A Season for the Dead (13 page)

“Without some honesty . . .” Falcone shrugged. “I fear this will go on. I can’t see any reason why the killer should stop here. We need names. All of them.” He looked intently into her eyes. “We need to know everything about your life.”

“Go to hell,” she whispered sharply.

Falcone smiled. Costa recognized the moment. Falcone enjoyed breaking people. He believed this was the point of victory. “Ms. Farnese. I can insist on your cooperation. I can take steps if it is not forthcoming. I can call you into protective custody—”

“Sir,” Costa interrupted, gaining the full blast of Falcone’s furious gaze. “This is happening too quickly. If we give Ms. Farnese time. If I get one of the women detectives to help us back at the station.”

“If . . .” Falcone said sourly.

Costa took him to one side so she couldn’t hear. “Please. If you push her she’ll say nothing. Let me talk to her somewhere else. Somewhere she can think it through.”

Falcone’s hard features froze for a moment. Then he nodded at Costa. “Maybe she needs one person she can trust. Maybe . . . There’s a lot of reporters out there now. Take her out on your own. Go have a coffee somewhere and think about this. Bring her in by the back door in an hour.”

“Okay.” Costa was puzzled. There was something else and Falcone was uncharacteristically reluctant to say it.

“Sir?”

“You’re right,” the inspector said, smiling. “I’ve an idea. Act a little, kid. Those reporters think they’ve got some scarlet woman in their sights here. Let’s play them along. When you go outside stay close to her. Make it look like . . . there’s perhaps something between you.”

“You’re asking me to . . .” Costa began to say, furious.

“I’m telling you to send out a message. I want this lunatic to see you and think he knows who’s chasing her tail now. We could spend months following him around like this. It would make it a lot easier if he comes to us. Comes to
you,
to be precise.”

“Sir . . .”

“Don’t worry, kid.” Falcone was beaming. “We’ll be waiting. You do have faith in your own police force now, don’t you?”

Costa walked off without answering. He beckoned her to follow to the door.

Outside, the media had arrived in force. A mob five yards deep thronged the gateway into the courtyard, held back by uniformed men trying to keep the line intact. The moment they saw her the questions came: screamed out of the heaving mass, unintelligible in the babble of frantic voices. Costa threw an arm around her and they braved the mob, moving through the cameras and the thrusting microphones, pushing forward.

She kept her eyes down. He held his arm tight around her shoulders and stared, unbending at the cameras, finding time to smile once or twice, time too to look at her, fondly, with an affection he didn’t find hard to feign.

He remembered her story. About the female pope being torn to pieces not far from here, and how it was all untrue, and maybe that wasn’t the point anyway. Costa stomped his way through the pack with all the finesse he once used in a bad-tempered rugby match, holding her safe, feeling her slender, fragile body and, after a while, an arm clinging to his waist.

Then they reached the car, he made space with a few deftly aimed jabs of his elbow, and they were free.

He looked at her, pale and frightened in the passenger seat, and thought of the faces he had made into that sea of cameras, the way he had acquiesced so easily, so willingly, to Falcone’s idea.

She turned to him, puzzled, hurt. “What’s happening, Nic? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But don’t worry. I’ll fix this. Somehow.”

She stared out of the window, out into the hot, airless day. Nic Costa watched and felt he was swimming in a sea of lies.

21

Gino Fosse lived in a three-story tower which belonged, he felt, in the pages of a Gothic fairy tale. The structure was built of honey-colored bricks and situated on the Caelian Hill midway along the imperial thoroughfare of the Clivus Scauri. Oppo-site stood the sprawling hulk of the basilica of Santi Giovanni e Paolo, to which Fosse was now loosely attached as one of the parish priests, although almost all his professional time was spent at the hospital of San Giovanni, a ten-minute walk away. It was not the same as working in the Vatican but the Church knew best.

Fosse felt obliged to know some history of his surroundings. The tower which had been his home this past month was embedded in the Aurelian Wall, built in the third century
A.D.
and still, for the most part, an intact circle around the center of the city. A pleasant run, one he sometimes made in a tracksuit which disguised his calling, was to follow the wall’s line unimpeded straight to the great gate of San Sebastian and on to the Appian Way.

Initially the structure had been a small Roman sentry point along the brick expanse of the defenses. In the Middle Ages it had been enlarged to provide accommodation for the expanding ecclesiastical entourage of the large and powerful basilica across the square. Giovanni e Paolo, though little known to the average tourist, was, for Fosse, one of the most interesting churches in Rome. The visible shell was unremarkable, save for the Romanesque campanile which cast an afternoon shadow across his second-floor window. Beneath the church lay centuries of rich history, however, and a story which had bemused him from the moment he first encountered it.

The tale of the martyrs John and Paul was, for centuries, thought to be apocryphal by those who dared say as much. It concerned two Christian officers at the court of Constantine who, after the accession of Julian the Apostate in 360
A.D.,
refused to sacrifice to pagan gods. The two were, as a consequence, beheaded, along with a woman who came to comfort them, in their own house on the Caelian Hill which later became the site of the basilica.

Myth begat myth, church begat church. Centuries of building and rebuilding ensued, resulting in the formidable pile which now dominated the view from Fosse’s tower. Yet, when the archaeologists—doubtless atheists to a man—came to explore the foundations of the present church they found, deep beneath it, the well-preserved remains of an ancient Roman house. And three Christian graves, with clear signs that they were the scene of much reverence from as early as the end of the fourth century
A.D.

Sometimes Fosse would take privileged visitors into the subterranean houses and show them the paintings on the wall. It was always a humbling experience, an unspoken sermon on the mystery that underpinned all human life, and the relentless unreliability of what the clever people in universities like to call “facts.”

The former guard post had, since the fifteenth century, been given over to the more humble employees of the parish. The modest living quarters afforded Fosse a sitting room, a bedroom and a tiny bathroom, all built into the second floor of the circular tower, with the ground floor used for storage. At the top was the small, octagonal room which Fosse regarded as his private place.

The composer di Cambio, who wrote a choral work described by the “bad pope” Alexander VI as “the sound that angels now make in Heaven,” had lived and died in these quarters in the late fifteenth century. This obscure historical connection—which Fosse found baffling on the occasion he listened to the boring drone of the work when it was performed, on the anniversary of di Cambio’s death, in Santi Giovanni e Paolo—meant the tower was on the list of ancient monuments for which permission to view could be gained by applying to the relevant office in the Vatican. Accordingly, every few weeks since his arrival he had been forced to allow some curious gaggle of sightseers, usually American, into his home, where they would bill and coo at the “cuteness” of the place. They would then stare out of the four slitted medieval windows that gave onto the Clivus Scauri and begin, surreptitiously, to peek at their watches.

None had the wit to ask what was in the tiny space at the summit. Nor would they have gained admittance in any case; Fosse had established that this tower room had no public right of view. This was part of the price of what he saw as his exile. The resulting privacy made it perfect for the purpose required when his new and urgent calling had become apparent.

It was now seven on a blazing Sunday morning. His collection of more than three hundred jazz CDs was scattered on the floor in the small, octagonal tower. It was difficult sometimes to know what to play. Soon he would go to the hospital, to talk to the sick and the dying, to sit in on operations, gowned and gloved, and offer his support to the surgeons and nurses. Soon too he would be forced to think of other matters, of the names he had gathered, and how these lives might be taken.

While Gino Fosse sat, listening to John Coltrane racing through “Giant Steps,” he felt a sense of wonder. On the walls were the photographs, the constant, nagging reminder of his duty. Here too were the tools of his new trade: the ropes; the drugs he had carefully smuggled out of the hospital for when his own considerable strength was insufficient; the nine-millimeter M9 Beretta automatic pistol he had stolen on a visit to the army hospital next to San Giovanni—he enjoyed the idea it should have virtually the same name as the cardinal’s three-pointed hat; and the knives—large and small, slender and broad, all sharpened so delicately that he was able to believe there existed but a single atom at the edge of the blade, one that would slice through anything it encountered.

The hospital had need of him for the rest of the morning. But from lunchtime onward he was free, and there was much to do.

22

Publicity mattered. Alicia Vaccarini learned that two months after she’d won the parliamentary deputy’s seat for the Northern Alliance in Bologna. It took that long for one of the local rags to uncover the truth about Alicia’s private life: that the former university professor was a lesbian with a string of lovers, some of whom were only too willing to talk in return for a little money. The Northern Alliance had a firm position about “aberrant behavior.” It did not approve. In a few brief, heady weeks Alicia Vaccarini had gone from being fêted victor in a marginal seat to an outcast inside her own party.

When the central committee organizer had marched into her office to say she would not be chosen for reelection at the end of her term three years hence, she’d complained, bitterly, “Why didn’t you ask?”

The cold, hard man had stared and said, simply, “Why didn’t you
tell
?”

She now had only a year left, a year before unemployment, obscurity, poverty perhaps, at the age of forty-eight. Yet Alicia Vaccarini was a clever woman, a lecturer in economics, a worker of the system. She knew how to get grants out of Brussels. She knew how to sit on committees and wait until the right moment to intervene. She had worked hard to ensure her future, accepting seats on a variety of bodies, judicial, municipal and even one which had overseen some preliminary discussions about the merging of the carabinieri with the state police. There had been opportunities, compromises, particularly when she found her decisions had some sway with people of influence, interested parties seeking a certain resolution. From time to time, there had been arrangements which, under a strict reading of the law, were illegal. But these, she reasoned, were the price of political practicality. Whatever the Northern Alliance felt about her now, she had been elected with a duty, to serve those who voted for her in Bologna, and to further her own career. These were not necessarily contradictory. Vaccarini had been careful. None of the current corruption investigations came close to her nor was it likely they would. When she had intervened she had been careful to ensure that the reward was never obvious: a favor here, a simple, valuable gift or service, or a payment abroad. She had cultivated new and unexpected friends, people who would never have come close to her had she stayed inside the cold, rigid embrace of the Alliance. And there was the irony: Some of them were from quarters she would never have done business with before. On the right. On the left. In the higher echelons of the police and the security services. Even in the Vatican. The world was full of people needing a little help, and willing to offer something in return. It was merely pragmatic to accept these visible flaws in the façade of society and, when appropriate, to use them to one’s own ends.

Still, unemployment beckoned. She had hoped for a position in Brussels: perhaps even the job of minor commissioner. Nothing had happened and the PR people she employed on a tiny retainer thought they knew why. It was her profile that was wrong. Alicia remained, in the public eye, that lesbian from Bologna who had lied to get herself elected. True, she was bright, she knew how to navigate the system. She was, in many ways, a hardworking, dedicated Italian politician. Nevertheless the stain of her sexuality, and the way she had hidden her true self for personal gain, continued to taint perceptions. Without some more favorable press, her hopes of a continued political career were unrealistic.

This was the reason, the only reason, why Alicia Vaccarini now sat at a table in a deserted Martelli’s, the restaurant in the narrow alley around the corner from the parliament building which, during the week, was the workers’ dining hall for deputies, journalists and political hangers-on.

“I didn’t even know this place opened on Sundays,” she said, lighting a cigarette.

The journalist said he was from
Time
magazine. Now that she was here, Vaccarini realized she should have checked. There were some jokers out there. People with hidden tape recorders who tried to embarrass you into making stupid comments, then selling them to the TV and radio stations. This had been an oversight on her part but an understandable one. The pranksters had low horizons; they always claimed to come from minor, regional papers, not the bigger ones in Rome and Milan where their false identities would be immediately transparent. To say one was from
Time
was different; it was too bold a claim, surely, to be anything other than genuine. And now that she was here Alicia Vaccarini could believe it too. The journalist was about thirty, well dressed in a casual, Sunday fashion, with a pale rose shirt and blue trousers. He had an anonymous face, handsome in a vapid if somewhat exaggerated way, with dark, intelligent eyes and a quick, slightly nervous smile. Only one thing stood out: He seemed too big for his clothes. His muscles bulged against his shirtsleeves; he held himself in an awkward, stiff fashion. He looked like someone who endured workouts in spite of himself, endowing a body that was meant to be more slight with a physicality that didn’t quite fit. And there was a smell too. Like some kind of liniment or a chemical that belonged in a hospital.

“It doesn’t open normally,” he replied in a measured, educated voice. “You’re witnessing the power of the American media, Deputy.”

She laughed and looked around. There was only one other couple dining on the far side of the room. “I could almost believe that.”

“I thought you’d prefer privacy,” he said.

“Why?” she asked, her heart sinking. “I told you on the phone. If you’re looking for some kind of dyke confession piece, if you think I’m going to pour my pink heart out in public, you’ve got the wrong person. That part of my story has been done to death and I’m happy to leave it in the grave.”

He raised a glass of red wine. “Me too.”

She joined him in the drink. It tasted good. Alicia Vaccarini realized she felt like some wine. There was nothing else to do that afternoon. It was too hot to think straight. The parliament was closed. The private work which had kept her in the city was finished. She could afford to be lazy.

“What I want is to talk about you. The real you. What you believe. What you want to achieve. Where you see your life going after your term as deputy is over.”

“And this is going to make a story for
Time
?” she wondered.

He frowned and poured some more wine from the carafe. The waiter came and placed two plates of pasta on the table. “You’ve got me there, Alicia. I’m a fraud. But only up to a point. Every story needs a tag. They want to do some piece about how being gay is no longer a bar to public office in Europe. I need some examples that show the real story. I need to ask the question: What would have happened to you if you’d been heterosexual? If you’d been married, with children, and put in the same kind of work you’re doing now?”

“I see.”

He pulled out a small tape recorder and set it on the table. Then he leaned over and placed his hand on hers. It was, she thought, a very powerful hand.

“Alicia. People like us have to stick together.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re telling me you’re gay?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know the moment you set eyes on me?”

“No. I mean yes.” She didn’t know what she meant at that moment. He seemed a disconcerting person. When she thought about it she was able to think of him as gay. But it required effort and she couldn’t help wondering whether this was not some trick on his part; whether he was, in truth, some kind of chameleon who could change his shape, alter his appearance at will.

He pressed the button on the tape recorder. She watched the little wheels whirl.

“Tell me about yourself. Only the things you want to talk about. Tell me how you became who you are. What you believe in. About your religion.”

“My religion?”

“Everybody believes in something, Alicia. We just have different names for it. You came from a Catholic family. I read that in the files. You must have believed once.”

She nodded. The wine helped her remember. There had been a time when she was convinced by all those old stories, when they gave her some comfort in the lonely, dark nights of childhood.

“Of course. And then you get older.”

“Wiser?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And then you get older still, and sometimes it comes back.” He paused. “Do you think that might happen to you?”

“Who knows?” she said lazily, feeling the wine go to her head, liking this strange young man, who was not really gay, she decided, simply very good at lulling an interviewee into believing whatever was appropriate for an easy conversation.

“Doubt is a virtue,” he said firmly as the meat course arrived: grilled lamb with artichokes. “It’s better to believe than to know.”

Alicia Vaccarini laughed. “Quite. Are you really a journalist?”

“What else could I be?”

“A priest, I think. I could imagine you in black. Taking confession. Listening.”

He stopped eating and considered this. “Perhaps I could be a priest. But not today. And I don’t want to hear confessions, Alicia. Confessions are tiresome, whining things, surely.” He looked at her frankly. “Confessions won’t rebuild your career. Only the truth may do that.”

“Only the truth will set you free!” she said gaily, deciding she would get a little drunk, because it was that kind of day.

“Precisely,” he said, suddenly quite serious. “Now talk, please. Of yourself. Of what you wish to become.”

The carafe was refilled. After the meat there was zabaglione and grappa, although she felt she drank more than he did. Alicia Vaccarini began to talk, more freely than she had recently with anyone, in the media or outside it, not caring what the little tape recorder heard. This odd young man, with his considerate, priestly manner, was excellent company, a sounding board who listened closely to everything she said, criticizing when he thought it appropriate, praising when he felt praise was due.

The afternoon disappeared in a whirl of one-sided conversation. When he paid the bill it was approaching four o’clock. She felt wonderful, elated, released of some unconscious burden that had been haunting her for years.

They walked outside. The heat of the day was beginning to fade. This part of the city was empty. The day was so hot it shimmered in front of her eyes. She was reluctant to return to the cramped, stuffy apartment in the Via Cavour that was her solitary home.

Her companion pointed down the narrow alley adjoining the restaurant.

“Alicia,” he said. “It’s such a lovely afternoon. I have my car here. Let’s walk by the river for a while. Drink some coffee. Eat some ice cream. You’re such excellent company. Would you like that? Please?”

She nodded, liking him all the more, and followed as he entered the shade of the alley, disappearing into the shadows. The alley grew dark and unexpectedly cold. There was the smell of damp in the air. Finally she saw him, standing by his vehicle. It was not a car but a small van, with windows in the back, the kind used by tradesmen. He was no longer smiling.

She walked up to him, wondering what accounted for the change in his face, which was now very serious, now looking at her in a way—was this distaste?—she did not recognize.

This stranger put his hand into his pocket and pulled something out: a plastic bag containing a piece of white material. There was that smell again, the one which seemed to belong in a hospital.

She wanted to run but she was too drunk. She wanted to shout but there was nothing to say, no one to hear it.

The white cloth came up to her face and the hospital smell filled her head. Alicia Vaccarini wondered stupidly why all the oxygen had just disappeared from the world, then felt the blackness creep into her head, steadily, with a rushing, roaring sound, in from the corners of her vision, devouring her consciousness.

When she awoke, after an unfathomable period of time, she was in a small, brightly lit circular room, tied to a chair, surrounded by images: photographs and paintings, some so strange she refused to look at them, not daring to let their content enter her head. Music was playing from behind her: hard bop, fast and edgy. Someone was humming to the long complex solo, note for note.

A cloth gag was tied tightly around her mouth. Her hands were bound behind her back. Her ankles were secured firmly to the legs of her chair.

She tried to speak. The words came out as a pathetic grunt. The figure emerged from behind her. In his right hand was a long butcher’s knife. In his left a sharpening rod, which he stroked quickly and professionally with the blade.

“You’re awake,” he said, nodding to drive home his point. “Good. We have much to discuss, and much to achieve.”