Blood from a stone

26

During the next few days, Brunetti fell into a torpor in which he failed to find the will or the energy either to work or to care that he was not working. He interviewed various professors and students at the university and judged them all to be lying, but he could not bring himself to care overmuch that they were. If anything, he took a grim delight in the fact that corruption and dishonesty should manifest themselves in the Department of the Science of Law.
The children sensed that something was wrong: Raffi occasionally asked him for help with his homework, and Chiara insisted on having him read her essays for Italian class, then asked his opinion of what she had written. Paola stopped complaining about school; in fact, she stopped complaining about everything, to such a point that Brunetti began to suspect that his wife had been the victim of alien abduction and a replicant left in her place.
One night at two in the morning, the drug addicts who had committed the rash of burglaries were discovered in the home of a notary, found there by the owner’s son, who had just come back from a party at a friend’s home. The boy had had too much to drink, made a great deal of noise entering the apartment, and when he saw the two men in his parents’ living room, rashly attacked one of them. The father, awakened by the noise, came into the living room carrying a gun, and when the thieves saw him, one of them raised a hand. The notary shot him in the face and killed him. The other one panicked and tried to flee, but when he broke loose from the son, the notary shot him in the chest, also killing him instantly. He put the gun down and called the police.
Brunetti, reading the reports the following morning, was appalled by the waste and stupidity. They might have taken a radio, a television at worst, maybe some jewellery. The notary was the sort of person who would have insurance; nothing would be lost. And now these two poor devils were dead. The uncle of one of them was a tailor at the shop where Brunetti bought his suits and came to the Questura to ask him if anything would happen to the notary. Brunetti had to tell him that there was every likelihood that it would be declared a case of legittima difesa, in which case no blame would fall upon the killer.
‘But is that right?’ the man demanded. ‘He shoots Mirko in the face like he was a dog and nothing happens to him?’
‘Legally he did nothing we can charge him with, Signor Buffetti. He had a permit for the gun. His son says your nephew tried to attack him.’
‘Of course he’d say that,’ the man shouted. ‘He’s his son.’
‘I know how it must seem to you,’ Brunetti said. ‘But there’s no legal case that can be brought against him.’
The tailor tried to control his anger. Accepting the validity of Brunetti’s judgement, he got to his feet and went to the door. Before he left, he turned and said, ‘I can’t argue with you, not in a legal way, Dottore. But I know that the police shouldn’t let a man be shot and do nothing about it.’ He closed the door quietly as he left.
Brunetti was not a man given to belief in signs and portents: the real had always seemed sufficiently marvellous to him. But he could recognize the truth when someone presented it to him.
Signorina Elettra, perhaps sobered by the ease with which her computer had been violated, had not asked about the case and had made no suggestion that she resume making inquiries. Vianello had taken his family to the mountains for two weeks. When Buffetti had gone, Brunetti used Signor Rossi’s telefonino to call Vianello on his.
‘Lorenzo,’ Brunetti said when the inspector answered, ‘when you get back, I think we have to attend to some unfinished business.’
‘That’s not going to make some people happy,’ Vianello answered laconically.
‘Probably not.’
‘I’ve still got all the information,’ Vianello said.
‘Good.’
‘I’m very glad you called,’ Vianello said and broke the connection.
Two nights later the phone rang just before eleven. Paola answered with the cool, impersonal curiosity she directed at anyone who called after ten. A moment later, her tone changed, and she spoke to the person using the familiar ‘tu’. Brunetti listened, wondering which of her friends it might be, but then she turned to him and said, ‘It’s for you. It’s my father.’
‘Good evening, Guido,’ the Count said when Brunetti took the phone.
‘Good evening,’ answered Brunetti, doing his best to sound normal.
The Count surprised him by asking, ‘Do you get CNN?’
‘What?’
‘The television, CNN?’
‘Yes. The kids watch it for their English,’ he answered.
‘I think you should turn on their news at midnight.’
Brunetti glanced at his watch and saw that it was only a few minutes after eleven. ‘Not until then?’
‘It won’t be on until then, what I want you to see. I’ve just had a phone call from a friend.’
‘But why CNN?’ Brunetti asked. He thought RAI had a midnight newscast, but he wasn’t sure.
‘You’ll understand when you see it. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow, but I think you’d better see the way it’s going to be presented.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Brunetti said.
‘You will,’ the Count said and hung up.
He told Paola about the conversation, but she could make no sense of it, either. Together they went into the living room and turned on the television. Paola took the remote and switched from channel to channel. They flicked past people trying to sell mattresses, women reading tarot cards, an old film, another old film, two people of indeterminate gender engaged in an activity that was perhaps meant to be sexual, another fortune teller, until finally they came upon the faintly alien face of the CNN newsreader.
‘They never have two matching eyes,’ Paola remarked as she sat on the sofa. ‘And I think they all wear wigs.’
‘You mean you watch this?’ asked an astonished Brunetti.
‘Sometimes, with the kids,’ she said defensively.
‘He said midnight,’ Brunetti reminded her and took the remote control from her hand. He pushed the mute button.
‘There’s time for something to drink, then,’ Paola said and got to her feet. She disappeared towards the kitchen, leaving Brunetti to wonder whether she would emerge with something real to drink or a cup of tisane.
His eyes turned to the screen and he watched what appeared to be a programme about the stock market: a man and a woman, equally other-worldly in appearance, chatted amiably, occasionally reducing each other to peals of not very convincing silent laughter, while below the picture scrolled stock prices that would reduce any thinking person to tears.
After about ten minutes Paola came back with two mugs, saying: ‘The best of both worlds: hot water, lemon, honey, and whiskey.’
She handed him one, then joined him on the sofa to observe the two not-talking heads. Soon she too registered the disparity between the hilarity of the presenters and the misery of the numbers that continued their tidal flow below them. ‘It’s like watching Nero playing the lyre while Rome burns,’ she observed.
‘That’s not a true story,’ the historian in Brunetti declared.
At five to midnight he restored the sound but quickly adjusted it to a barely audible minimum. With a final cheery smile, the two presenters disappeared, to be replaced by a rapid series of views of some Gulf state eager for foreign investment or tourism.
A globe, the throb of portentous music, and then the face of another presenter. Brunetti increased the sound and together they listened to a report on the latest suicidal attack in the Middle East, then one by an F16 with an equal number of victims. There followed a report from Delhi about another failed attempt to restore peace in Kashmir.
And then the presenter’s face took on an expression of learned seriousness. Brunetti increased the volume again. ‘And now, breaking news from Italy. We pass you to our local correspondent, Arnoldo Vitale, with a live report of a terrorist attempt that has been foiled by the Italian police. Arnoldo, are you there?’
‘Yes, Jim,’ said a lightly accented voice in English. There was a slight pause and crackle as the image changed and the voice line switched over. In the top left corner of the screen appeared a talking head, behind him the dome of St Peter’s Basilica.
The rest of the screen showed the grey stucco fa?ade of an apartment building. In front of it were parked the black Jeeps and cars of the Carabinieri as well as four unmarked dark sedans. Men in helmets and flak jackets with CARABINIERI written across the back, all carrying machine-guns, milled around with evident lack of purpose. To the left of them stood a group of four or five men in combat gear, all wearing ski masks.
The voice continued. ‘This evening, Italian police raided an apartment in Vigonza, a generally peaceful suburb of the northern Italian city of Padova, not far from Venice. This in response to a report that members of an Islamic fundamentalist sect had been using one of the apartments in the building as a centre for meetings and training sessions. Italian security experts linking the group to the Al Qaeda terrorist organization and its attacks against American interests.
‘First reports that the police attempted to get the two men in the apartment to give themselves up. Response from the terrorist suspects violent, leaving the police no choice but to storm the apartment. In the ensuing gun battle, one police officer wounded and both of the terrorists in the apartment killed.’
‘Arnoldo,’ asked the unaccented voice, ‘how strong is this link to international terrorism?’
‘Yes, Jim, the police here say they have been aware of this group for some time. As you know, arrests have been made all over Italy this year of suspected terrorists. A government spokesperson reporting that this is the most violent confrontation so far and hopes it is not a sign of things to come.’
‘Arnoldo, is there any perceived threat to Americans travelling in Italy?’
‘No, none at all, Jim. The same spokesman said that any connection to US interests would be to US base in Vicenza, about twenty miles from here. Authorities examining that possibility, but believe no danger to the civilian population.’
As the two men spoke, the Carabinieri continued to wander about in front of the building. Finally the door opened inward and a man carrying the front of a stretcher emerged, then a second man. A long shape covered with a sheet lay on it. A second stretcher emerged, but the Carabinieri ignored both, turning to face the crowd that stood behind a hastily erected row of barriers.
‘Once again, Jim: terrorist network broken up by intervention by Italian police. No threat to Americans on vacation in the country.’ Voice sinking into inflated portentiousness, he concluded, ‘But it looks like Italy is now home to something other than la dolce vita.’
The picture returned to the newsreader. He gave a serious smile and said, ‘That was our Italian correspondent, Arnoldo Vitale, speaking from Rome. Italian police reporting break-up of terrorist ring based near Padova, Italy. No threat to Americans in the area.’
The camera panned to the woman sitting beside him. She turned to Jim, saying, ‘We’ve got more news from Italy, Jim, but of a different sort.’ There was a pause, one no doubt deemed long enough to erase the thought of the death of two men, and she went on, ‘In news that has stunned the fashion industry, one of Italy’s most famous fashion designers says he will not use leather or any animal products in his spring collection.’
Brunetti switched the channel to RAI, but the same old movie was still playing. He tried all of the channels in turn, but there was no report of the incident, not even on the local stations.
He turned the television off. ‘Did your father say where he was calling from?’
Surprised by the question, Paola said, ‘No, he didn’t.’
Brunetti looked at his watch. ‘If I call now and he’s not there, I’ll wake your mother, won’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it will have to wait,’ he said, picking up his cup. But the drink was cold and he set it down untasted.
Brunetti slept little and was outside by six-thirty, walking in rain he barely noticed towards Sant’ Aponal and the edicola there. He saw the shouting headlines and bought four papers. As he handed Brunetti his change, the news dealer said, with a return to his normal tone, ‘Lousy rain. It’ll never stop.’
Brunetti ignored him and went back home, not bothering to stop to get brioche on the way. In the kitchen, he made himself a pot of coffee and set some milk on to heat. Then he mixed them in a mug and sat in front of the papers, which he had arranged in a neat pile with his glasses folded on top.
Paola came in half an hour later and found him still reading, newspapers open across the entire surface of the table. Though he had read all of the accounts carefully, he still had no idea why his father-in-law had told him to watch the news.
She poured what remained of the coffee into a cup, stirred in sugar, and came to stand behind him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she asked, ‘And?’
‘And it’s pretty much what they said last night: two men in an apartment near Padova. The Carabinieri received a phone call saying they were members of a terrorist group that was preparing attacks against American interests.’
‘What interests?’ Paola asked.
‘That wasn’t explained. At least not in the papers,’ he said, pushing the one he was reading aside.
‘And then?’ she asked, her coffee forgotten, hand still on his shoulder.
‘And they went. You saw the way they were last night, cars and Jeeps and trucks, and God knows how many of them.’ Brunetti pulled one of the papers towards him and flipped back to the front page, where they could both see a photo of the same apartment, the same stretcher bearers, the same apparently purposeless Carabinieri.
‘The Carabinieri hoped to catch them unawares, the article says,’ Brunetti reported.
Paola bent forward and jabbed a finger at the photo, ‘With half an armoured division at the front door?’ she demanded.
‘The men in the apartment,’ Brunetti began and then bowed his head to hunt for the account. ‘“. . . responded with violence, leaving the forces of order no choice but to defend themselves. In the resulting exchange of fire, one policeman was shot in the arm, but the two terrorists were fatally wounded.” ’ He read another paragraph silently and then again out loud. ‘“Among the documents found in the apartment were hand-drawn maps of the American embassy in Rome and what is believed to be the water system of the US base in Vicenza.” ’
Brunetti removed his glasses and tossed them on to the papers. ‘There is a statement from someone who is listed as “a member of the special anti-terrorism unit”, who says that the police responded bravely and well and that it is hoped that an investigation will reveal the full extent of the links between this group and international terrorism.’
Paola moved over to the sink and poured her cold coffee into it. She opened and cleaned the pot, started to fill it with water. ‘More?’ she asked.
‘No,’ Brunetti said. ‘I’ve had too much already.’
When the pot was on the stove, Paola sat down opposite him. Gesturing at the papers on the table, she asked, ‘But why did my father call you? What does it mean?’
Brunetti shrugged. ‘Just about anything, I suppose. It could mean that it is exactly what they say it is, a terrorist cell. But it could mean other things.’
‘You’ve had coffee, so you tell me what the possibilities are. My political imagination isn’t awake yet.’
‘The first thing that is strange is that they don’t give the nationality of the suspects, nor do they give their names. Nor do they give any idea of what larger terrorist group they’re linked to.’
‘The Americans said Islamic fundamentalists.’
‘The Americans say that if someone double parks,’ Brunetti answered angrily. Then, in a cooler voice, he went on, ‘Your father called me and told me to watch this, but the original call came from a friend of his. But your father wouldn’t call unless it were related to the black man’s death. But I have no idea how.’
The coffee bubbled up, and Paola went to take it off the stove. ‘Then go to work and see what they tell you there.’
At the Questura, where he arrived a little after eight, things seemed as quiet and restrained as they generally did at that hour. He went up to his office, but since he had already read the newspapers, he had no choice but to read through the documents and files that had been accumulating on his desk for more than a month. He found himself thinking that, if the people from the Ministry of the Interior had seen fit to answer his phone for him while they were there, the least they could have done was read and process all of these papers.
He kept at it doggedly until about eleven, when his phone rang. He answered on the sixth ring, reluctant to be taken from the mindless rhythm of his paperwork. ‘Yes?’ he answered gruffly.
‘Good morning, Commissario,’ Signorina Elettra said.
‘Sorry,’ he said automatically. ‘I’ve had too much coffee.’
‘Apparently so has the Vice-Questore.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘He’s quite ebullient, if that’s the proper word to describe his behaviour. And he wants to see you.’
‘I’ll come down,’ Brunetti said, entranced by the idea of what form an ebullient Patta would take.
It took the form, he saw when he entered Patta’s office a few minutes later, of a broad smile in which Brunetti noticed a considerable proportion of self-satisfaction. ‘Ah, Brunetti,’ Patta fairly chirped when he saw him. ‘I’m glad you came down. There are a number of things I want to tell you.’
‘Yes, sir?’ Brunetti asked, coming forward.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ Patta said, pointing Brunetti to a chair just in front of him.
Brunetti took his place but said nothing.
‘I know we’re all busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time,’ Patta began, which told Brunetti that he must have plans for an early lunch or for one out of town.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘It’s about this black man who was killed,’ he began, but then, slipping a note of camaraderie into his voice, ‘or, if I must say it, about your refusal to trust me when I said it was being handled by higher authorities.’ Brunetti asked for no explanation, so Patta continued. ‘I told you they knew what was going on with these men.’
When he saw Brunetti react to that last word, Patta said, ‘Yes. Men. There were a number of them, and the man who was killed was a member of their group.’
Here Brunetti interrupted the flow to ask, ‘Are you speaking about the incident in Vigonza last night, sir?’
‘Yes, I am. I’ve spent the morning with my counterpart’ – ah, how Patta loved the rhetoric – ‘at the Ministry of the Interior. He came here to share with me their intelligence on the men who were killed in that gun battle last night.’
‘And that was?’ Brunetti inquired.
‘The news reports have it right, at least in essence. They were members of a terrorist organization: there’s no question of that. But they aren’t certain yet which larger group they were linked to.’
‘No doubt they’ll discover that,’ said a diffident Brunetti.
Missing his tone, Patta smiled at his words. ‘Of course they will. I’m glad you can see it that way.’
‘And the phone call?’ Brunetti prodded.
‘An anonymous call, apparently made from a public phone. It told the police where to go.’
‘The police? I thought I saw pictures in the paper of Carabinieri vehicles.’ He remembered, but did not mention, the unmarked cars.
‘It was a mixed operation,’ Patta answered smoothly.
Brunetti thought of the men in ski masks but said only, ‘I see.’
‘They wanted to get into the apartment before the men realized they were there. But they must have been on guard, or perhaps they heard them.’
‘Or saw them from the window?’ Brunetti suggested.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Patta said with the first signs of irritation. ‘But what I do know is that, when the men went in, the terrorists opened fire. There was no choice but to fire back, and in the confusion, both of them were killed. Luckily, only one of us was hit, and not badly.’
Brunetti resisted the impulse to give voice to an exclamation of prayerful thanksgiving.
‘When it was over, they searched the place and found weapons and documents. False passports, an arsenal.’ When Brunetti did not comment or question, Patta added, ‘One of the guns they used is the same calibre as the one that killed the man in Campo Santo Stefano. The first hypothesis is that there was some sort of falling out between them, and they decided to eliminate him,’ Patta concluded. The statements describing the killers as white were among those things disappeared from Signorina Elettra’s computer, and he had never bothered to get the addresses of the American witnesses. Patta pointed at a folder that lay on the desk between them and said, ‘My counterpart brought me copies of the police photos.’
‘Will they be in the papers?’ Brunetti asked.
‘Perhaps, in days to come,’ Patta answered, then added, ‘but perhaps some of them are too graphic to be given to the press.’ He opened the folder and turned the photos around, then pushed them across the desk to Brunetti.
Brunetti knew he would recognize them even before he saw them, so he gave no indication of surprise when the first photo revealed a close-up of two of the black men he had spoken to in the apartment in Castello. The gentle eyes of the older one were open in death, gentle no longer. Nor was he unprepared to see the profile of the very thin young man, who succeeded in looking just as angry in death as he had in life. It was the later photos, taken from farther away so as to give a full view of the room, that did succeed in surprising Brunetti. The older man lay on his back, a machine-gun across his chest, one hand gripped around the stock. The younger man lay on his left side, his right arm thrust out, fingers wrapped around the butt of a pistol.
‘I see,’ Brunetti said, sliding the photos back across the desk.
‘I hope the sight of these will be enough to convince you that they knew what they were doing, the men from the Ministry of the Interior.’
‘There’s no doubt of that,’ Brunetti said, getting to his feet.