Marco proffered a card with his phone numbers.
"If you want to get in touch with me, show this card to the guards; they'll call me."
Nothing. Marco left the card on the table.
"It's your life, not mine."
As he left the interview room he avoided the temptation to look back. He'd played the role of the tough cop and one of two things had happened-either he'd wasted a little time or, against the odds, he'd managed to plant the seed of doubt in the man's mind and he just might react.
When the mute returned to his cell, he fell onto his cot and stared up at the ceiling. He knew security cameras covered every inch of the chamber, so he had to remain impassive.
A year-he had thought he would be free again in a year. Now this man had told him it might be ten years. It could be a bluff, but it could also be the truth.
Since he deliberately shunned the television and other sources of news in the prison, he knew almost nothing of what was happening in the outside world. Addaio had told them that if they were captured they were to isolate themselves, serve out their sentence, and find a way back home.
Now Addaio had sent another team. He'd tried again. A fire, a brother dead, and the police once more searching for clues.
In prison he had had time to think, and the conclusion was obvious: There was a traitor among them. It was not possible otherwise that every time they planned an action something went wrong and somebody wound up in prison or dead.
Yes, there was a traitor among them, and there'd been one in the past as well. He was certain of that. He had to go back and make Addaio see that, convince him to investigate, find the person responsible for so many failures and for his own misery, the years in jail.
But he had to wait, whatever that meant to him personally. If this man had offered him a deal, it was because he had nowhere else to turn. It was a bluff, and he couldn't fall for it. His strength came from his resolute silence, the strict isolation he imposed on himself, the vows he had made. He had been well trained for this. But how terribly he had suffered during these two years without a book, without news from the outside world, without communicating, even by signs, with the other prisoners.
He had convinced the guards that he was a poor inoffensive mental case, remorseful at having tried to steal from the cathedral, which was why he sat in the chapel and prayed. That's what he'd heard them say when they talked about him. He knew they felt sorry for him. Now he must go on playing his role and hope that they trusted him and would talk in front of him. They did that all the time, because for them, he was just part of the furniture.
He had deliberately left the man's card on the table in the interview room. He had not even touched it. Now he had to wait-wait for another year to pass.
"He left the card right where you put it-didn't even touch it." The warden had called Marco to report the status of his prisoner, as promised.
'And have you noticed anything unusual these past few days?"
"Nothing. He's the same as always. He goes to the chapel when he's out of his cell, and when he's in his cell he's staring at the ceiling. The cameras record him twenty-four hours a day. If he did anything unusual I'd call you."
"Thanks."
Marco hung up. He thought he'd struck a nerve, but he was wrong. The investigation was going nowhere.
Minerva would be arriving any minute. He'd asked her to come to Turin because he wanted the entire team on hand. Maybe if they all sat down together they'd be able to see something.
They'd stay on in Turin for two or three more days, but then they had to go back to Rome; they couldn't devote themselves exclusively to this case-that wouldn't fly with the department, much less the ministries. And the worst thing that could happen would be somebody starting to think he was obsessed. The guys upstairs were already restive-the shroud was unharmed, no damage done, nothing taken from the cathedral. There was the body of one of the perps, of course, but nobody had figured out who he was, and nobody seemed to care much either.
Sofia and Pietro walked into the office. Giuseppe had gone to the airport to pick up Minerva, and Antonino, always punctual, had been there for some time, reading files.
Sofia raised a hand in greeting.
"How're things, boss?"
"Great. The warden assures me the mute hasn't taken the bait-it's like I was never there."
"That sounds like the way he's acted since the beginning," said Pietro.
"Yeah, I guess so."
A peal of laughter and the clacking of high heels announced the arrival of Minerva. She and Giuseppe came in, laughing.
The atmosphere brightened with Minerva's arrival, as it always did. She was happily married to a software engineer who, like her, was an authentic computer genius, and she seemed to be in a perpetual good mood.
After the usual round of greetings, the meeting got under way.
"Okay," said Marco, "let's go over what we've got. And when we're done I want each and every one of you to give me your opinion. Pietro, you start."
"First, the fire. The company that's doing the work in the cathedral is named COCSA. I've interrogated everyone who's working on the electrical system-nobody knows anything, and I think they're telling the truth. Most of them are Italian, although there are a couple of immigrants: two Turks and three Albanians. Their papers are all in order, including work permits.
'According to them, they get to the cathedral every morning at eight-thirty, as the first Mass is ending. As soon as the worshippers leave, the doors are closed and there are no more services until six in the evening, when the workers go home. They take a break for lunch, from one-thirty to four. At four sharp they're back, and they get off at six.
'Although the electrical system is not all that old, they're removing it to install better lighting in some of the chapels. They're also repairing some of the walls- humidity has caused chunks of stucco to come loose and drop off. They figure that they'd have been done in two or three more weeks.
"None of them remembers anything unusual happening the day of the fire. In the area where the fire broke out, there were three men working: one of the Turks-a guy named Tariq-and two Italians. They say they can't understand how the short circuit happened. All three of them swear they left the wiring in order when they went to lunch at a little tavern near the cathedral. They have no idea how it happened."
"But it did happen," said Sofia.
Pietro glared at her and went on:
"The workers are happy with the company; they say the pay is good and the bosses treat them well. They told me that Padre Yves oversees the work in the cathedral, that he's a nice guy but he doesn't miss a thing, and that he's very clear about how he wants the work done. They see the cardinal when he officiates at the eight o'clock Mass and a couple of times when he's reviewed the work with Padre Yves."
Marco lit a cigarette, despite Minerva's reproachful look.
"But," Pietro went on, "the experts' report is conclusive. Apparently some cables that were hanging above the altar in the Virgin Chapel touched and caused a short circuit; that's where the fire started. An accident? Oversight? Neglect? Hard to say. The workers swear they left the cables apart, in perfect condition, but we have to ask ourselves whether that's true or just self-justification. I interviewed Padre Yves. He assured me the workers have always seemed very professional, but he's convinced that somebody fucked up. Not a direct quotation, by the way."