Transient Desires

by Donna Leon

  He shook the idea away with both his head and his hands.

  ‘Then what?’ she asked.

  It took him some time to think of an answer, and the best, and truest, he could find was, ‘I’d like to live in the country and work the land.’

  His wife of many years, the true reader of his heart, looked at him in open-mouthed surprise and was, for one of the few times in their marriage, incapable of speech.

  27

  Things changed little regarding the case. Lucy Watson remained in the Ospedale dell’Angelo, her condition unchanged. JoJo Peterson, the Questura was informed by email, had moved forward the date on her ticket and had already returned to the United States. She would, of course, supply any information they required from her.

  Marcello Vio was finally charged with leaving the scene of an accident, although the full legalities regarding the incident in the laguna were still unclear. His legal representative explained to the authorities that the city was responsible for maintaining the safety of its waterways, that his client had been in so serious a state of shock as a result of the accident that he could think of nothing but getting the girls and himself to a place of greater safety. He took them to the hospital out of his sense of responsibility for their well-being but was himself so traumatized by the accident and by his own unexamined injuries that he had perhaps acted rashly. But still his first thought had been their safety, and he had taken it upon himself to take them to the hospital, not called to report the accident and wait for help to arrive. The fact that he later returned to the hospital, specifically to the Pronto Soccorso, where he had last seen the girls, was presented as evidence of his concern for them and his desire to learn that they had received treatment.

  As Brunetti read the lawyer’s explanation, he paused to consider the skill with which both the presence of Filiberto Duso and Marcello Vio’s abandonment of the girls had been swept under the carpet. His trip to the Emergency Room – which the document failed to mention had happened at the instigation of the Questura – was presented as proof of his sincere concern with their well-being.

  Brunetti read the lawyer’s explanation with growing interest in the way it flirted with the truth while avoiding it, but when he looked at the last page, he recognized the name of the lawyer. ‘Oh, you old devil,’ he said and laughed, as one would at the appointment of the former CEO of Exxon to the board of the WWF.

  Well, Marcello Vio was in good hands if Manlio De Persio was handling his case. There were few tricks he did not know, few policemen who had not had a case evaporate when De Persio argued for the accused, and when his client lost, no lawyer in the Veneto was better at dragging the case through appeal after appeal to ever-higher courts until, quite often, it outlasted the statute of limitations and the case was dropped. It was rumoured that De Persio’s friends referred to him as ‘The Pharmacist,’ for the number of ‘Prescrizioni’ he had won for his clients. Judicial time ran out, and the cases were dismissed.

  De Persio was held in grudging admiration – a mixture of respect and envy – by his colleagues, although none succeeded in genuinely liking him.

  Marcello Vio could never have afforded to pay him. The fact that his uncle must, therefore, be paying De Persio’s bill suggested to Brunetti how important it was to him that his nephew not be convicted of a crime, especially not one involving a boat, and that attention not be drawn to the family. If Brunetti’s assessment of Borgato’s greed was correct, he was not likely to pay a bill for anyone, neither employee nor relative, unless it was in his own interests. He would pay only to keep himself – like his boats – off the radar of the authorities.

  The other, equally interesting, information was supplied by Signorina Elettra, in the form of Pietro Borgato’s financial records. He had a safe deposit box at a small private bank in Lugano, where he also had a savings account with something approaching three hundred thousand Euros, deposited in cash during the last five years. He also, nearer home, had another savings account at the San Salvador branch of Uni Credit that contained about nine thousand Euros. Beyond this, he had a business account used for running the transport company. So far as Signorina Elettra could discover, this account was handled primarily by his secretary, who had been with the company from the beginning.

  Yes, Signorina Elettra had taken a close look at her: Elena Rocca, resident at Sacca Fisola, 53, married to a boat mechanic, two daughters and four granddaughters. She and her husband had a post office savings account in which there were two thousand and twelve Euros, set aside month by month during the last nine years, since the account was opened. To the best of her knowledge, Signorina Elettra reported that this was the total of Signora Rocca’s wealth, aside from the apartment where she and her husband had lived for twenty-six years.

  Brunetti looked up from the papers and stared out of his window. A safe deposit box and three hundred thousand Euros in Switzerland. Well, well, well, perhaps he was right that Borgato’s guiding spirit was greed.

  His thoughts turned to a story he’d heard, ages ago – no doubt apocryphal, as so many of the best stories probably were – about some legendary American millionaire, who lived in an era when a million dollars was a fortune. The story recounted that the man was asked if he knew what ‘enough’ meant.

  After some thought, the man is said to have replied, ‘Of course I know. It means a little bit more.’

  There was nothing else in the report. Brunetti continued to study the view from his window which now consisted of clouds and patches of blue sky.

  The days passed, and he did his job, always on the alert for a call from Duso. He phoned Alaimo to ask if his men had scouted the area near Cortellazzo for a possible landing place. The Captain told him that his men were familiarizing themselves with the areas on both sides of the Piave and said very carefully that they were leaving no traces of having been there. The rest of Brunetti’s time was spent on paperwork.

  Brunetti read the reports of his subordinates and sometimes asked them to come and explain things to him or to tell him anything they seemed reluctant to commit to writing in an official report. He decided whom to assign to particular investigations.

  The only real change was reported by Lucy Watson’s doctor, who called from the Ospedale dell’Angelo to tell Brunetti that the girl had regained consciousness. Brunetti could hear the man’s delight as he explained that she’d woken up in the late morning and, seeing her father sitting beside her, tapping a message into his phone, had asked, ‘What are you doing here, Daddy?’

  The doctor explained that, though she recognized her father and could speak normally, her memory of recent events extended back only to the beginning of the boat ride with the Italians they’d met that Saturday night. She was confused to be in the hospital, by the explanation of her injuries, and by the presence of her father.

  In response to Brunetti’s questions, the doctor told him that Lucy’s memory of these events would, or would not, return and that his colleagues from neurology were confident that there was no permanent damage.

  Brunetti felt a surge of relief for the girl and her father and then for Vio, that his conscience would have less to bear. And then he returned to going through the motions of work while waiting for word from Duso.

  He and Paola were at dinner with friends when his phone rang. With haste that might have seemed impolite, Brunetti pulled the phone from his pocket and, seeing Duso’s name, excused himself and went to stand on the other side of the door to the living room.

  ‘Sì?’ he asked in a voice he was careful to keep calm.

  ‘Marcello just called me,’ Duso said.

  Brunetti looked at his watch. It was already after eleven. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Pietro called him and said they had a job.’

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘No, only that. Marcello’s on his way to the boathouse now.’

  Brunetti, hoping thi
s call would come, had made a plan with Alaimo. ‘Go down to the riva in front of your calle,’ he told Duso. ‘A boat from the Capitaneria will be there in a few minutes and take you to Piazzale Roma.’ He heard a noise of assent from Duso. ‘Wear a heavy jacket,’ Brunetti said and hung up.

  He dialled Alaimo’s number and said, ‘Duso just called. Tell your man he’ll be on the riva near where he lives. He’ll see him. I’m not at home. You can pick me up at the Santo Spirito stop in ten minutes.’ They had discussed routes and times, so there was nothing more to say.

  He hung up and dialled Griffoni’s number. While he and Alaimo went by sea, she would travel with Duso and Nieddu, who was involved because the case concerned international crime. Alaimo had already sent a boat to go and pick up Griffoni – one that looked like a taxi that would avoid any possibility that Borgato should cross paths with a police launch at this hour – and take her to Piazzale Roma, where they’d meet Duso. Two unmarked cars and a small van would be waiting there to leave for Cortellazzo.

  He pocketed his phone and went back to the room, an embarrassed smile on his face. Cool, calm, business as usual. He went over to his host, shaking his head in rueful resignation. Donato was an old friend, likely to believe whatever he said. ‘Sorry, Donato. Work. They need me at an interview in Mestre,’ he said easily, trying to achieve a tone of mild irritation mixed with resignation at the call of duty.

  Paola, attuned to the sound of perfidy in his voice, put her napkin next to her plate and got to her feet. She walked around the table, saying goodnight to the other guests and kissing Donato and his wife on both cheeks before taking Brunetti’s arm, saying, ‘I’ll go along with you at least to the vaporetto stop.’ Her smile was quite as manufactured as his excuse, but it worked just as successfully on the people at the table.

  When they were outside, Brunetti nodded to the vaporetto stop to the left. ‘I’m being picked up there.’

  ‘To go and arrest these people?’ she asked.

  ‘I hope.’

  She shivered. The night had grown cold. ‘You’re wearing the wrong jacket,’ she said and then laughed at the sound of it. ‘I mean, it’s too light, if you’re going to be out on the water.’ Over her coat she wore a dark green cashmere scarf, thick and long. She unwrapped it from her neck and wrapped it around his.

  Brunetti reached up, intending to remove it and return it to her, but when it touched him with the lingering warmth of her body and the scent of her flesh, he pulled it tighter, tossing one end over his shoulder with quite a dashing gesture.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, unable to think of any other way to express his emotion.

  She took his hand. ‘I’ll wait with you until they come.’

  There was the merest sliver of moon, but they both studied it as they walked to the embarcadero, hand in hand, like new lovers. Soon, from their right, came the sound of a motor. Quickly enough, a boat slid up to within a few centimetres of the dock. Brunetti kissed Paola goodbye and stepped on board. Three uniformed men moved around the deck; another stood at the wheel. As they pulled away, he picked up the end of the scarf that dangled in front of him and waved it at her. She raised an arm but did not wave. They watched one another until the boat turned towards the other side of the canal, and she was blocked from view.

  Brunetti was just beginning to sense how cold the evening had become when Alaimo stepped up from the cabin and handed him a hooded camouflage jacket, which Brunetti was relieved to put on. He re-wrapped the scarf outside the jacket, its ends hanging in front of him.

  The motor roared, destroying all possibility of conversation. Brunetti could not disguise his shock at the noise, which did violence to the night.

  Alaimo leaned towards him and cupped both hands around Brunetti’s ears. ‘It has electric, too.’

  Still stunned by the ongoing noise, Brunetti failed to understand the full meaning, although he heard each word.

  The boat moved past San Giorgio, the sound of its engine bouncing back from the solidity of the basilica. One of the sailors went down into the cabin, leaving the others to the deck and the noise.

  Brunetti tried to speak but failed even to hear himself. The pale light of the control panel allowed him to see the other men on deck, but the sound seemed to compromise his vision.

  Alaimo placed his hand on the pilot’s shoulder and leaned forward to say something to him. No sooner had he removed his hand than the boat slowed, greatly reducing the level of noise.

  ‘Thanks for this,’ Brunetti said, patting at the arm of Alaimo’s jacket. It had rained during the day, and the humidity still clung to the air and to the night.

  Alaimo nodded. ‘The sea’s always a few degrees colder, so it’ll be worse once we get into the open water.’ He looked to the left: they were just passing I Giardini. ‘I thought I told you we might have to go out any time.’

  ‘You did, but we were at dinner at a friend’s place, and I forgot and just wore the jacket.’

  Alaimo shrugged. ‘Things always happen when they shouldn’t, I suppose.’

  Brunetti nodded, then asked, ‘What did you say about electric?’

  Alaimo smiled and said, ‘The motors can be switched to electric.’

  ‘It’s much better now,’ Brunetti told him. Indeed, the sound had diminished to a low throbbing growl, sounding far more powerful than the motor of any boat this size he’d ever been on.

  ‘That’s still the normal motor,’ Alaimo explained. ‘It can be switched to battery power.’

  ‘And then what happens?’

  ‘Then it’s absolutely silent. You don’t hear a thing. If it drove up beside you, you wouldn’t hear it.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘It is for cars, isn’t it?’ Alaimo asked. Then he smiled and said, ‘This system’s sort of a prototype: it’s bigger than what most boats use.’

  ‘How does it work?’ Brunetti asked, really curious.

  ‘Down there,’ Alaimo said, pointing to where the sailors had disappeared, ‘and up in front, there are batteries.’

  Brunetti looked to either side of the pilot and saw teak panels that looked like they could be slid open. He didn’t know how to phrase his question, whether to ask about the number of the batteries or their size or their power, didn’t know how that power was measured. He settled on asking, ‘How fast can it go?’

  Alaimo turned to the pilot. ‘What do you think, Crema?’

  Eyes still looking forward, the young sailor answered, ‘I’ve gone as fast as fifty-five knots, Capitano.’

  ‘And if I weren’t here, and it was a friend asking you that question, what would you say?’

  The young man smiled and bowed his head, then looked forward again and said, ‘Well, sir, if you really weren’t here, and I was alone, I’d say sixty, but really, only if I were alone in her.’

  Brunetti saw Alaimo smile at the pilot’s answer. ‘That’s faster than any of Borgato’s boats,’ the Captain said.

  ‘Does he have the same system you have, and he can switch to electric, too?’

  ‘Of course. Two of his boats have them, but he doesn’t have the same number of batteries.’ Before Brunetti could enquire about this, Alaimo said, ‘He’s got to leave room for his cargo, remember.’

  ‘How do you know all that?’ Brunetti asked.

  Alaimo suddenly took an interest in something on the control panel and turned away from Brunetti to bend and look at it. Ah, thought Brunetti, the instinct to protect sources is universal. He tried to think of something to say and found it by asking, ‘How much longer?’

  ‘What do you think, Crema?’ the Captain asked.

  Before answering, the pilot bent towards an illuminated screen with a white circle, a steadily turning bar radiating from the centre. Like the ones Brunetti had seen in submarine movies, a blip of light flashed over the same point each time the bar p
assed over it. ‘That’s him,’ the pilot said, tapping at the flash of light. ‘Hour and a half, sir. Unless he really lets it rip: then maybe he could do it in a bit more than an hour.’ Alaimo thanked the pilot, raised his shoulders at the growing chill, and said, ‘Let’s go down into the cabin. We still have time.’

  The cabin, though not warm, was certainly warmer than it had been on deck. This had had its effect on the sailors, who were already asleep, leaning in the two back corners of the boat. A third, who must have been down there already, nodded when they came in but quickly adjusted his ear pods and returned his attention to his iPhone.

  Brunetti and Alaimo sat facing one another on the padded side seats and leaned forward to talk above the sound of the motor, louder down here, closer to the engines. Alaimo explained that, of the many ships making their way north in the Adriatic, only two had slowed down in the evening and were now anchored for the night about forty kilometres north-east of Venice. If they sailed early, they would get to Trieste by late morning and could unload and reload cargo. One was a British-flagged oil tanker, and the other was a Maltese-flagged transport.

  ‘If Vio told his friend that he’s going out tonight, it’s got to be to meet one of these two,’ Alaimo said.

  ‘What do we do?’ Brunetti asked.

  ‘We’ve got a fix on the transmitter that’s on Vio’s wrist, so we’ll lag well behind them until they pick up the cargo from the larger ship. It will have radar, the big one, but we could easily be fishermen: we’ve already passed three of them.’

  Surprised, Brunetti said, ‘I didn’t see them.’

  ‘You don’t know how to look for them,’ Alaimo gave back simply. Brunetti didn’t question this but did ask, ‘What do we do when he approaches the ship?’

  ‘We stay where we are and behave like a fishing boat: remain in one place for some time and then move to another.’

  Suddenly there was a tapping at the door. Alaimo got to his feet, held up his palm to Brunetti, and went up on deck. After some time, Brunetti stood and went towards the door but stopped and went back and sat down again. The second time he got to his feet, the sailor looked up from his phone and shook his head, waving Brunetti back to his seat. He went and sat.