'The battery indicator light is flashing. Five, possibly ten minutes operational time remaining.'
'Jesus Christ! I don't think we can trace you in time.
Can you get out yourself?'
'Negative.'
'Is there anything you can do or tell me to indicate your position?'
'Negative. But don't worry, I still have Pasquale's box.'
'Sorry?' the miracles work
Mm mi fate piufare tristefigura! of the dog, you know.'
It was almost four in the morning when they finally found him. By then the power pack of his mobile phone had long since failed, but one of the bullets fired by Gesualdo into the cab of the stolen garbage truck had pierced the oil line and the resulting trail of drops led the investigators step by step into the heart of the labyrinth to the deep pit where Aurelio Zen was lying on a mound of garbage next to a hideously mutilated cadaver, as peaceful as a child in bed with his bear. He looked up, blinking in the glare of torches and spotlights.
'There he is!' yelled a voice.
'And isn't that Attilio Abate?'
'No, there's Abate over there. That's one of Vallifuoco's henchmen, what's his name…?'
'Marotta. And there's Don Ermanno himself!'
'Get the chief over here! This is going to be huge.'
Rope ladders were lowered and men clambered down.
Zen sat up, feeling distinctly under-dressed for the occasion.
Almost everyone else seemed to be wearing uniform and carrying guns. Not only was he unarmed and in civilian clothes, but he seemed to have a large pool of dried vomit on his shirt and trousers.
Much to his surprise, the intruders seemed solicitous rather than critical. Two hefty types in battledress lifted him on to a stretcher which was then hoisted to the rim of the pit in a series of fits and starts reminiscent of the elevator at the Squillace apartment building. One of the few persons in plain clothes, apparently a doctor, examined him physically and then gave him a little quiz. This was quite fun, involving questions about his name, address, age, background, as well as a few general-knowledge teasers: what year it was, the name of the current prime minister, the capital of Emilia-Romagna, the numbers and playing positions of the Juventus team, Moana Pozzi's vital statistics, the percentage of Trebbiano grapes permissible in Chianti Classico, and so on. He was able to answer all of these correctly — except of course for the second, which had been deliberately inserted as a trick question to trap malingerers.
Once Zen's mental competence had been established, he was hurried into the presence of a compact, sturdily suited man wearing dark glasses and a lethal smile who appeared to be directing the proceedings.
'This whole operation must be planned down to the last detail!' he was telling his clustered subordinates.
'Nothing must be left to chance. This is our great chance to smash these people once and for all. I want everything to go like clockwork. Understand?'
A chorus of dedicated assent greeted this rhetorical question.
Tiero? You handle the TV people. We're talking all three RAI channels, naturally, but also the leading independents and cable providers. Pack the room, lots of confusion, a sense of breaking news. I want jagged conflictual lighting, a mass of urgent but chaotic motion, then a segue into the strong, firm presentation from the podium restoring a sense of order and control. Mario, you handle the print media. Pack them in as extras for the TV coverage, get that quality of grainy actuality. Then line up the Corriere, Stampa and Repubblica for the off-air, in-depth, back story pitch.'
'What about the Mattino, dottoreV Even through his shades, the suited man's stare was perceptibly cutting.
'Mario, I assumed it was clear that we were talking national here.'
'Right, chief. Of course.'
'Keep the locals in the picture, but at a distance. They'll be only too glad to pick up the scraps from the table. These are not some small-time provincial gangsters we're talking about here. This is a world-class event of national and even international proportions, and I want it treated with the proper respect, God damn it!'
'You've got it, chief.'
'All right, get to work.'
The suited man turned his blank regard towards Zen.
'Now then, dottore, let's discuss what we're going to tell them. After that we'll get you showered, shaved and suited up. Or maybe we should go for the haggard, backfrom-the-brink look. What do you think? There's a lot riding on this, for both of us. Let's not screw it up.'
XXXIII
Eormegiudiziarie
'Are you saying that this operation began even before the communication from the group calling itself Strade Pulite was made public?'
The question came from a man in the first row, identified on his name tag as a reporter for the International Herald Tribune, but in fact an aide who had been planted among the audience to 'facilitate efficient and expeditious coverage of this historically significant event'.
The Questore, whose eyes were no less dark and obscure than the glasses he had worn earlier, nodded briefly.
'My officers have been aware of the existence of these terrorists for several months. Indeed, it was for this very reason that I arranged for the transfer of a noted specialist from the Criminalpol squad in Rome.. / He turned to Aurelio Zen, who was standing slightly behind and to one side of him, facing the melee of reporters, cameras, microphones and lights.
'To preserve the secrecy of our operation, Dottor Zen was nominally appointed to an administrative post in the Port of Naples. It was there that we had our first breakthrough, with the arrest of one of the men whose bodies were discovered today, Giosue Marotta/ 'But surely he was charged with stabbing a Greek sailor?' a TV reporter asked with a puzzled frown.
'Exactly! Marotta, a noted hothead, was injudicious enough to get involved in a scuffle with some foreign naval personnel while acting as courier in a low-level smuggling operation of no relevance to the present case.
This gave us a convenient pretext to arrest him without revealing our hand and thereby losing the initiative. But his connection to the Strade Pulite terrorists was proved in tragic and dramatic fashion when one of their commandos attacked a police car in which he was being transferred to hospital and cold-bloodedly gunned down one of our most promising younger officers, Ispettore Armando Bertolini.'
There was a moment of respectful silence.
'But if you knew about Strade Pulite from the first, why couldn't you protect the other three victims?' another voice demanded.
The Questore raised one finger.
'It is essential to distinguish here between knowledge of the group's existence and precise intelligence as to its goals or targets. Thanks to our extensive intelligence efforts, we have been aware of these fanatical throwbacks to the anni di piombo for some considerable time, but it is only within the last few days that we have been in a position to predict where they would strike next.'
'What can you tell us about the method of assassination they employed?' asked the plant, helpfully changing the subject.
'It was the same in every case,' the Questore replied, as though reading from a tele-prompt. 'A truck belonging to the municipal cleaning department would be stolen at gunpoint. In the present case, the attackers disguised themselves as policemen performing a routine traffic control. Meanwhile the prospective victim had been followed, his movements noted, and a suitable time and venue selected. He would then be knocked unconscious and thrown into the truck, there to be crushed to death by the compacting machinery. The whole thing took only a few seconds. Afterwards the truck was driven to an abandoned factory site in the Pendino area, where there was vehicular access to a series of underground quarries. The contents were then deposited in the disused cistern where we discovered them today.'
A female reporter held up her hand and received the Questore'snod.
'Three of the victims — Attilio Abate, Luca Delia Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco — were all under judicial investigation for alleged offences r
anging from bribery and tax evasion to association with organized crime/ she noted. "The other, Giosue Marotta, was a known confederate of Vallifuoco. How do you explain this choice of targets?
What were the terrorists' long-term aims?'
The Questore assumed an air of intense gravity.
'The men arrested this morning are still under interrogation, and we hope to have more precise answers to your questions soon. However, the overall object seems quite clear. It is true that the victims had been accused of various offences, but we must not forget that these allegations had not been tested in a court of law. Without wishing to prejudge the findings of the investigating magistrates, I suggest that the aim of these terrorists was to ensure that they never were/ 'You mean that these were political acts?' prompted the plant.
'Without doubt. This was a classic campaign of destabilization, such as we have seen so many times before in recent years. In short, it was the work of ideologically motivated extremists determined to demonstrate that the rule of law had broken down and that only direct vigilante action could "clean the streets" of our cities. And unfortunately there were many ready to believe them, to call for a suspension of due legal procedure and the implementation of new, so-called "elite" law-enforcement agencies, operating independently of the police and unaccountable to our democratically elected representatives in Rome.'
He smiled.
'Not the least of the triumphs we have achieved here today is to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that good old-fashioned policing, using tried and true methods, is capable of obtaining the desired results without any recourse to such new and potentially risky experiments.'
'So how did you trap them in the end, dottore?' asked a reporter from RAI Uno.
'Thanks to a combination of diligent and tireless work by the staff of this service, and the exceptional heroism of the operative whom I personally seconded from Criminalpol.'
Another nod in Zen's direction.
'Despite all our stringent security measures, we learned a few days ago that our targets had identified him, that they were aware of the threat which his presence in Naples posed, and that they were preparing to eliminate it. I personally communicated these facts to Dottor Zen in a conference late last night. I told him that I was not prepared to order him to proceed with an operation which put his life in imminent danger, but that if he agreed to volunteer, then we might draw the terrorists into a trap and smash the whole operation once and for all. I am proud to say that, faced with such a terrible choice, he did not hesitate for a single moment.'
The serried faces all turned towards Zen with expressions of awe and admiration. Flash bulbs exploded, cameras whirred, microphones were pushed forward.
'The Questore is too generous,' Zen said with an embarrassed shrug. "I only did my duty, as I hope and believe that any other member of the force to which I am proud to belong would have done in the same circumstances.
But let us not exaggerate the contribution of any one individual. A coup such as this is dependent not on the exploits of one person, but rather on team-work, dedication, discipline and efficiency. I would like to add that I have never seen these qualities more abundantly or effectively employed than here in Naples, under the inspirational leadership of my esteemed superior and colleague.'
'What about the identity of the terrorists?' someone called out. 'Have they any links to other organizations, domestic or foreign?'
The Questore shook his head and held up his hands.
'That's all we have time for now,' he declared firmly. "I and my men have pressing work to do to clear up the remaining questions surrounding this case. As for Dottor Zen, as I am sure you will appreciate, he is in need of rest and recuperation after his heroic ordeal.'
The Questore sweeps out with his retinue, the reporters hasten away to break the news he has given them to a waiting world, and the various soldiers, servants, sailors, wedding guests, street people and hangers-on who have somehow squeezed in all withdraw, leaving Aurelio Zen alone upon the bare, brilliantly lit stage.
Finale Not for long, however, for almost at once the doorbell sounds, unleashing a bustle and scurry of activity. First the food arrives, carried upstairs in deep trays balanced on the shoulders of two strapping lads who proceed to lay it out on silver platters under the direction of an elderly retainer distinguished both by his uniform — significantly more pleated and layered than theirs — and by the expression of transcendental dignity which he retains throughout these proceedings, contrasting pointedly with the air of barely controlled panic with which his underlings go about their business.
Before long, bottles of spumante make their appearance, arrayed in beds of cracked ice, together with yards of snowy starched linen to cover the trestles hastily erected at one end of the terrace to accommodate all these goodies.
And not a minute too soon, for the guests are already starting to roll up. The first to arrive is Valeria, who has only with difficulty been dissuaded from bringing a selection of snacks and appetizers of her own devising in a well-meaning attempt to bail out the helpless bachelor who has impulsively decided to throw a party for the entire cast, and now appears awed and slightly resentful at having so misjudged both the competence of the host and the scale of the hospitality which he has laid on.
But this mood does not last. As she tells Zen, her daughters have been in touch and assured her that all is well, and with that anxiety dispelled she is in a mood to celebrate.
Pasquale and Immacolata Higgins are the next to appear, the former almost unrecognisably elegant thanks to a very nice near-Armani suit and all the accoutrements. La Igginz has just spent all day, not to mention a lucrative part of the night, behind the wheel and is wearing a rather less fetching ensemble designed with a view to comfort rather than style, terminating in a pair of garish yellow plastic sandals.
Valeria Squillace starts to feel even better.
Zen returns the silver box which Pasquale gave him, slightly battered by the experiences he went through, and explains how it saved his life.
'So what's the secret?' he asks.
Pasquale shrugs.
'It's not something to speak about at an event like this, duttb. Abit of respect is called for. Let's just say that every year the corpse of a certain saint, preserved here in Naples, exudes a liquor which the priests soak up with cotton wool and make available to a few select people who…'
Aurelio Zen is already beginning to look as though he was sorry he asked, but luckily for him Dario De Spino now emerges from the interior of the house, whose front door downstairs has been left open to save the host from having to run up and downstairs every time someone rings. Dario, it must be said, thought long and hard before agreeing to show up at all. His sixth sense still told him that it would be better to lie low for a while, particularly at any function to which Gesualdo and Sabatino will inevitably have been invited.
Nevertheless, the promise of a lavish party with lots of free eats and booze was a powerful inducement, and the flattering pleas of the two Albanians, who phoned him personally and practically burst into tears when he hesitated, was just enough to swing the balance, albeit against his better judgement. He does not want to lose contact with lolanda and Libera, for whom he still has plans whose scope is validated by the spectacle they offer, entering with a studied air of confidence and sophistication, resplendent in the outfits which Dario has had knocked up for them through a friend of a brother-in law's friend's cousin's business associate.
'Quite the party, Don Alfonso!' he exclaims, voicing the thoughts of the other guests, none of whom, however, has been vulgar enough to express them.
Zen shrugs modestly.
'It's not every day one survives a murder attempt.'
'Murder?'
'How?'
'When?'
'Where?'
'Why?'
The guests, including Professor Esposito, who has just joined the gathering, crowd eagerly around Zen.
'Shortly after midnight this
morning,' he begins, sending Valeria a meaningful glance, "I was on my way home when I encountered a team of garbage collectors at work.'
The newcomer laughs.
'Impossible! I'm sorry, dottore, but you'll have to do better than that. City employees at work at such an hour here in Naples? Unheard of!'
Zen smiles and nods.
'Exactly, Professor. They weren't garbage collectors at all, but a team of killers from the terrorist organization known as Strade Pulite/ 'Wait a minute!' objects Dario De Spino. "I saw the TV news story about that. It happened all right, but not to you. It was some policeman from Rome, a certain Aurelio … I don't recall… Aurelio…'
'Zen,' says Gesualdo, coming out on to the terrace with Sabatino. 'His name's Aurelio Zen, and he's a policeman.'
'Don't be ridiculous!' Valeria exclaims. 'He's called Zembla. Aren't you, Alfonso?'
She is furious at the unexpected appearance of her daughters' unsuitable suitors, even though Zen has explained that that's all over now that they've fallen head over heels for the fascinating Albanian immigrants installed in the lower apartment and have completely forgotten the Squillace girls, far away in a foreign land, thank heavens, blissfully ignorant of how quickly and with what little trouble they have been displaced in their lovers' affections.
'Why would terrorists want to kill someone like you?' demands Iolanda. 'They only go for big shots, people of real importance/ The majestic majordomo advances, holding a telephone on a long extension cord.
'For you, cummendatb/ he says, handing the instrument to Zen.
'Hello?'
'Aurelio?'
'Is that you, Gilberto?'
'I just… check you're… after the… congratulations on../ 'Speak up, can you? It sounds like you're calling from Russia!'
'I am/ 'What?'
'That's how I was able to get the passport so quickly, courtesy of my partners here. If you know the right people, Moscow's even better than Naples these days. Anyway, I was watching CNN here at the hotel and who should I see but you!'
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