“Okay, that’s enough, Furio, I understand. You’re getting me all worked up.”
“You know what I say, Rocco? Old age is something women shouldn’t have to deal with.”
“True. Old age is strictly for men. Speaking of which, how is Sebastiano?”
“Did he tell you about Adele or not?”
“Yeah, but is what he says about Roby Gusberti the truth?”
Furio smiled. “He’s exaggerating. He says that he caught the two of them in bed, but it isn’t true. They were in the living room having a cup of coffee. Actually, Sebastiano has been embroidering on it. Still, it’s true that Adele is sick and tired. Seba needs to get back in line.”
“And you?”
“Still free as a bird!”
Sebastiano came back with two beers. “Salute!” he said, raising his beer as he let his big heavy body flop into his chair.
They raised their glasses and drank. After a healthy gulp, Sebastiano wiped his beard on the sleeve of his coat. “All right, Rocco, you want to explain?”
The deputy police chief looked at the other two. “I can tell you in three words. Giorgio Borghetti Ansaldo . . .”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“He’s the guy who likes to go around raping little girls.”
“Ah!” said Furio. “The guy whose father got you transferred to Aosta?”
“That’s right. And he’s doing it again.”
Furio stuck his hand in his pocket and grabbed a cigarette. Sebastiano leaned back in his chair.
“What do you want to do about it?” asked Furio as he lit a Camel.
“He needs to be stopped.”
“Who else knows you’re in Rome?” asked Furio.
“No one. Only that guy Italo; Sebastiano’s met him.”
“Yeah, the wiseguy cop. He’s all right,” Seba confirmed.
Furio took a deep drag on his cigarette. “But it would be smarter for you to stay out of this, Rocco,” he said, spitting out a column of smoke.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because this time if they catch you, they’re not going to send you to Aosta; they’ll ship you off straight to Rebibbia prison.”
“And a cop in Rebibbia has a short life expectancy,” Sebastiano added. “You know that better than I do.”
“Are you just interested in throwing a scare into the kid? What’s his name? Giorgio?”
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear, Furio. I want to stop him once and for all.”
Furio nodded. “And when does this thing need to be done?”
“Tomorrow at the latest.”
Furio stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray: “Tell us more.”
“I’ve got a person telling me everything this asshole does,” Rocco began. “Finding him will be simple.”
“Who is this person?”
“De Silvestri.”
“Isn’t he a cop?” asked Sebastiano.
“Yes. One of the best.”
“And isn’t it a little risky?”
“No. That piece of shit raped the man’s niece. The reason I’m here is he called me.”
The two friends nodded. “So explain . . .”
TUESDAY
Prego, señor, el cafè . . .” whispered Conchita, stirring the little spoon in the demitasse. The faint, continuous ding ding ding of metal on china made Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo open his eyes wide.
“What time is it?”
“Half past las siete,” the Peruvian housekeeper replied, leaving the demitasse on the nightstand. The undersecretary for foreign affairs rolled over in bed. His wife had already left their nuptial bed. While the housekeeper silently left the darkened room, Fernando downed the espresso at a single gulp. It was tasty, hot, and bracing. The moka pot remained and always would be superior to coffee pods, the honorable undersecretary continued to tell anyone who would listen, and if he were the undersecretary for industrial policy he’d have made sure that it was against Italian law to manufacture and sell those horrible swill-brewing coffeemakers. He got up, rubbed his face, and slowly made his way into the bathroom.
He turned on the shower. While waiting for the spray to heat up, he looked at himself in the mirror. He’d need to do something about that belly. He was turning into a watermelon. When he saw himself from the side, he looked like he was pregnant. And now his cranium was almost completely bald, a shiny dome. But he couldn’t bring himself to think of getting a hair transplant. And there was no way he’d consider a hairpiece. He often spoke in public, and he knew that under the spotlights fake hair took on unlikely shapes and highlights, broadcasting to the world their complete artificiality. That would be a humiliation he’d never put himself through. Far better just to be bald. He took off his pajama pants and was about to step into the shower when he heard a voice.
“Fernando?” It was his wife, Roberta.
“What?”
“You know, Giorgio didn’t come home last night either.”
“What do you mean, he didn’t come home? Where is he?”
Roberta leaned against the door frame and crossed her arms. “Last night he went out with his friends for a pizza.”
“Well, call his friends, why don’t you?”
“It’s too early for that.”
“Did you try his cell phone?”
“It’s turned off.”
“Wait and see; he’s probably hooked up with some pretty girl . . . he’s thirty years old, Roberta, it’s perfectly normal.”
“I certainly hope not.”
The husband and wife locked eyes. They’d once again come to the topic that neither one of them had the strength or courage to broach. They both dropped their gazes at the same moment.
“Tea or milk?” asked Roberta.
“Milk with just a drop of coffee. Are there any pastries?”
His wife nodded and vanished. Fernando stepped into the shower.
The warm water brought him slowly back to life. Where the fuck was Giorgio? Actually, he couldn’t stand the idea that his son was out and about. And he was starting to wish he could just erase him from his mind and his thoughts.
If only that boy had never been born!
He knew that a good father would have picked up the phone and kept calling until he found him. But at nine o’clock there was a very important meeting at the ministry. “I can’t put my own family matters before the demands of the Italian state,” he muttered under his breath. But that’s not what he was really thinking. His actual thoughts were: I can’t waste my goddamn time trying to find that idiot. Let his mother worry about him. She doesn’t have a job, she never lifts a finger from morning to night, so there! Now she has something to keep her busy for the rest of the day.
Fernando had adopted a rather unusual habit. In the shower, or in the car, in other words, when he was alone, he’d speak aloud, as if there were a journalist with him, microphone extended, just waiting to start the interview. He had found that this was very good training for being able always to come up with a believable story. To protect his respectability. And the things he said were always politically correct, deeply rhetorical, on the verge of the ridiculous. He had to appear to be a just man, consistent, a civil servant working for the good of his country, caring about the needs and interests of the community that had elected him. In other words, even though his thoughts might veer northward, what came out of his mouth must necessarily veer to the south. It was an exercise for the TV cameras, a technique that he honed every day, more and more. “And then after the meeting I’ll have a luncheon with the Malaysian delegation. Between our two nations, there has always been a profound sense of respect and reciprocal esteem. And it’s going to be an important meeting, both in human and in political terms.” The actual thoughts of the Honorable Borghetti Ansaldo were these, though: I’m going to have to sit there at lunch with those four colored monkeys that I couldn’t give a flying fuck about and convince them not to raise the taxes on tourism but still supply the services that ou
r resorts have requested. “The meeting will stretch out for quite a while, possibly until late at night. No, I just don’t have time to worry about Giorgio’s problems.” Translation: After lunch with the Malaysians, which I’m hoping won’t last more than an hour, I have an appointment to see Sabrina. And if you don’t mind, if I have to choose between Sabrina and that brainless cabbage of a son of mine, I’m bound to choose Sabrina and her delicious thighs.
The mere thought of Sabrina’s thighs had given him an erection. He could already imagine her stretched out on the leather sofa in his downtown office, the rent paid by the Italian taxpayers. Now that was an appointment he really couldn’t afford to miss. And today, Tuesday, March 20, the day before the official start of spring, was a red-letter day for him and Sabrina. A date on which Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo intended to start a historic new chapter in their illicit and torrid relationship. Today, at last, he was going to ask her to let him screw her in the ass.
THE IMMACULATE BMW STATION WAGON WITH ONLY twenty thousand kilometers on the odometer turned over on the first try. He could have taken advantage of his position and requested a police escort, but then he’d have to walk all the way from the ministry to his study for his appointment with Sabrina, and that was out of the question. Plus he couldn’t rule out, after the sex, the idea of a trip to a trattoria in the Castelli Romani to eat and drink until all hours. He’d need his car. The garage doors swung open, Fernando waved to Amerigo, the concierge, and turned onto Viale dell’Oceano Atlantico. There was plenty of traffic. He looked at the slow-moving cars. “The important thing is to give the citizens of this fair city a chance to travel freely by increasing the size and capacity of the public transportation network,” he said under his breath. “The investments of Rome, Italy’s capital, in buses and subways are in the interest not only of individual citizens but of the country as a whole. It’s time to give the Romans an opportunity to get to work without necessarily taking their own vehicles, which will result in a considerable increase in outlays on fuel, insurance, vehicle taxes, and depreciation, all of which takes a bite out of a family’s disposable income . . .” No, in his head he was cursing all those dickheads sitting in their cars, so many useless people who wouldn’t be missed if they simply stayed home. Parasites, good-for-nothings, who get in their cars every chance they get so they can sit in traffic jams like idiots and go get a cup of coffee with their retired friends or to visit their mothers and brothers and sisters and then go window-shopping in malls. He broke into the English he’d be using later. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mister Joro Bahur . . . Mr. Melaka, how is your wonderful daughter . . .” that flat-nosed fat pig who smells of fried food. “Mr. Sibu, one of these days I’ll take you to some typical Roman restaurant . . . to taste spaghetti cacio e pepe . . . wonderful!”
“What the fuck are you yammering about?” a harsh, steely voice boomed from directly behind him, sharp as a well-honed blade. Fernando jerked in his seat. Sitting behind him was an enormous man wearing a woolen watch cap and a pair of Ray-Bans.
“Who . . . who are you? How did you get into my c—”
“Shut up and take the next right,” the big man ordered him.
“I’ll have you know, I am—”
“I know who you are. And I said take the next right, so quit fucking yammering.”
Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo obeyed. Sweat was streaming down his back in rivulets. He was afraid to glance in the rearview mirror and look his guest in the eye. He was afraid to speak. He was even afraid to shift gears. He felt like a cold slab of marble.
“Put on your brakes, you moron. Don’t you see the light?”
He was right. He slammed on the brakes and the car skidded to a halt just inches short of the white line. His breath was choppy and shallow, as if someone had drained the oxygen out of the car’s interior. He tried to look up at the rearview mirror but just then the passenger-side front door swung open and another man, hairless, also wearing a pair of Ray-Bans, got in.
“Hello there, Dottor Borghetti. How are you doing?”
The undersecretary, his eyes wide with terror, looked wildly at the new arrival. “The light’s green now,” the bald man said in a calm voice. A horn honked behind him and he let the clutch out. He pulled out into the broad thoroughfare of Via Cristoforo Colombo. “Where . . . where am I going?”
“Straight ahead.”
Only then did Borghetti Ansaldo notice that the man sitting next to him had an enormous pistol in his lap. And he was looking at him from behind the dark lenses of a pair of sunglasses.
Is this possible? he was thinking. Is this actually happening to me? In the middle of Rome? Where are the police? My God, what’s going on here? What’s going on?
“Take the beltway, heading toward the Cassia,” said the man with the pistol.
“They’re expecting me at the ministry,” he found the courage to say. “When I fail to show up, they’ll unleash the police, put out an all-points bulletin, and—”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” said the man with the cavernous voice from behind him. “This won’t take long. Keep it under fifty-five miles per hour and do as you’re told.”
“Are you . . . are you kidnapping me?”
The two men didn’t even bother to reply.
“Then what do you want from me?”
“You ask too many questions, fatso. Just drive and pipe down. And keep both hands on the wheel.”
Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo gulped down the ball of dry dust he had in his throat, wiped his forehead, and concentrated on the road ahead of him.
“It’s very likely that we’ll see police cars on the beltway,” said the long-haired guy in the back, “but you see, Borghetti? You just try to pull something clever, like flashing your brights, jamming on the brakes, accelerating, honking, and my friend here will shoot you. In the gut. So you’ll die slowly and suffer atrociously. A gut shot hurts.”
But the last thing the undersecretary was thinking about was trying to be a hero. He’d already made up his mind to obey and just hope that those two men didn’t hurt him too badly.
“Do you want money?”
No answer.
“Do you want favors of some kind? I have enough influence to—”
The bald guy slapped him in the back of the head. “Shut up and drive.”
He felt humiliated. Not even at school, not even as a child, had he ever been given the classic slap to the back of the head, known in Italian as a scappellotto. A scappellotto is something you give an out-of-control child, an apathetic pupil. Not a respected undersecretary, a member in good standing of the majority party, a man with institutional responsibilities, a man who always received a military salute from the Carabinieri, who snapped to attention in his presence. Then it dawned on him. Suddenly everything became clear. A horrible crudely drawn symbol appeared in his mind’s eyes, a five-pointed star on a banner behind the weary, resigned face of a great statesman of the Christian Democratic Party, held captive in a Red Brigades lair, awaiting his execution. Well, so be it, he thought. “If my sacrifice is required, I’m ready. Go ahead.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You’re terrorists, aren’t you? What are you, communists?”
The two men burst out laughing. “You’re not that important, you pathetic idiot. Just take the Aurelia and shut your piehole.”
No. It wasn’t the Red Brigades after all.
He felt a slight pang of disappointment.
“You know that this car has an antitheft alarm system with satellite tracking, connected directly to the Carabinieri? And the minute I fail to show up at the ministry they’ll know something’s wrong and they’ll immediately be able to find the car’s location and they’ll come and get us and . . .” He looked up. In the rearview mirror the big bearded man was holding up a piece of electronic equipment with dozens of snipped colored wires protruding from it in all directions. “Now,” the man said, “we’d like a little silence. So shut up and d
rive.”
Borghetti Ansaldo obeyed.
OPEN COUNTRYSIDE, NOT FAR FROM THE WATER. Abandoned farmhouses surrounded by fields run to seed, dotted with olive trees in serious need of a thorough pruning. Mud everywhere. The BMW struggled through that panorama of desolation, jerking and jolting over potholes, gears grinding and motor straining. The suspension groaned and the tires sprayed water in all directions as they churned through puddles. At the side of the road rusty tractor parts could be seen, along with old, tattered plastic bags. “Where . . . where are we?” asked the undersecretary, breaking the silence.
“Località Testa di Lepre,” said the man next to him, with the flat precision of a tour guide.
“What are we doing here?” asked the politician, but he got no answer. Then he heaved a sigh. If they’d been planning to kill him, they’d have done it already, he decided.
“There . . . the warehouse,” the bald guy said, pointing. Borghetti Ansaldo hit the turn signal and pulled off the dirt road onto a grassy lane that ran toward an old abandoned industrial shed.
“Get out.”
Puddles and mud everywhere. Under a fiberglass lean-to roof was an old Vespa without a seat, two enormous toothed tractor tires, and heaps of stacked furniture. The glass in the warehouse windows was all broken. Someone had written on the cement wall with a marker: “Casalotti rules!”
“In you go!” said the big man, swinging open an iron gate that creaked on its hinges.
IT WAS A SINGLE BIG ROOM A HUNDRED YARDS IN length. Drops of water were dripping from the ramshackle roof: you could see the sky through the holes. Cement columns held up the rafters. The stench of stale urine and wet dirt filled his nostrils. Then, at the far end of the industrial shed, Fernando Borghetti Ansaldo saw someone squatting at the foot of a cement column. Head lolling to one side, hopelessly. He seemed to have passed out. As he got closer, the figure took shape. His hands were tied behind him. A pair of jeans, track shoes, and a sweatshirt that said HARVARD UNIVERSITY. Fernando recognized it immediately. He’d brought it back for his son, from a trip to the States three months ago. “Giorgio . . .” he said, in a small, frightened voice. The two men stopped him a few yards short of his baby boy. From behind the column, silent as a ghost, a third man emerged with a woolen cap on his head and a pair of glasses. A black jacket, a pair of gloves, and a pair of Clarks desert boots on his feet.
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