Until recently, San Pietro had been a little-used suburban halt on an antediluvian branch line to Viterbo. All that had changed with the decision to upgrade part of the route as a link between Stazione Termini and the new high speed direttissima line to Florence. As a result, the tunnel under the Gianicolo hill had been reconstructed and the station remodelled in the latest colour-coordinated Eurostyle. The local services hadn’t improved, however, so Zen walked out of the station and took the 62 bus across town, slipping into the Ministry through a side entrance to elude any reporters who might be around. Now, watching the tennis players swooping and reaching in the mild sunlight, that interlude seemed to him like a brief dip into the polluted and treacherous waters separating the verdant isle of the Vatican City State from this stately cruise liner where the Minister and his opponent were disporting themselves. Gino was an under-secretary in the Ministry of Health, which occupied the other half of the huge building on the Viminal hill. To satisfy the elaborate formulas of the manuale Cencelli, by which positions of power are distributed amongst the various political parties, this post had been allocated to a member of the moribund Liberal Party, while Rodolfo was a well-known figure on the Andreotti wing of the Christian Democrats. But although they were nominally political rivals, the contest that the two men were currently engaged in was infinitely more keenly fought than any which was ever allowed to disrupt the stifling calm in which the country’s nomenclatura basked and grew fat.
‘Game, set and match!’ called the Minister as the ball scudded off the asphalt out of reach of Gino’s racket.
‘Lucky bounce, Rodolfo.’
‘ Balle, my friend. You have just been outplayed physically and intellectually. My own surprise is that you still haven’t learned to lose with grace. After all, it’s all your party has been able to do for the last thirty years.’
He strode over to Zen, his skin gleaming with perspiration and flushed with victory. The Minister’s even, rounded features expressed an image of sensitivity and culture that was fatally undermined by the mouth, a cramped slot which might have been the result of plastic surgery.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Zen assumed his most respectful demeanour.
‘Yes, sir. I have a message for you.’
The Minister laughed shortly.
‘The problem of overmanning must be even more dire than I’d imagined if we’re using senior Criminalpol officials as messengers.’
He turned back to his opponent.
‘Consolation prize, Gino! You get to have first go in the shower while I see what this fellow wants.’
Rubbing his head vigorously with a towel, the Minister led the way down a short flight of stairs into his suite on the top floor of the building and threw himself down on a black leather sofa. Zen remained standing.
‘It’s about the Ruspanti case,’ he said hesitantly.
He expected some furious response, threats or insults, demands for apologies and explanations. The Minister merely stared up at him slightly more intently.
‘I’m sorry if… I mean, I understand that there were some… That’s to say…’
Zen broke off, disconcerted. He belatedly realized that he had allowed himself to be tricked into the elementary blunder of implying that what underlings like him did or failed to do could seriously affect anyone other than themselves. Moscati’s phrase about the Minister finding himself ‘in the hot seat’ as a result of Zen’s mishandling of the Ruspanti affair was pure hyperbole. Politicians could no more be brought down by such things than a ship could be capsized by the actions of fish on the ocean bed. It was the weather on the surface, in the political world itself, that would determine the Minister’s career prospects. Judging by his manner, the forecast was good.
‘I don’t want to rush you, er… what did you say your name was?’ he grunted, getting to his feet, ‘but if you have a message for me, perhaps you could deliver it without too much further delay. I have to see the Prefect of Bari in twenty minutes to discuss the Albanian refugee problem.’
He stretched out full length on the floor and started doing push-ups. Zen took a deep breath.
‘Yes, sir. The fact is, I’ve just returned from the Vatican, where I had an audience of His Excellency Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes, First Deputy to the Cardinal Secretary of State. His Excellency gave me to understand that he was entirely satisfied with my, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote. An official communique to this effect will be forwarded by the Papal Nuncio in due course.’
The Minister rolled over on to his back, hooked his toes under the base of the sofa and started doing sit-ups.
‘And you just wanted me to know that you’re happy as a pig in shit?’
‘No, sir. There’s more.’
‘And better, I hope.’
‘Yes, sir. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes confirmed that Prince Ludovico Ruspanti had been living in the Vatican City State for some weeks prior to his death. Not only that, but a special undercover unit of the Vigilanza Security Service was tapping Ruspanti’s phone and maintaining surveillance on his movements. The implication is that some people at least knew from the beginning that Ruspanti had not committed suicide, and perhaps even knew the identity of his killers.’
That made the Minister sit up, and not just for exercise.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘One of those people was Giovanni Grimaldi, the Vigilanza official who was assigned to Ruspanti on Friday afternoon. He also had access to the transcript of the Prince’s phone calls, which subsequently disappeared. The Curia also have evidence that Grimaldi was the source of the anonymous letter sent to the newspapers on Monday evening.’
‘Bet you’re glad you’re not in his shoes, eh, Zeppo?’
‘Zen, sir. Yes, sir. He’s dead. It was disguised as an accident, but he was murdered, presumably by the people who killed Ruspanti. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes mentioned that the Vatican was induced to give Ruspanti sanctuary by the promise of information about a secret political conspiracy within the Order of Malta, a group called the Cabal. Nothing more seems to be known about this organization, but the implication must be that it was their agents who faked Ruspanti’s suicide and arranged for Grimaldi to have his fatal accident.’
The door opened and Gino strode in, spick and span in a Valentino suit, reeking of scent, his hair implant cockily bouffant.
‘All yours, Rodolfo.’
The Minister got up heavily. He looked older and moved stiffly.
‘Just a moment, Gino. I won’t be long.’
Gino shrugged casually and left. It was he who looked the winner now. The Minister mechanically towelled away the sweat on his brow and face.
‘Is that all?’ he muttered.
‘Almost,’ nodded Zen. ‘There’s just one more thing. Yesterday I received an anonymous telegram saying that if I wanted to “get these deaths in perspective”, I should go to a certain address on the Aventine. It turned out to be the Palace of Rhodes, the extraterritorial property of the Order of Malta.’
The Minister grimaced contemptuously.
‘So what? Someone saw your name in the paper and decided to have a bit of fun at your expense. Happens all the time.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But the message referred to “deaths”, plural. At the time it was sent, only one person had died — Ludovico Ruspanti. But the people who sent the telegram already knew that Giovanni Grimaldi would be killed the following day. They’d spent the Monday afternoon making the necessary arrangements. And on the wall of the room where Grimaldi was killed, they’d chalked an eight-pointed Maltese cross.’