“What do you think I did? I watched him leave . . . I didn’t want . . . I didn’t want to run the risk . . .”
Of pulling a Cacabonda, Simona finished in her head.
“. . . of arresting a television reporter on my own initiative,” the maresciallo continued. “But I took out my phone to call Evangelisti and tell him what had just happened. I thought he could interrogate Ciuffani personally. Except that my phone rang before I could dial the number—”
“Let me guess. It was your superior, a commander, or a captain . . .”
“It was the general commander himself! From the Turin office. He said just two words to me . . .”
“‘Drop it.’ Right?”
Calabonda removed his dark glasses to see her better. “Just like that. That’s it exactly. He prohibited me from consulting with Evangelisti. How did you know?”
“You haven’t guessed what’s behind all of this?”
“The Services?”
“Well, yes. You know, I’m a habitué. They butt in whenever we’re working on delicate cases having to do with the Mafia or terrorism. Think back to the time one of your colleagues was about to arrest Provenzano, well before they decided to do it themselves. Provenzano used to be responsible for maintaining the pax mafiosa negotiated by the State—which was made possible precisely because of the Services’ involvement as an intermediary. Your colleague received the same phone call from one of his superiors.”
The maresciallo’s pride seemed to have disappeared completely. He looked so deflated that Simona felt something not unlike pity.
“You shouldn’t let it get you down,” she said. “They’ve inadvertently given us an essential piece of information on the case: when the Services intervene, it means that it goes all the way up to the top.”
Calabonda seemed somewhat consoled by this affirmation.
“And what should I do?” he asked. “What will I do now?”
“You will obey orders. It’s your military duty, isn’t it?”
And seeing his unhappy expression, she added:
“I on the other hand am not a member of the military. I promise you that if there are developments, I will keep you informed,” she made clear. She went to pat him on the shoulder, but she stopped herself.
Just as she was getting ready to leave, she changed her mind. “By the way, does anyone know why Bertolazzi was at Minoncelli’s house?”
“Based on what we learned from Bertolazzi’s cell phone, it seems he received a phone call after Minoncelli left home. The call came from Minoncelli’s residence, but at that time Minoncelli was at the Claudiana bookstore in Torre Pellice. We have the Gnone brothers’ testimonies to that effect: he was talking with them about organizing a debate, before going to occupy Bertolazzi’s villa. Someone called Bertolazzi from Minoncelli’s house and probably convinced the engineer to go there and kill him. Who? What did he say to convince him? And why did the person who made the call kill Bertolazzi? I have a lot of work to do to find the answers . . . for as long as the investigation is mine to conduct . . .”
There was an exchange of doubtful looks. Then Simona asked, “And as to the fact of my gun being stolen, have you made any progress?”
“No one noticed any intruders that morning. The maids were all in the halls the entire time, while you were having breakfast and out for a walk. It’s very unlikely that someone would have been able to get into your room without being seen. I believe the thief entered the room at night while the two of you were sleeping.”
“Someone very skilled then, and well equipped, because I didn’t notice any signs of destructive entry. This part of your investigation is of particular interest to me, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ll have to explain what happened to my superiors. Allowing your weapon to be stolen is already a very serious thing, but when that weapon is then used to commit murder . . . I may have to face a disciplinary hearing. For the moment no one has called me—not from the DNA, not from the central direction of the police—but it won’t be long now . . .”
Calabonda threw his arms open in a show of displeasure.
“It’s not your fault . . . You haven’t committed any sort of indiscretion.’” Holy crap, thought Simona. Am I actually seeking consolation from this sorry excuse for a country carabiniere ... ?
“I hope that my superiors see it the same way you do,” said Simona. “And that they let you investigate these crimes as thoroughly as necessary.”
And it was with these hopes, and the feeling that she had participated in a rather whiny exchange between two losers, that Simona parted ways with the maresciallo.
* * *
One hour later, settled into her hotel room bed, on her lap a tray full of biscotti, croissants, coffee, jellies, various types of honey, orange juice, and a piece of blueberry cake, she watched Evangelisti’s televised press conference. To his right sat the head of DIGOS (the Divisione Investigazioni Generali e Operazioni Speciali, or General Investigations and Special Operations Division) headquarters in Turin, to his left the representative of the district attorney’s office in that same city, with various police directors standing behind him. At the end of the table, Simona spotted the testy whiskers of Calabonda.
On the table in front of them was an impressive display of rifles, aerosol can bombs, stacks of pamphlets and papers, in addition to numerous knives and other nonfirearm weapons. The camera zoomed in on them and Simona recognized several uncapping knives. The day before she had seen Minoncelli maneuver one of these same tools to extract the honey from his beehives.
A school classroom had been taken over for the press conference. The reporters were seated at the students’ desks and the words “Operation Edelweiss” had been written in chalk on the blackboard behind the officials.
“Weapons, materials, and documents were found at the homes of members of the Alpine Valley Beekeepers’ Defense League,” Evangelisti said, “all of which are about to be analyzed.”
Evangelisti spoke in a tone that Simona had never heard him use before. The good-natured irony, which until then had seemed to be his trademark, had completely disappeared. He was so focused and solemn that a second went by before a reporter asked him:
“Have you found evidence of the League’s involvement in the failed attack on the Sacropiano research center in Pinerolo?”
Without any change in his focused expression, Evangelisti answered, “Our attention was drawn to a brief pamphlet entitled ‘The Worker Bee Revolution,’ of which we found numerous copies at the homes of the arrestees. The fact that the title corresponds to the words painted on the wall at the Sacropiano research center and scrawled on several pieces of paper found at the sites of the two murders is certainly no coincidence. It seems the pamphlet had circulated in secret for several weeks. What we’re dealing with is a text that questions the most fundamental aspects of democratic society and invites readers to ‘desert’ various institutions. The investigators are in the process of determining whether the term ‘desert’ could be code for ‘sabotage.’”
Simona guffawed, dunking a spoon in a jar of rosemary honey.
“Aside from these sheets of paper and the pamphlet, do you have anything else to implicate the League in the murders of Bertolazzi and Danela, who was a well-known enemy of Minoncelli?”
Evangelisti exchanged a few hushed words with the head of DIGOS before turning to face the cameras again.
“At this point in the investigation, we prefer to refrain from providing further information . . .”
“But do you have proof that this pamphlet was produced by the League or by one of its members?” inquired a representative of the print media.
Evangelisti shook his head.
“For the moment, we cannot provide further information.”
One man stood up from his desk abruptly, almost knocking it over. Simona recognized Giuseppe Felice. His voice, at first uncertain, slowly became more confident as he formulated his question. “Is it true that Minoncelli was not arrested b
ecause you did not find him at his residence, or at the apiary?”
“Yes, that’s true,” Evangelisti answered. “But his arrest will come shortly. If he’s listening, I encourage him to go to the nearest carabinieri headquarters. It is in his best interest. We urgently need him to clarify the role played by each member of the League. I am not accusing the Defense League in its entirety, but it is possible that a secret faction has developed within the organization. We are simply interested in separating the good eggs from the bad, the right of democratic protest from terrorism. That is in the common interest. Ladies, gentlemen, this concludes the press conference,” he finished, standing up.
Simona turned off the television and, with a grim expression on her face, began to make every last edible thing on the tray disappear between her full lips. When she had finished, she let out a faint burp, got out of the bed, set the tray down on the ground, and went to the bathroom to throw up. This makes me feel young, she thought, her hands clutching the rim of the toilet bowl, her face covered in cold sweat. Between the ages of twenty and thirty-five she had been thin thanks to what could be called “functional anorexia.” Then she decided that she could live without attracting men, and within a few months she had gained several pounds and met Marco. They had seduced each other reciprocally, and in spite of their many amorous escapades, the relationship had stuck.
She was splashing some water on her face in front of the bathroom mirror when the phone rang. She took her time drying off, then answered.
“Ah, Simona!” exclaimed the interlocutor, relieved.
It was Antonio Bianchi, prosecutor for the National Antimafia Administration, to which the commissario reported directly.
“Good morning, Prosecutor. Are you calling to reprimand me?”
“Good morning, Commissario,” Bianchi said, in a warmer tone than the one she had expected. “I’m calling to tell you to be careful. As far as the theft of your gun is concerned—”
“I’m prepared to make a statement to the disciplinary committee,” Simona cut in, running a hand through her hair.
It was in need of a good brushing.
“We’re not at that point. You will explain yourself to your superiors, and if they don’t find you guilty of neglect, it will end there. In the end, they were the ones who proposed that you carry it with you during vacations . . . No, I’m calling to ask you to avoid getting yourself mixed up in the murder and failed attack case in the valley altogether. I’ve discussed it with the Turin district attorney’s office and we decided that your presence in the region is no longer necessary. Of course, I know you like to foster collaboration between organizations, and I know in the future you will want to be where you are needed. However, I can’t deny that your presence right now is creating a somewhat awkward situation for the investigators. You needlessly attract the attention of certain media outlets that are hostile to our interests . . .”
“You want me to get off their asses, pronto, is that it?”
Bianchi chuckled.
“I wouldn’t express it in quite those terms, but that is the substance of the message.”
“All right, but I’ll have to wait for my darling husband, who is on his way back from Salina. Marco was getting bored without me.” (And he didn’t want to leave me alone with the handsome Minoncelli, she added mentally, smiling.) “Let’s say that we’ll leave tomorrow morning at the latest.”
There was a brief silence, then:
“Understood. Tomorrow morning. At the latest,” he repeated. “Spend the rest of your vacation somewhere relaxing and come back fully refreshed, Simona. We need you here.”
“Thank you, Signor Prosecutor. You can count on me.”
As she hung up, Simona thought, That’s what I call a clear message. If you can’t stop being a pest, there’s no guarantee you’ll be able to continue with your antimafia investigations.
After she’d taken a long shower, during which she massaged herself with a Chinese anticellulite brush and washed her hair with a nourishing avocado shampoo, she dried off using a frizz-control hairdryer, rubbed various lotions on her body, hands, and face, and chose a charming floral button-up shirt and a pair of slimming black pants that flattered her still slender waist. Then she placed her solid bottom, which still gave Marco heart palpitations and had stirred the desires of numerous colleagues, on a backless chair in front of the large desk belonging to the hotel. She opened her computer and checked her email.
Giuseppe Felice had sent her the photos taken at the murder sites right before the departure of the Forensics team.
She studied the photo that had grabbed her attention.
In the place of several objects that the officials had packaged and taken away, they had drawn their exact positions in chalk and placed small, numbered signs to indicate the identities of the missing objects.
She thought for a long time, her eyes fixed on the photo; then a noise made her turn. Someone had stuck something under her door. She jumped up and threw the door open.
The hallway was deserted; the light above the elevator at the end of the hall flashed. Simona shrugged. There was no way of knowing whether the person who slid the thing under her door had taken the elevator or the stairs, going up or going down. The hotel was full of places to hide. Any attempt at pursuing them would be pointless.
She returned to her room. The object that they had slid under the door was a thin, bound pamphlet entitled “The Worker Bee Revolution.” There was no author. The commissario picked it up, then took her cell phone from the nightstand, removed the battery, stuffed everything in her purse, and left. She went down into the hotel parking garage and stationed herself in the shadows near her car, patiently waiting for someone to decide to come out. Sitting on an old toolbox behind a column, she reflected: on her life, on her relationship with the law enforcement organization for which she had worked for nearly thirty years, on her relationship with Marco. On everything except for the case of the murderers in the valley. Finally, a couple of arguing forty-year-olds turned up in the parking garage and, still arguing, got into a highend convertible. As soon as the metal door began to close behind the vehicle, Simona made her exit.
She squinted in the sunlight, not noticing anything in particular. She walked quickly along the street where the hotel was and turned onto the first road that crossed it. A half hour later, from a phone booth near San Giorgio al Monte’s old station (two tourist trains per day), she called Giuseppe Felice.
“Good morning, Giuseppe, this is Simona Tavianello. I need a little information . . . No, wait, listen, it’s urgent. All right, call Evangelisti. Really insist on speaking with him personally. Explain that it’s very important and very urgent. Whatever you do, do not tell him you’re calling on my behalf. Don’t mention my name. Simply ask him whether Item Number 78C turned up any interesting results, or whether it happened to go missing, by chance. Yes . . . got it? I’ll call you back in a half hour.”
She hung up and looked around her. All in all, she had to admit that walking a mile in a fugitive’s shoes wasn’t a bad workout. But she decided that her little game had gone on long enough, and took off heading west, toward the nameless café where she had met Felice and Minoncelli.
When she walked in twenty minutes later, she was not surprised to find the reporter at his usual table. When he saw her, he jumped. It was getting to be a habit.
“But shouldn’t you have—”
“Called you again? Well, the truth is that I prefer to talk face to face. So, how did Evangelisti respond?”
The redheaded little scarecrow grinned wider than she had ever seen him grin.
“It wasn’t easy getting through to him directly, but I finally managed it. As usual, he used the same annoyed yet courteous tone with me that he uses with everyone—the tone you use on the phone when you’re trying to get rid of someone who’s bothering you—until he heard my question. He went totally quiet. Then he said, ‘What number?’ And I repeated it for him: ‘Item Number 78C.’ Then he
coughed and said, ‘I’ll call you back’—very low, almost in a whisper. And there you have it. I’m still waiting for his call.”
Simona looked up in the direction of the café owner, but right then Felice’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the display and said, “Ah, no, it’s not him. It’s my editorial director. Dottore Alberto Signorelli.”
He answered.
“Good morning, Dottore. Yes, that’s right . . . have you called him? Ah, in that case I should . . . Oh really? What are we dealing with exactly? I don’t know, this is strictly based on a tip I received, I’m not sure I should reveal my source . . .”
Simona, who was staring at him, nodded vigorously.
“Oh, all right, she says I can tell you. It’s Commissario Tavianello . . . Yes, yes, she’s sitting across from me. All right . . .”
The reporter held out the phone to the policewoman.
“He wants to talk to you.”
With her face screwed up into a puzzled expression, Simona brought the object to her ear.
“Good morning, Commissario,” said a deep voice.
“Good morning, Dottore. You wanted to speak with me?”
“Yes, but not over the phone. In person, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, certainly. When?”
“Immediately. If you don’t mind.”
“But how—”
“I just parked my car across the street from the café. I’ll wait for you.”
Simona returned the device to the reporter, his eyes open wide, and walked out of the café. On the other side of the road, flanked by two poplars, was a luxury sports sedan with tinted windows. As soon as the commissario had crossed the street, the left rear door opened.
Leaning over, she saw a corpulent man in a corduroy suit. In his bloated features she could detect a resemblance to those of Francesco Signorelli, the executive director of the Sacropiano research center in Pinerolo. He patted the seat next to him with a fat-fingered hand.
“Please,” he said. “We’ll be better off chatting here than in that hole-in-the-wall so beloved by my employee.” Simona settled into the ample leather seat and the automatic door closed behind her silently. A faint scent of lavender reigned in the cockpit. All she could see of the driver was his broad back and the folds in the back of his neck below the traditional visored cap.
The Sudden Disappearance of the Worker Bees Page 11