Zen nodded as if all this made perfect sense.
‘Oh, and just one other thing,’ he said. ‘If you do manage to access this area of the computer, I’d like to see the file on an official named Zen. Aurelio Zen.’
Nieddu looked at him sharply but said nothing.
‘Zen,’ said Nicolo, spelling the name on the screen. ‘I’ll get to work on it right away. Give me a ring tomorrow. With any luck I should have something by then.’
Gilberto bent over the bed and handed something to the boy, who slipped it hastily under the covers with a guilty grin as the curtain drew aside again and the robed figure reappeared to usher the visitors out.
Back in the car, Zen burst into the hysterical laughter he had been suppressing. Nieddu grinned as he slalomed the Lancia through the twists and turns of the narrow country road.
‘I know, I know! But believe me, Nicolo’s the best hacker in Italy, and one of the best in Europe. He’s done things for me I didn’t believe were possible. And when he says he’ll get to work right away, he means exactly that. The boy lives and breathes computers. He’s capable of going for forty-eight hours without sleep when he’s on the job.’
‘But that… thing in the fancy dress!’
‘That’s his grandmother. Nicolo was born with a spinal deformity so severe he wasn’t expected to live. The family’s from a village near Isernia. Nicolo’s parents had their hands full working the land and looking after their other seven children, so they handed him over to Adelaide, who’d moved up here to Rome with her other daughter. One of the grandsons was given a computer for Christmas, but he couldn’t figure out how to work it properly, so they passed it on to Nicolo. The rest is history.’
‘But what’s all this Mago business?’ demanded Zen.
Nieddu laughed.
‘Adelaide thinks the whole thing is a con. Well, what’s she supposed to think? Here’s this crippled adolescent invalid, never leaves his bed, can’t control his bladder, kicks and screams when she tries to change the sheets, yet is supposedly capable of roaming the world at the speed of light, dodging in and out of buildings in Amsterdam, Paris or New York and bringing back accounts, sales figures, medical records or personnel files. I mean come on! I’m in the electronics business and even I find it barely credible. What’s a sixty-year-old peasant woman from the Molise to make of it all? Yet the punters keep rolling up to the door and pressing bundles of banknotes into her hand! It’s a scam, she thinks, but it’s a bloody good one. So she’s doing her bit to help it along by dressing up like a sorcerer’s assistant.’
Zen lit cigarettes for them both.
‘What did you give the boy at the end?’
‘Butterscotch. It’s some sort of speciality from Scotland. This friend of his in Glasgow — they’ve never met, needless to say — sent him a packet, and now Nicolo can’t get enough. I’ve bought a supply from a specialist shop in Via Veneto and I take him some every time I go.’
They had reached the Via Appia Nuova, and Gilberto turned left, heading back into the city. Zen felt totally disoriented at the sight of the shiny cars and modern shopping centres, as though he’d awakened from a dream more real than the reality which surrounded him.
‘So what is this Cabal?’ Nieddu said suddenly. ‘It was mentioned in that anonymous letter to the papers about the Ruspanti affair, wasn’t it? Are you still investigating that?’
‘No, this is private enterprise.’
Nieddu glanced at him.
‘So what is it?’
‘Oh, something to do with the Knights of Malta,’ Zen replied vaguely.
Nieddu shook his head.
‘Bad news, Aurelio. Bad news.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well for a start-off, the Knights of Malta work hand in glove with the American Central Intelligence Agency and with our own Secret Services.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I get around, Aurelio. I keep my ears open. Now I don’t know what you mean by private enterprise, but if you’re thinking of trying anything at all risky, I would think again. From what I’ve heard, some of the stuff the Order of Malta have been involved in, especially in South America, makes Gelli and the P 2 look small-time.’
They drove in silence for a while. Zen felt his spirits sink as the city tightened its stranglehold around them once more.
‘Like what?’ he asked.
‘Like funding the Nicaraguan Contras and mixing with Colombian drug barons,’ Nieddu replied promptly. ‘You remember the bomb which brought down that plane last year, killing a leading member of the Brazilian Indian Rights movement? Every item of luggage had been through a strict security check, except for a diplomatic pouch supposedly carrying documents to one of the Order’s consulates.’
Zen forced a laugh.
‘Come on, Gilberto! This is like claiming that Leonardo Sciascia was a right-wing stooge because his name is an anagram of CIA, CIA and SS! The Order of Malta is a respectable charity organization.’
Nieddu shrugged.
‘It’s your life, Aurelio. Just don’t blame me if you end up under that train to Milan instead of on it.’
Tania Biacis had said that she wouldn’t be home until eight o’clock, so Zen got there at six thirty. This time there were no problems with the electricity, but as he pushed the button of the entry-phone to make sure that the flat was in fact unoccupied, Zen couldn’t help recalling the night when Ludovico Ruspanti had died and all the lights went out. As the darkness pressed in on him, Zen had thought of his colleague Carlo Romizi. That association of ideas now seemed sinister and emblematic.
There was no answer from the entry-phone, and the unshuttered windows of the top-floor flat were dark. Zen let himself in and trudged upstairs. On each landing, the front doors of the other apartments emitted tantalizing glints of light and snatches of conversation. Zen ignored them like the covers of books he knew he would never read, his mind on other intrigues, other mysteries. A series of loud raps at the front door of Tania’s flat brought no response, so Zen got out the other key and unlocked the door.
Once inside, he turned on the hall light and checked his watch. He had plenty of time to search the flat and then retire to the local bar-cum-pizzeria, run by a friendly Neapolitan couple, before returning at about ten past eight for his dinner date with the unsuspecting Tania. First of all, though, he phoned his mother to make sure that Maria Grazia had packed his suitcase. His train left at seven the next morning, and he didn’t want to have to do it when he got home.
‘There’s a problem!’ his mother told him. ‘I told Maria Grazia to pack the dark-blue suit but she said she couldn’t find it! She wanted to pack the black one or the dark-grey, but I said no, the black is for funerals, God forbid, and the grey one for marriages and First Communions. Only the blue will do, but we can’t find it anywhere, I don’t know where it’s got to…’
‘I’m wearing it, mamma.’
‘… unless we find it you won’t be able to go. We can’t have you appearing at an official function looking less than your best…’
‘Mamma, I’m wearing the blue suit today!’
‘… so important to make a good impression if you want to get ahead, I always say. People judge you by your clothes, Aurelio, and if you’re inappropriately dressed it doesn’t matter what you do…’
‘Mamma!!!’
‘… watching on television while I was at Lucrezia’s yesterday, ever so nice, and talented too! He’s written this book called You Are What You Wear, which is precisely what I’ve been trying to say all along, not that anyone ever has me on TV or even listens to me for that…’
Zen depressed the rest of the telephone, cutting the connection. He counted slowly to ten, then dialled again.
‘Sorry, mamma, we must have got cut off somehow. Listen, apart from the blue suit, is my case packed?’
‘All except your suit, yes. We looked everywhere, Maria Grazia and I, but we just couldn’t find it. Perhaps it’s at the cleaners, I said, but she…’