Rossi felt he’d already had the conversation a hundred times. The doctors were not always the same. To the best of their ability, they would pick up where someone else had left off, often adding a personal insight or even seeming to hold a radically different opinion of how things were or might pan out. That was the nature of the modern health service. Discontinuous, often at breaking point, underfunded, but trying – and often managing – to provide excellence. Just like the police, he thought. Just like him.

  The white coats came and went and then they were left alone. Hand in hand. More his hand than hers. He read to her again and put on music as he had been advised to do. Then when the appointed hour came round, he prepared to leave. Only this time he lingered longer, as he would have done before setting out on any mission, knowing that tonight could be the night when, well, anything might happen.

  He walked across the car park, opened the car door and tossed the shoulder bag containing the weapons onto the passenger seat. Three Berettas with laser-guide aim. Accuracy at 20 yards: extremely good. Stopping power: moderate, and the weapon had its critics due to dissatisfaction with the intermediate calibre but that was the least of his concerns. Rossi disliked guns with a passion, having seen what they could do, but he knew now he had no choice and the only plan he could envisage, risky though it was, meant he had to put his trust in weaponry. But it had to be on his terms and it was a chance he would have to take. The sky had turned an ominous seal-grey. Were those a few drops of icy rain on the windscreen? He checked in to get the forecast via the service radio. Rain moving towards sleet as the evening progressed. It was a British forecast. Possible snow showers. Nothing dramatic but it was grimly cold again.

  There was a steady stream of traffic along the Via Appia Nuova in and out of the centre. It had been lighter in the afternoon, probably as a result of the dithering
mayor’s last-minute decision to allow the schools to close. He’d left it up to the principals themselves, so, something like chaos had ensued as parents with kids in different institutions had had to juggle work and childcare arrangements. And when the weather deteriorated in Rome, there was also a sort of hardwired self-preservation tendency among the citizenry to resort to their cars, so as to guarantee their complete autonomy, all of which put even greater strain on the city’s already stretched road network.

  Rossi veered off the now increasingly congested carriageway of the Appia and onto Via Cerveteri hoping to at least keep moving. As he passed the carabinieri barracks he looked up at the sleet slanting across the sodium yellow searchlights above its fortress walls. Was it thickening to snow already? It seemed to come and go, changing state and changing back again, uncertain as to which way to go. He knew the feeling.

  He parked as close as he could to his own building and ducked into the entrance. He took the lift to the fourth floor and then, turning both keys twice in their respective locks, he was home. They would be here soon. He dropped the holdall in the lounge and headed for the kitchen where he began opening cupboards. First the weighing scales he had got from the supermarket with his loyalty card but used only once. Nice though. Digital. Then a bag of flour. That would do the trick. Didn’t actually have to make a cake. Just look like he was going to.

  He took out the weapons. Identical. Semi-automatics they all knew inside out. These would do the trick all right. He laid out a cloth on the coffee table and with deft, practised movements began stripping them down. They were working a treat. No complaints there. He reassembled them and left a loaded magazine next to each weapon then covered everything with another cloth. He proceeded to switch on the computer at his work station and get the electronic side of things up and running. Carrara would be delighted to see how well he was coming along. A fully-functioning splitter was in place and the option of creating a local network too, all thanks to his very efficient new IT assistant. Time for a drink. Tea, of course. There would be no messing around with alcohol for the foreseeable future, whatever that might be. He had to be fully on his game. Had to be one hundred per cent focused on this one.

  Mid-sip, the intercom buzzed. He took a quick look down to the street from the balcony. They had come together. Very cosy. There were a few sporadic snowflakes falling now for sure, but it still couldn’t decide whether to snow properly or just fizzle out. And the wind. “Cut you like a bloody knife that would,” he said out loud. He wanted more certainty on the forecast though. It could throw everything up in the air.

  Without ceremony, Carrara and Marini assumed their positions at their respective computers.

  “I won’t dwell on the details,” said Rossi, hovering around like a trapped fly as his associates set-to with their hi-tech preparations.

  “We’re waiting for a message to come in,” said Carrara, by way of explanation and sensing Rossi’s agitation. “It’s a waiting game now.”

  “And you believe it?”

  “We can’t do worse than we’re doing at the moment,” Carrara countered. “Do I need to update you on the body count?”

  Rossi rubbed his chin with a look of distant, silent scepticism. But cultivated scepticism this time.

  “Well, before you get too busy, come and get your toys,” he said, unveiling the hardware taking pride of place now at the centre of his living room. “Even if I don’t think you’re going to get a dickie bird from this guy now. Not this way. He’s too busy shooting cops to get his rocks off.”

  “He’s a gamer,” Marini began with seeming assurance, as they sat around like the unlikely remnants of the knights of some minor round table. “Can’t you see he’s pushing all the rules to the limit? It’s a part of what gets him his kicks.”

  “Well, I don’t game,” said Rossi without lifting his head. “One for you,” he added with apparent indifference, placing a weapon in front of each of them in turn, “and a full magazine.”

  They took hold of their firearms, weighing them and turning them over.

  “Remember to have them cocked and in position one,” said Rossi, “when we’re there and on the way. We don’t know how this could go. Expect the unexpected. So, don’t go dropping them. Trigger’s easy and there’s a laser guide,” he pointed to his own weapon, “here. But I’m sure I don’t need to tell you I don’t want them to be used, if it’s at all possible,” he cautioned, looking at them both in turn.

  Marini got to her feet and reaching behind her back lifted her sweater enough to be able to slide the Beretta into the waistband of her stretch black jeans.

  “Out of sight but not out of mind,” she said, adding then in what might have been mock schoolgirl tones, “may I please go to the bathroom, Inspector? A little bit of pre-match nerves I expect.”

  Rossi nodded his assent, indicating the direction with a jerk of his head. She sauntered past him as if supremely certain of herself. But this was his operation now and the message seemed to have been clearly, even if not openly received.

  “Tea, Gigi?” said Rossi clasping a conciliatory hand on his colleague’s shoulder while accompanying him towards the kitchen.

  “Maria seems very confident she’s going to get a game, as it were, don’t you think?” he said as he filled the kettle.

  “Ready and up for it, I’d say. And you’ve been doing some therapeutic homebaking, I see,” said Carrara.

  “Had the best of intentions,” Rossi replied, “before life got in the way, again.” He reached into the cupboard for cups and a crumpled box of teabags. “Only got Earl Grey, I’m afraid.”

  The bathroom door opened and closed.

  “Going to join us?” Rossi asked as the newly refreshed Maria took up a position at the entrance to the now-cramped kitchen. Rossi and Carrara took their steaming brews back to the lounge and sipped in silence. Rossi picked up his Beretta from where he had left it on the table and slid it into his holster.

  “A bit more milk, I think,” he said rising to return to the kitchen where he clunked around before re-emerging with a muted but satisfied smile.

  “I suppose we’d better outline the plan then,” he began. “It’s us three, right.”

  “With the option of calling in backup, of course,” added Carrara.

  “Maroni’s had response units on alert for all eventualities since the Tor Sapienza debacle and a radio channel’s open for that,” Rossi replied. “Chopper’s on standby too, even if, the way this weather’s going I think there’ll be zero chance of getting anything up.”

  “So, ground it is,” confirmed Carrara.

  Rossi nodded and opened out a map on the table. “If and when, of course. If he goes for the centre, we can converge on his position. He knows that, I’m sure. Might even want it, for all we know, but if he continues to operate on the fringes, in the peripheral areas, we’re more limited in terms of rapid response.”

  Rossi was expecting Maria to pass comment, and she didn’t disappoint him.

  “So what you’re saying is that we haven’t got a clue and we have to hope for the best, unless he goes for something spectacular in St Peter’s Square or Piazza San Giovanni?”

  Rossi could only shrug.

  “He took everyone by surprise out in Tor Sapienza,” he said, “because we were doing spot-checks without having the necessary precautions in place. From now on, every spot check will be military style with readiness to give covering fire from at least one officer and with all occupants out and splayed on the bonnet. If it means us going back to how it was done in the ’70s, well that’s how it has to be. That officer was shot walking back to the car. It was as naive on his part as it was tragic, I fear. But hindsight doesn’t help anyone, does it?”

  Carrara looked into his tea. As every cop knew, it could have been him. Or the next bullet could have his name on it.

  “Oh and tonight,” Rossi asked, “how long exactly do you want to wait? I mean if you don’t get any comeback on this ‘meet’? Because
I actually think I’d like to be on the ground. If there’s going to be another hit I want to be out there!” he added gesturing towards the window. “Not stuck behind a screen chasing nobodies.”

  “We’re not chasing nobodies,” shot back a suddenly rattled Carrara, “we’re trying to find a shortcut!”

  Rossi fumbled for a moment in a folder on the table.

  “We should be saturating the city with this picture, every one of us,” Rossi said almost shouting now and holding up a copy of the artwork, an age-advanced school photo blended with the artist’s impression they’d got from Marta. “We can flush him out, get him on the run. Somebody’s bound to have seen him somewhere. He’s got to be someone’s neighbour; he must get his cappuccinos in someone’s bar!”

  “How does half an hour from now grab you, on the GRA?” said Maria from behind her screen in a soft but certain tone.

  “What?”

  “Just got a message,” she said with barely-concealed pride.

  Rossi leapt to his feet.

  “Let me see.”

  “He’s not going to show himself, if that’s what you think. It’s just a yes to the meet. Wait a minute. This shit happens all the time you know. Doesn’t mean he’ll show. Could be a hoaxer, get cold feet, but that’s how it works.”

  “What is it?” said Carrara now joining Rossi hunched over Marini’s shoulder as she flicked between windows and dialogue boxes.

  “He wants proof.”

  “What do you mean?” said Rossi.

  “That I’m female.”

  She stood up, shoved back the chair and without a moment’s hesitation began peeling off her close-fitting cashmere sweater.

  “I thought that would have been clear enough to most,” said Rossi whose eyes were, despite himself, drawn now to the spectacle unfolding beside him in his own living room.

  “He – if it is him – thinks I could be a CD.”

  “A what?”

  “A CD. A cross-dresser. Now, if you’ll excuse me gentlemen, I’m going to have to remove this, momentarily,” she said indicating the expensive-looking and enticing black lace bra framing the even more enticing architecture beneath it.