‘This makes no sense whatever,’ he said with finality. ‘To the best of my knowledge, Lieutenant Leonardo Ferrero died when a military plane carrying him to Trieste exploded over the Adriatic.’
Zen nodded.
‘According to the official records, Ferrero indeed died in a plane accident.’
‘Well, I don’t necessarily believe that it was an accident, but that’s another matter.’
‘Nevertheless, an individual with a purely personal interest in the matter and no political axe to grind has asserted that the body recently discovered under the circumstances I mentioned is that of Lieutenant Ferrero. The Dolomites are a long way from the Adriatic, and the body was discovered about two hundred metres underground.’
‘So, he’s wrong. Or crazy. An attention seeker. What proof does he offer?’
‘He says that he’s a blood relative of Ferrero and that DNA tests would validate his claims.’
‘Then do them.’
Zen replaced his cup on its saucer and leaned back into the sofa, which immediately tried to swallow him. He pulled himself out of its maw and perched on the edge.
‘Unfortunately that’s not possible. About a week ago, the carabinieri raided the hospital in Bolzano at four in the morning and removed the corpse and all records of the preliminary post-mortem examination to an unknown destination. The Ministry of Defence is saying that the victim was a soldier who died in the course of an exercise testing a new nerve gas and that for safety reasons the cadaver was abandoned and the site sealed with explosives. Only it wasn’t sealed. Some cavers found their way in there, and I returned with one of them and inspected the area for myself. In short, this business has all the air of being a cover-up for yet another of our little Italian mysteries. I was wondering whether you could shed any light on it.’
Zen rearranged himself on the edge of the sofa in an attempt to find a more comfortable position. There was an ashtray on the glass-and-steel coffee table. He took out his cigarettes and made an interrogative gesture. His host’s right hand eloquently indicated that there had been no need to ask.
‘Well, it was all a long time ago…’
‘That’s what everyone keeps telling me.’
Brandelli got to his feet.
‘I was about to add, so I’d better go and retrieve my dossier on the subject.’
He was back in less than a minute, holding a very slim buffcoloured file.
‘The police raid I mentioned earlier did not come as a complete surprise,’ he said, sitting down again. ‘I had therefore taken the precaution of moving some of the most sensitive material to a bank safety-deposit box.’
Zen finished his cigarette and stubbed it out while Brandelli quickly skimmed the contents of the file.
‘Right!’ the journalist said. ‘My mind is duly refreshed and I will give you a brief guided tour of the salient facts. Off the record, of course, bearing in mind the lack of a search warrant.’
‘That’s fine. I’m operating off the record myself.’
‘Interesting. I’ve known the police do that on numerous occasions, needless to say, but they’ve never tried to enlist my help before. In fact they invariably treated me as an enemy.’
Zen nodded. ‘Times change,’ he said. ‘In this case, it’s quite possible that our interests may ultimately coincide.’
Brandelli poured them both more tea.
‘You astonish me, dottore. And at my age it’s very unusual to be astonished. Anyway, here we go. The year was 1973. I then worked for L’Unita and had already developed something of a reputation for investigative journalism thanks to various pieces which had won me the highest award in the profession, namely a number of death threats. One day I received yet another anonymous phone message. This time the caller claimed to have information to pass on regarding an affair of the highest national importance and wanted to arrange a suitable place and time for us to meet. It had to be in Verona, at the weekend and in the evening. He was very insistent about that.’
‘And you assumed that this was the set-up for an actual assassination, as opposed to the usual string of vague menaces and veiled threats.’
‘Precisely. Verona was a notorious hotbed of neo-Fascism at the time, and indeed since, so my only surprise was that the hit-man or his employers hadn’t realized this. Nevertheless, I couldn’t risk turning the caller down out of hand and possibly losing a scoop, so I set up an assignation at a pizzeria in Piazza Bra. I did not of course go there myself, but I enlisted the help of some of the Veronese compagni to keep an eye on the venue and let me know what happened. They reported that a young man had duly shown up at the agreed time. He had looked extremely nervous and preoccupied, had waited for about half an hour, looking up whenever anyone entered. When he left, a team of them followed discreetly. His destination turned out to be a local army barracks.’
Zen put down his tea cup and lit another cigarette.
‘At which point you were no doubt reminded of the method they use to catch man-killing tigers in India,’ he said. ‘They tether a goat to a stake, and then when the tiger comes to eat the goat, the hunters emerge from the undergrowth and shoot it.’
Brandelli beamed.
‘Our minds obviously work along similar lines, Dottor Zen. My contact was the goat, I was the tiger, and since I had not taken the bait that evening the hunters had not shown themselves. But a few days later the man called again. I apologized for having missed our first appointment and we made another. It was a matter of the greatest urgency, he said, a vital and shocking disclosure that would horrify the public.’
Brandelli shrugged.
‘There was still a risk, of course, but the man’s tone of voice convinced me that he was either a trained actor or telling the truth. Besides, risk is part and parcel of the trade that I had chosen. At any event, we met. And the first thing he said, once we had exchanged the agreed code words, was that he was an army officer acting under orders.’
Zen looked up sharply.
‘And you believed him?’
‘I believed him. His manner was that of a dutiful subordinate carrying out a task without regard for his personal feelings or opinions. He displayed no discernible political animus or involvement whatsoever. On the contrary, he remained completely detached throughout. His role was simply that of the go-between, the messenger, executing the orders that he had been given.’
Zen raised his eyebrows.
‘He then proceeded to reveal the existence within the armed forces of a parallel entity consisting of selected officers organized into four-man groups. Only one man in each group had access to the next level of command, and none of them to any other groups.’
‘The classic cell structure, in other words.’
‘Indeed. An invention of the Bolsheviks. My informant claimed that the superior officer who had sent him was a member of one of these cells, but had lately grown disillusioned and now felt that it was his duty to bring the true purpose of the conspiracy to the attention of the public before it could be put into effect. Since he was closely watched at all times, he was doing so through an intermediary.’
‘And the purpose was?’
‘Nothing less than the overthrow of the elected government and the imposition of a military dictatorship.’
Zen laughed.
‘You must have thought you’d won the lottery!’
‘It’s easy to laugh now,’ Brandelli retorted testily. ‘For that matter, it seemed pretty far-fetched to me even at the time. But there was so much we didn’t know about back then. We didn’t know about the CIA-funded stay-behind Gladio terrorist operation, for example, to be activated in the event of the Communists coming to power. Nor about Licio Gelli’s P2 organization, specifically intended to provide support and personnel in the event of a right-wing coup. And in which, lest we forget, the onorevole Silvio Berlusconi was enrolled with the membership number 1168.’
Zen gave a chastened nod.
‘You’re right. I apologize.’