The Dark Heart of Florence: Number 6 in series (Michele Ferrara)

by Michele Giuttari

  Soon the whole area was lit up by the explosions. They looked like fireworks.

  Ferrara was blown backwards. A wave of heat seemed to envelop him. He could taste smoke and gunpowder in his mouth.

  He touched his chest and found the torn remains of his shirt, reduced almost to shreds. Then he felt a burning sensation, passed his hand across his forehead and saw blood. His hair felt sticky and there was a slight pain in his right ankle.

  He heard shouting behind him. He could clearly distinguish Rizzo’s voice calling him from among a lot of other voices.

  He spotted Rizzo lying on the ground. With some difficulty, he managed to get up and run to him. There was a cut on his left cheek, although it did not look especially deep.

  He helped him up.

  ‘Fuck, Michele, I really thought I was going to die this time… That bastard…’

  ‘I thought the worst too. But we’re both alive, thank God.’ He ran his fingers through the shredded remains of his shirt. ‘A good thing I was wearing a bulletproof vest.’

  Ferrara slung Rizzo’s arm over his shoulder and walked him to a car.

  He looked around and saw that other officers had been injured too.

  Genius had mined the whole area around the house with remote control devices. But there was no trace of him.

  Was he still shut up in the former convent or had he taken advantage of the opportunity to escape?

  He looked up towards the house and noticed that one of the explosions had blown the door off its hinges, leaving a rectangle of light through which smoke continued to billow out.

  Or had he been injured too?

  Ferrara was pondering his next move, whether to rush in through the door or not, when the silence of the valley was shattered by the loud roar of an engine. It came from the back of the house.

  In the blink of an eye, a large four-by-four stopped right in front of them.

  ‘Don’t shoot!’ he ordered his men. He was in their line of fire. He let go of Rizzo’s arm, and walked slowly towards the four-by-four with his hands up. In the light of the dashboard, which was still on even though the first glimmer of dawn was starting to appear, he saw Guendalina sitting terrified in the passenger seat with the gun still aimed at her head.

  Genius lowered the window and, with a wild laugh, cried, ‘Go to hell, Chief Superintendent!’

  He had laid the perfect trap, and they had walked straight into it. Ferrara looked at him and was immediately struck by the expression in his eyes. They really were a madman’s eyes. He held that depraved gaze for a few moments and felt a shiver run down his spine.

  Was it really him? No, it wasn’t possible…

  Just then, the tyres spun on the gravel and the four-by-four set off at top speed down a dirt road that led to the M67.

  Ferrara used his radio to request some ambulances to be sent immediately. Then he ordered the helicopters to follow the four-by-four.

  It wouldn’t be easy to follow him for a few minutes yet. But then the daylight would help them.

  86

  Where was that bastard hiding?

  After half an hour of solid searching, helped now by the dawn light, one of the helicopters located the four-by-four in the Cavallino area. But there was no one on board. He had abandoned it with the passenger door open, and must now be on foot.

  Was Guendalina still with him? Or had he killed her and thrown her body somewhere?

  In the meantime, the injured had been taken to the hospital in Vicchio, although nobody seemed to be seriously hurt. After having his forehead treated by the paramedics from one of the ambulances, Ferrara had started to coordinate the search. Soon the patrol cars from the Mugello Carabinieri, who had been alerted over the emergency radio frequency, would be arriving too. They needed to bring in the fugitive, but above all they needed to save the hostage. If it was not too late.

  The manhunt was under way. The whole area would be combed thoroughly.

  Teresa and Angelica had heard the explosions and seen the clouds of black smoke rising up into the sky.

  Angelica would have liked to run straight there and rescue Guendalina. She had heard, via the portable radios, that a woman had been taken hostage. It could only be her: she had understood everything now.

  ‘I beg you, let’s go over there with the others!’ Angelica implored.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible. We have to stay here and wait. You must stay calm – the Chief Superintendent knows what he’s doing. I promise you.’

  ‘But that man’s crazy, he’s violent, he’s unpredictable. Have you seen what he did?’

  ‘Trust us,’ Teresa said. Her hands were tied, and there were too many thoughts going through her mind to keep listening to Angelica.

  She put a hand on her shoulder, then put her radio earpiece back in to follow the progress of the manhunt.

  But the radio was a jumble of voices. None of the tactics seemed to be working.

  ‘That way… with a woman… he was armed… hurry hurry! He threatened us, he wanted the motorbike… he shot my friend in the leg…’

  The two young leather-clad bikers were at Passo del Mugalione, the pass over the Apennines, near San Godenzo. One lay on the ground on a traffic island beside a road sign reading FORLÌ 53. The other had seen the police car approaching with its lights flashing and had waved it down.

  On board were Venturi and Rossi. They immediately got out of the car.

  ‘Go… he went into that wood!’ shouted the same young man, pointing in the direction in which he had seen the two running away.

  ‘How long ago did they go into the woods?’ Rossi asked, checking the condition of the wounded boy.

  ‘Not long ago, no more than a couple of minutes… Don’t waste any more time, I’ve already called an ambulance for my friend. It should be here any moment now.’

  Venturi sent out the alarm over the radio to the other cars, giving their position, then he and Rossi ran towards the area the young man had pointed out, guns at the ready. They were not used to this kind of chase, but there was no time to think right now. All they could do was go.

  After running along the main road for about a hundred yards, they moved onto a kind of mule track. On either side were tall beech trees, which became more tightly packed as they moved through them. Then they spotted a shadowy figure moving among the trees. They stopped, exchanged glances, and went on, more cautiously. They heard the sound of a helicopter, distant at first, but then, within a few seconds, it was right above their heads, although they could not see it due to the very thick vegetation. They immediately felt safer, but their hopes vanished as quickly as they had sprung up: the helicopter was not going to be of any use in this terrain.

  ‘Stop!… I said stop… you’re surrounded!’ Venturi yelled in the direction of where he had seen the figure. Immediately, the man appeared again.

  ‘Get away or I’ll kill her!’

  The gun was pressed right up against Guendalina’s head. By now, the girl was too terrified even to cry.

  ‘Put the gun down. There’s no way out.’

  ‘If you try and follow me, there’ll be trouble, for her, for you, for all of you! You’ve seen who you’re dealing with. Don’t play games with me.’

  In the meantime, the whole area had been transformed into a war zone. Other officers had arrived, lots of them. And a second helicopter had joined the first. All the possible escape routes were now blocked off.

  But Daniele De Robertis was still roaring like a lion.

  A lion who no longer had anything to lose, and would go down fighting.

  ‘Send those helicopters away or I’ll kill her now,’ he shouted as loudly as he could.

  They saw him move behind a tree, one arm tight around Guendalina’s neck, pulling her along behind him.

  I can’t take it any more, I’d rather die, she was thinking as she let herself be dragged along. She had stopped resisting, convinced now that there was no way she could get out of this alive. There was going to
be a shootout and he would probably use her as a shield. That was the only reason he hadn’t killed her before now. But she would end up dead anyway, killed by him or by friendly fire.

  ‘Let her go now and we’ll spare you.’

  Genius recognised that voice immediately. ‘Ah, you’re finally here too… Did you think you could actually win, eh, Gatto? That you were more cunning than me? You’re just a policeman! You have to pay!’

  ‘It’s me you want, let her go!’ Ferrara replied, moving closer, as some of the NOCS officers took up positions around him.

  ‘Come on then, come on. And you, you whore, keep still or I’ll blow your head off.’

  But Guendalina did not obey.

  She suddenly assumed a determined expression, full of rage, even hatred. The terror with which she had lived for the past few days had gone from her eyes. Whether out of desperation or out of hope reawakened by the presence of all the police officers, she gathered all her remaining strength, spun round and threw herself at him.

  She kneed him in the groin with remarkable precision and speed. He groaned and twisted his head to the side. It was only a brief movement, but long enough for the bullet fired from a precision rifle by one of the NOCS officers to hit the wrist of the hand with which he was holding the gun.

  He fell to the ground and tried to get up again, but gave up all such foolish ambitions when three men tackled him and pinned him down.

  Genius had been defeated.

  As Venturi handcuffed him, Genius gave Ferrara a malevolent sneer. It was as if even at the moment of surrender, he was laughing at Il Gatto for daring to challenge him.

  First stop: the hospital.

  Then, obviously, the prison.

  Ferrara ran over to Guendalina, pulled her to him and held her in his arms until she had stopped sobbing.

  By the time they moved apart, the sun was already high in the sky.

  The nightmare was finally over.

  87

  ‘Darling!’

  With bright eyes and trembling hands, the two women ran to each other and embraced.

  At her request, Guendalina had been brought straight to Angelica’s house. And now, in front of the door, they were clinging to each other, their mouths pressed together, their kisses becoming ever deeper and more desperate.

  For many hours, hours that had seemed endless, they had been afraid they would never see each other again.

  Teresa was moved as she watched them. She wished she had someone who cared about her that much.

  Having made sure that Genius was in good hands, Ferrara had gathered all his available men together. The maniac was under arrest, but that was not the end of it.

  Taking great care to avoid any other possible unexploded devices, they entered the former convent and searched it from top to bottom.

  They did not find anything unusual in the hall, but there were plenty of surprises elsewhere.

  First and foremost, the children: there wasn’t a single one. That madman had made them up in order to have the police by the balls.

  But there were many surprises in the vast, dusty underground room.

  One in particular: Daniele De Robertis’ diary, with its worn black leather cover into which the words EVIL GENIUS had been carved with a knife or something similar.

  Its pages, which Ferrara immediately began to leaf through and which would keep him occupied for several hours, included references to Enrico Costanza, to the statue of Perseus in the Loggia dei Lanzi, to the Cuban girl, Florinda, and to a certain Sir George Holley, an Englishman dubbed ‘the Great Beast’, a plan of whose villa was attached.

  It was like a collage of the events of the past few months, with dates, names, places and descriptions.

  This diary was extremely valuable.

  There was no mention in it, though, of Serpico, Fabio Biondi or Beatrice Filangeri. As if he had played no part in their deaths.

  And, as Ferrara was wondering who this Sir George Holley could be – he had never heard the name before – Officer Belli came up to him. She had found the photo album stolen from Teresa in an old cabinet.

  ‘Well done! It’s only right that you should be the one to return it to your commanding officer.’

  In spite of her fatigue, a huge smile spread across Alessandra’s face. Maybe the door to the Squadra Mobile would remain open to her for longer than the planned month.

  Ferrara settled into an armchair, the fatigue of the night making itself felt in spite of his curiosity, and plunged once more into the pages of the diary. He leafed through it again and, on a page dated 6 July 2004, he found these lines, set out like a poem:

  To Leonardo, my twin,

  united at birth, but in life separated by destiny

  which did not want us together,

  different from the others,

  two distinct people,

  but with one soul,

  I could not hold your hand as you lay dying

  could not feel your grasp,

  could not close your eyes after the final moments

  no, all this was denied me,

  you died alone,

  in a distant land,

  murdered,

  and I was unable to do anything to prevent it,

  but I will avenge you,

  I swear it,

  I will live for that alone.

  From your Daniele.

  EPILOGUE

  Monday 13 September

  ‘We are now coming in to land. Please close your tray tables and fasten your seatbelts.’

  It was the voice of the air hostess on the 10 a.m. Florence–Paris flight.

  Teresa and Officer Belli both looked out of the window. In the space of a few minutes, the clouds thinned enough for them to recognise the city below them.

  Their appointment was for five in the afternoon.

  Ferrara had called the previous day. One ring, two, three, no answer. At last a woman had said, ‘Allô?’ in an unsteady voice. He had introduced himself. Fortunately, they had been able to talk in Italian.

  Ferrara had told her that Daniele De Robertis had been arrested and that he needed to clarify a few things with her. At first the woman had seemed distraught, then, after listening to the story Ferrara told her over the many miles of telephone wire, she had said in a calm voice that she did not believe a word of it. Unperturbed, he had asked her to come to Florence to meet him, but she had replied that it was impossible as she was confined to a wheelchair.

  That was when he had decided to send the two women police officers to her.

  Now they were waiting in the drawing room of an elegant apartment in the Rue Clément Marot in the eighth arrondissement, a stone’s throw from the Champs-Elysées and the Seine.

  They heard the door open and turned to see an elegant woman in her seventies, dripping with jewellery, approaching in an electric wheelchair. They had learned from the French police that she was a rich heiress, descended from a family of bankers, who over the years had invested her inheritance in several estates and properties in both France and Italy.

  ‘I’m Superintendent Micalizi,’ Teresa said, ‘and this is my colleague, Officer Belli.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Madame Chantal Perrin. I speak and understand Italian very well.’

  ‘Yes, Chief Superintendent Ferrara told us that. We’ve been sent here because we have some questions to ask you, if that’s convenient.’

  They sat down on a sofa but, just as Teresa was about to speak, the old woman told her that she had something to say.

  ‘You know, Daniel, mon petit enfant, has been more than a son to me. I adopted him – I was living in Italy at the time – when I bought at auction that former convent that had been used as a home for orphans and abandoned children to help reintegrate them into society. I was immediately struck by his eyes, and by his reserve and generosity… Daniel’s no killer, he’s the son that every mother would love to have. And then when he grew up, he became a great IT expert, in demand all over the world
. He’s a phenomenon. He can do things for the common good and human progress that are only possible for a true genius. If you hope to learn anything from me that might incriminate him, you’re very much mistaken and have merely wasted your time in coming here. He didn’t kill anyone, and he isn’t the Evil Genius your Italian newspapers are talking about today.’

  They tried approaching the subject from a different angle, but without insisting: it was only too obvious that they would not learn anything.

  So they said goodbye and went on their way.

  The woman would never reveal anything about that genius, either about his humanity or his evil. In her eyes he was nothing but a force for good.