‘Ah, Zocchi. He’s a pig. He’s where he belongs. In jail.’ Castellano put an arm around Calvieri’s shoulders and led him through the packed restaurant to a door beside the swing doors leading into the kitchen. It was marked: DIRETTORE.
‘Signore Bettinga’s waiting for you in there. Can I get you something to eat? A small pizza napoletana? That was always your favourite.’
‘I’ve eaten, thank you. But I wouldn’t say no to one of your famous cappuccini.’
‘Coming up,’ Castellano replied and disappeared into the kitchen.
Calvieri entered the office and closed the door behind him. Luigi Bettinga sat behind Castellano’s desk absently paging through a culinary magazine. He was a small, dapper man in his late thirties with beady eyes and prematurely grey hair. He always reminded Calvieri of an accountant. They had been close friends for years and Calvieri saw him as an integral part of the new committee under his leadership.
‘Ciao, Tony,’ Bettinga said and came round to the front of the desk to shake hands with Calvieri. ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t at the house this morning. The plane was delayed in Genoa. I must have got there just after you left.’
‘You’re here now, that’s the main thing,’ Calvieri said, helping himself to a cigarette from the pack on Castellano’s desk. ‘Your phone call intrigued me. Why did you want to meet me away from the house?’
‘The house and the grounds are still crawling with police. I couldn’t take the chance of letting them overhear what I’m going to tell you.’
‘You’ve come up with something already, haven’t you?’
Bettinga nodded.
‘Yes, but I can hardly take the credit. I only took over from where you left off.’
‘So what is it?’
There was a knock at the door and Castellano came in with the cappuccino. He put it on the table and withdrew discreetly, closing the door carefully behind him.
‘Well?’ Calvieri prompted.
‘We know the identity of the gunman’s accomplice.’
‘That’s excellent news.’ Calvieri picked up the coffee cup and sat down in the leather armchair against the wall. ‘Is he a local?’
Bettinga shook his head.
‘The name on the passport is Raymond Anderson. It’s sure to be false.’
‘Where’s he staying?’
‘A boarding house on the via Marche near the Villa Borghese.’
‘What about the gunman?’ Calvieri asked, wiping the froth from his moustache. ‘Any clues to his identity?’
‘Not yet. But we do have a description of him. We got it from the receptionist at the car hire company who told us about Anderson. Blond. Good-looking. American accent.’
‘An American?’ Calvieri mused thoughtfully.
‘The boarding house is under surveillance. What do you want done?’
‘The American must be taken alive. We have to find out who he’s working for. Who knows, one of us could be his next target.’
‘And Anderson?’
‘He’s not so important. It’s the American I want.’ Calvieri took another sip of the cappuccino. ‘This has to be a low-key affair, Luigi. The police mustn’t suspect anything. If they found out we had the American they would raid every safe house in the country looking for him. There’s only one man I’d trust to handle this kind of job.’
‘Escoletti?’
‘Right. Giancarlo Escoletti. Get him on the next flight to Rome. We can’t afford to waste any more time.’
‘I’m way ahead of you, Tony. I’ve got Escoletti on standby at the Condotti Hotel. I sent for him as soon as I got your call last night.’
‘Mister Efficiency himself. Next you’ll be challenging me for the leadership.’
‘It never crossed my mind, Tony,’ Bettinga replied indignantly, then noticed the smile on Calvieri’s face. ‘Your little joke, right?’
Calvieri had always maintained that Bettinga would have made a perfect poker-faced comedian. He never smiled. Irony was totally lost on him.
‘Call Escoletti and tell him to bring the American in.’ Calvieri finished his cappuccino and got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get back to the hotel.’
‘What did Ubrino steal from the plant? Signore Pisani wouldn’t have asked you to help the authorities unless it was something pretty important.’
‘I can’t say anything at the moment, Luigi. I promise I’ll give the committee a full report at next week’s meeting.’
‘Do you think there could be a connection between the break-in at the plant and the hit on Signore Pisani?’
‘That’s what I hope to find out from the American.’
Bettinga sat down behind the desk after Calvieri had left the room and dialled the number of the Condotti Hotel. He asked for Escoletti’s room.
‘Hello?’ a voice answered.
‘Escoletti?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Bettinga. I’ve spoken to Signore Calvieri. He wants the American brought in alive.’
‘What about Anderson?’
‘He’s not important. You can kill him if you have to. You know where to take the American. Call me when it’s done. And Escoletti, don’t risk anything that could alert the authorities. Signore Calvieri was quite insistent about that.’
‘Leave it to me. The authorities won’t suspect a thing.’
Bettinga replaced the receiver, then took a couple of peppermints from the bowl on the table and thoughtfully put them into his mouth.
‘Where have you been?’ Kolchinsky demanded once he had let Calvieri into his room.
‘I’m sure you know that already,’ Calvieri replied. ‘Paluzzi’s men have been tailing me ever since I arrived in Rome. But to answer your question, I was called out unexpectedly to deal with some Red Brigades business.’
‘We had an agreement, Calvieri. You work with us until the vial’s been recovered. And that means staying on call, like the rest of us. So next time you get an unexpected call, send one of your associates to deal with the problem. Isn’t that what leadership’s all about? Delegation?’
‘I’ll bear it in mind, next time,’ Calvieri retorted sarcastically.
‘You do that. But right now you’d better start packing.’ Kolchinsky handed Calvieri an airline ticket. ‘Flight 340 to Berne. It leaves Rome at twelve-twenty. That’s in less than two hours’ time. And you will be on the plane with the rest of us, that I promise you.’
Escoletti parked the hired Fiat Regata a block away from the boarding house, took the black doctor’s bag from the back seat and got out of the car, locking the door behind him.
He was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties with thick black hair which was beginning to grey in streaks at the temples. He had once been a doctor but had been struck off the medical register for attempting to rape one of his patients. On his release from jail he had drifted into a life of crime and joined the Red Brigades in ’84 after meeting Calvieri at a recruitment party in Milan. His expertise with firearms (he had been a crack shot since his early teens) together with his extensive medical knowledge had made him one of the most in-demand assassins in the organization. In ’87 he had been promoted on to the committee as a senior security consultant, a position he still held, which entailed him advising the different cells on the feasibility of their intended terror campaigns across the country. He still worked in the field, but only on those assignments sanctioned at the highest level of the committee. He was known as ‘the Specialist’. Just like a doctor.
He walked past the boarding house to the narrow alleyway which ran parallel to the side of the building. He picked his way with distaste through the overflowing dustbins and paused at the foot of the fire escape. Anderson and Yardley were in Rooms 15 and 16. First floor.