‘Perhaps you should use someone else then,’ Zen suggested rapidly. ‘Someone untainted by previous associations with the case.’
Brugnoli’s expression revealed that he had not been deceived by this attempt to wriggle out of the assignment.
‘No, no! You’re the man for the job, Zen. After all, the fact that you’ve already begun enquiries makes it all the more natural that you should then follow them up. What must be protected at all costs is any connection between your level and mine. If a lone officer doggedly pursues further evidence in this case, that’s one thing. But if our enemies begin to suspect what we’re really up to, they will immediately take steps to neutralize the threat.’
And possibly the ‘lone officer’ concerned, thought Zen.
‘The rules of engagement are that you are to report solely to me, and in person,’ Brugnoli continued. ‘Not by phone, either land-line or mobile, nor by email, fax, letter, postcard, carrier pigeon or any other form of overt communication, unless of course I initiate the contact. Our modus operandi must allow for total deniability by all concerned while the operation is in progress. If you need to contact me, write an unsigned note stating a place and time, seal it in a plain envelope and leave it with the cashier at the bar you went to today.’
Zen nodded wonderingly.
‘She’s that trustworthy?’ he asked.
Brugnoli took a luxurious amount of time to answer.
‘She used to be my mistress,’ he said complacently.
He glanced at his watch decisively, as though to cover this indiscretion.
‘Right, well, I must be going. Please remain here for at least ten minutes after I leave. I’m almost certain that we have been unobserved so far, but one can never be too careful.’
‘Oh, just one small thing…’
Zen was searching in his coat pocket for his notebook and a pen.
‘While I was in Bolzano, I ran into a patrolman named Bruno Nanni.’
He wrote the name down, tore out the sheet and handed it to Brugnoli.
‘He’s doing his hardship time up there, and it seems to have been very hard on him indeed. Basically he’s an excellent young officer, very willing and capable, but he’s totally out of his depth in the Alto Adige and, I have to say, given to occasional outbursts which in my opinion might reflect negatively on the force’s reputation in that sensitive area. I hate to bother a man like you about a trivial matter of this sort, but I was just wondering if…’
‘Where does he want to go?’ asked Brugnoli.
‘Bologna.’
The other man nodded.
‘I’ll send a memo down to Personnel this afternoon.’
‘I think it might be best.’
To Zen’s surprise, Brugnoli walked over to him and tugged the sleeve of his coat.
‘Eh, dottore! ’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Don’t take all the supposed changes around here too literally. Yes, many things have changed, but the important ones remain the same. That applies to your relationship with me and the people to whom I was alluding earlier. You look after us, and we’ll look after you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’
Zen gave a series of rapid nods.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I understand completely.’
VIII
During the period of quarantine that Brugnoli had imposed, Zen phoned the caller whose number had appeared on the screen of his mobile earlier, apologized for being unable to respond at that time — ‘I was in a meeting’ — and arranged a rendezvous. He then took himself off to a cheap and cheerful bar on Via Nazionale where he ordered a glass of spumante, for no particular reason, and read a series of long, intelligent and densely analytical articles in La Gazzetta dello Sport on the burning issue of the moment, namely whether the coach of the national football team should be replaced after the recent series of humiliating results against opponents whose countries in some cases hadn’t even existed ten years earlier, and if so by whom.
At one o’clock promptly, he was standing on the pavement of the steep street a bit further down the hill, opposite Palazzo Colonna. He had to wait about twenty minutes before a car drew up at the kerb. It was a dark blue Fiat macchina di rappresentanza of the type associated with high-level government officials. The driver stepped out and opened the back door for Zen to enter. He was a young man, short and swarthy even for a southerner, with intensely black eyes and hair, wearing a superannuated suit slightly too tight for his bulky physique, a white shirt and blue tie and an incongruous peaked cap. He looked like a part-time assistant to a cut-price provincial undertaker.
Gilberto acknowledged Zen with a deliberately casual nod, and then added an incomprehensible aside to the driver before closing the glass partition to the front compartment.
‘What was that?’ asked Zen as the Fiat squealed away.
‘Just giving Ahmed directions.’
Zen thought about this for a second, then decided to ignore it.
‘Glad you’re free for lunch,’ he said brightly. ‘Where are we going?’
Gilberto pushed a button on the console in the central armrest. There was a whirr of machinery as opaque blinds descended over all the windows and the glass partition, cutting them off totally from the outside world.
‘What on earth?’ exclaimed Zen.
Gilberto laughed and pressed another button, lighting up the sealed interior.
‘Hope you don’t mind, Aurelio, but the answer to your question about lunch is a bit of a secret, actually. You’ll understand once we get there.’
‘How did you ever get hold of this beast? I thought they were all reserved for the top dogs.’
‘So, what am I, shit?’
‘No, but you were up to your neck in it, the last I heard.’
‘That was before the revolution. You’re not really keeping up with current affairs, are you, Aurelio? Of course for you state employees there’s no need. But some things have changed there too, like these cars. Obviously il Cavaliere didn’t want his people driving around in cars produced by l’Avvocato.’
Zen’s faint smile acknowledged this reference to the legendary enmity between the Prime Minister and Giovanni Agnelli, the creator of Fiat.
‘Besides, there was the whole question of image,’ Nieddu went on enthusiastically. ‘One of the many aspects of Berlusconi’s genius is that he is the first politician since Mussolini to grasp the vital importance of presentation. That’s why he was able to defeat his opponents so convincingly last time out. All the little lefties were sitting around discussing real issues, matters of substance and policy, and then of course disagreeing and splitting into factions and insulting each other and telling people at all costs not to vote for the ideological heretics who had failed to grasp the correct course of action at this historically significant moment, etcetera, etcetera. Meanwhile Silvio just sat there, smiling at you from posters, magazines and TV programmes, looking every inch the man of power that he is and never making the mistake of mentioning any concrete proposals or programmes. “Trust me”, was the message. And the voters did. He didn’t win the election. His opponents lost it.’
‘With a little help from the press and TV, most of which he owns.’
‘So did the Christian Democrats and the Socialists and Communists back in the old days. That’s not the point. People have had enough, Aurelio! That’s what it comes down to. Take these cars, for example. They’re like those ZIP limos that the Politburo used to drive around in. In the public mind, they’re associated with the former regime, with cliques, cabals, corruption and all the endless misteri d’Italia. Did Andreotti have Mino Pecorelli and Della Chiesa killed? What really happened to La Malfa? Who planted the bomb in Piazza Fontana? How and why did Roberto Calvi die? The truth is that no one cares about all that stuff any more. Berlusconi knows it, so he dumps the whole fleet, allowing yours truly to pick up this rather toney low-mileage vehicle at a knockdown price. Not only that, but since the association with unquestioned power and prestige still operates at a subliminal level, Ahmed can indulge his distinctive driving style, which was honed at the wheel of a jeep in the Taurus mountains incidentally. He there¬ fore has a natural tendency to ignore the presence of other traffic unless it’s very heavily armed and armoured.’