‘I said “ridiculous”. That was the wrong word. Remarkable. But you will hurt him?’
Jago said, with child’s simplicity, ‘I will do what I can to make him feel pain. I don’t know how yet. Am I boring you?’
His eyes and mouth were close to hers. He reached up with his hand and used a finger to trace a line across her face: from under the lobe of a small ear, across a thin cheek to a point just below her lips. She did not flinch or push away his hand. He had traced where the scar was. His finger dropped. Her eyes had never left his. He supposed she needed a final instalment of explanation.
‘I work in a bank. I handle other people’s money, their pensions, life savings and inheritances. I’m supposed to be logical, careful and risk averse. Everything I’ve done in the last twenty-four hours contradicts all of that. That’s how it is. It’s what I want to do and will do. Time you were getting home. Goodnight.’
She stood, then reached back and took his hand. She yanked him to his feet. He picked up his bag and she led him towards the lights and the sea.
Giulietta had condemned him. Information had reached her. Marcantonio was at home but that did not change its import.
He crawled, alone, the length of the tunnel.
A paid informant at the Palace of Justice had stated that a particular prosecutor had won three more days of resources to target Bernardo. The official did not know what that meant – a phone tap, a surveillance team, aerial plotting of the village by the air force. He had told Giulietta also of tensions inside the Palace, arguments concerning priorities. She had told her father that he must be patient: she had condemned him, as he saw it, to a few more days and nights – the rest of the week – in the bunker. He was grateful for the diligence with which she protected him.
If they came for him, it would be in the small hours. The Squadra Mobile or the carabinieri usually swooped between four in the morning and six. They liked to take a man when he was half asleep. Stefano had led him back to the bunker’s outer entrance; the dogs had been sent to roam the boundaries of the property before the two men had slipped out of the rear door. Bernardo relied on the dogs for the quality of their noses and sensitivity to sound and movement.
He put on the light, which flooded the inside of the buried container. He hated being alone in the bunker in darkness because then he saw the child in the cave, looking at him. The dogs captured a mood. Many litters back, they had been with him when he had tramped up the hill to the cave with the basic supplies. They would never go inside, but that day they had howled. They had not done so on the day his father or mother had died, and had always been quiet when the carabinieri searched the villa. They had never made it before or since.
She had been dead in the cave and the dogs outside had known it. She had been dead and cold.
In the bunker, when the lights were out, he saw her face. It was strip illumination and he kept it on when he tried to sleep.
When he had satisfied himself that the child was dead, he had gone back and told his father. They had found a camera and returned to the cave, bringing Mamma with them, a bucket of hot water and cloths. He hoped, soon, he would be able to sleep in his bed, away from the sight of the child.
He anticipated a good day ahead for the family. Good news, good business, and celebrations for his wife’s birthday. He thought his gift to her was appropriate and would be appreciated.
The man sat in the passenger seat of his car. The block with the windows facing out onto the Villa Borghese and its gardens was behind him, and he could see the gate on the far side of the Via Pinciana, that the infame would use. He knew the route, but was there at night to cover all opportunities. The route he expected the bastard to take was from the block’s gates, between the Harley Davidson showroom and the windows behind which he could see Ferraris and Maseratis. Then he would cross the road and the dogs would drag him towards the grass. Some mornings, the traitor took the dogs into the gardens first, then went to buy milk and pastries near to the Porta Pia. The presence of the British embassy, always guarded, meant there were too many troops and police near to the gates for the man to approach his quarry. The gardens offered a better opportunity. He had killed pentiti of the Cosa Nostra groups in Sicily, and from the Camorra in Naples. He had never knifed, strangled or shot one of the ’Ndrangheta: there were so few.
If he had used a phone he would have left a trace, so he sat and made quiet small-talk with his driver, mostly about football, but a little about children and women – not their wives but whores. There was soft music on the radio, which soothed him. The pistol was under his thigh, uncomfortable but convenient. They had water to drink, needed nothing else, and waited. Both men were calm. They watched for him, and thought of home and the mountains, of a celebration for a respected family.