Medusa - 9 (12 page)

‘My informant at the hospital in Bolzano told me that the
carabinieri
raided the premises in force last week and took away the corpse, all personal effects, as well as the photographs and tape-recording of the preliminary post-mortem.’

Brugnoli stopped at the edge of the gardens, staring up at a vast bureaucratic
palazzo
constructed strictly according to Mussolini’s preferred architectural techniques, avoiding the use of imported steel. A man was looking down at them from a third-floor window, or perhaps just admiring the view of the gardens in the late autumn sunshine.

‘Also, according to my source, the victim’s clothing was civilian and had had all the identifying marks removed,’ Zen remarked.

Brugnoli puffed sardonically.

‘The Defence people will say that that was perfectly normal. These men belonged to a unit trained to work undercover or behind enemy lines. They don’t wear traditional uniforms.’

‘Not even shoes?’

‘Shoes?’

‘The corpse was barefoot.’

Brugnoli thought about this for a moment, then gave a dismissive shrug.

‘They’ll say that he was wearing army issue boots which had to be removed to prevent a positive identification. They’ve got every angle covered, Zen.’

He turned away and started to stroll down one of the side paths.

‘When did this supposed incident happen?’ asked Zen.

‘They declined to be specific on that point. “For reasons of operational security”.’

Zen stopped and fussed over lighting a cigarette to cover his growing feelings of alarm. Both literally and figuratively, Brugnoli was leading him down the garden path, and into what was potentially very dangerous territory indeed.

‘You’re probably wondering why they left the corpse in situ,’ his superior went on. ‘Well, they claim that the fatal accident involved a test with some sort of nerve gas, one of those chemical warfare things. Since they could not be sure about the potential risk involved, they decided to seal the site by exploding a charge to block the tunnel. The family was told that their son had been killed in an unfortunate accident which had disfigured him so badly that it was necessary to hold a closed coffin funeral to avoid distressing the mourners.’

‘But the tunnel was not blocked. The body was discovered by those Austrian youngsters and then extracted by the
carabinieri
. I crawled in there myself.’

‘They suggested that there must have been some subsidence since the event.’

‘That’s impossible. The rock in those mountains is like iron.’

Brugnoli turned to Zen with a level gaze.

‘You don’t think for a moment that we believe any of this, I hope?’

‘What does it matter whether we believe it or not?’ Zen demanded. ‘We can’t disprove it, because they haven’t given us anything to disprove. The identity of the victim is being withheld, along with the date and nature of the alleged incident, access to witnesses and physical evidence, as well as all records of the post-mortem examination. Frankly, they might just as well have said that the case had to be hushed up because the victim was an alien invader from outer space and the public would panic if word got out. And if all this is being relayed to us “at the very highest level”, then it is only at such a level that any progress can be made. I therefore fail to see what steps I can effectively be ordered to take in the matter.’

This last phrase was spoken in the coldest and most bureaucratic tone Zen was capable of, and it made its effect. Brugnoli took his arm with a defusing laugh and walked him towards the only exit and entrance to the gardens perched high above the street.

‘
Caro dottore
! There’s no question of ordering you to do anything at all. This is not the old days! Remember my motto, “Personal choice, personal empowerment, personal responsibility”. If you don’t feel fully committed to a course of action, you’re not going to perform well and achieve the desired results.’

‘And just what are the desired results?’

Brugnoli gestured broadly.

‘You have rightly objected to being unnecessarily burdened with confidences, so I shall not go into details or name any names, but the fact is that in the current political situation, with a cabinet reshuffle widely rumoured to be imminent, there is a distinct tension between certain high-level players in the Defence Ministry and those on our own team. Potentially there’s a very great deal at stake, believe me.’

Both men stopped dead as a haggard figure erupted from the shrubbery on their right, demanding money. One of his arms had been amputated at the elbow, and his skin was the colour of the tree trunks all around. He was dressed only in shorts and an undershirt, and kept talking incessantly and incomprehensibly in a series of loud, stabbing phrases.

Brugnoli ignored the beggar and walked on. Zen dug into his pocket and poured some loose change into the man’s remaining hand.

‘You shouldn’t do that,’ Brugnoli remarked when Zen caught up with him. ‘It only encourages them.’

‘It’s my insurance policy.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

But Zen chose not to answer this question.

‘What has the current political situation to do with this specific affair?’ he asked instead.

Brugnoli sighed heavily.

‘
Dottore
, you surely must have experienced cases where you could not immediately achieve your primary objective, for lack of evidence or cooperative witnesses or whatever, but where you were able to make progress by pursuing a secondary objective where these conditions did not obtain and then using that as a lever to crack open the original problem. Well, it’s the same here. It would be counter-productive, and for that matter probably futile, for us to tackle
la Difesa
openly about this matter, which is in any case peripheral to our real interests. But assuming that they are indeed lying through their teeth, then a skilled operative such as yourself might be able to turn up some potentially interesting material which might provide us with the advantage we need to address the larger issues concerned.’

Zen nodded slowly, as though all these long words and abstract concepts had confused him. In reality he was assessing the respective risks involved in accepting or refusing Brugnoli’s proposition.

‘So what you want …’ he began ponderously.

‘What I want is a huge scandal that will be front-page news for days if not weeks, better yet the head of some eminent name on a plate, and ideally a confession implicating the entire Defence Ministry from the
onorevole
himself down to the night cleaning staff. However, I’ll settle for almost anything – just some grit to throw in the machinery and generally foul things up.’

Zen was silent for a long time.

‘The Austrian caver gave me some digital photographs his friend had taken of the corpse,’ he said eventually. ‘They’re not very clear, but he suggested that it might be possible to do something called “an enhancement”.’

Brugnoli nodded vigorously. ‘No problem! One of my first initiatives was to upgrade all such equipment and facilities. Just go to Technical Services on the second …’

He broke off.

‘What do these photographs show?’

‘As I said, the prints aren’t very clear, but potentially a marking of some sort on the dead man’s arm, possibly a tattoo. It might be of assistance in making a positive identification of the victim.’

Brugnoli pursed his lips judiciously.

‘Then you’d better get it done privately.’

‘You don’t trust our own technicians?’

‘I trust them to do good work. I don’t trust them not to leave copies of it lying around in some computer file where the opposition might find it. And if it means anything at all to us, it’ll mean a lot more to them.’

It took Zen a moment to grasp the point.

‘The Ministry of Defence has a spy within the Viminale?’ he asked.

‘I’d be amazed if they didn’t. Almost certainly several, in fact. Not to mention the secret services. Disgruntled operatives who feel they’ve been wrongfully passed over for promotion, time-servers with a year or two to go until retirement who want to feather their nests while there’s still a chance, that sort of thing. Hence the deliberately indirect manner in which this meeting was set up. You’re already known to the
carabinieri
in Bolzano, and they will almost certainly have reported your visit there to their masters at the Defence Ministry. If I had simply told you to come to my office this morning, that fact might well have been reported and the obvious conclusion drawn.’

‘Perhaps you should use someone else then,’ Zen suggested rapidly. ‘Someone untainted by previous associations with the case.’

Brugnoli’s expression revealed that he had not been deceived by this attempt to wriggle out of the assignment.

‘No, no! You’re the man for the job, Zen. After all, the fact that you’ve already begun enquiries makes it all the more natural that you should then follow them up. What must be protected at all costs is any connection between your level and mine. If a lone officer doggedly pursues further evidence in this case, that’s one thing. But if our enemies begin to suspect what we’re really up to, they will immediately take steps to neutralize the threat.’

And possibly the ‘lone officer’ concerned, thought Zen.

‘The rules of engagement are that you are to report solely to me, and in person,’ Brugnoli continued. ‘Not by phone, either land-line or mobile, nor by email, fax, letter, postcard, carrier pigeon or any other form of overt communication, unless of course I initiate the contact. Our
modus operandi
must allow for total deniability by all concerned while the operation is in progress. If you need to contact me, write an unsigned note stating a place and time, seal it in a plain envelope and leave it with the cashier at the bar you went to today.’

Zen nodded wonderingly.

‘She’s that trustworthy?’ he asked.

Brugnoli took a luxurious amount of time to answer.

‘She used to be my mistress,’ he said complacently.

He glanced at his watch decisively, as though to cover this indiscretion.

‘Right, well, I must be going. Please remain here for at least ten minutes after I leave. I’m almost certain that we have been unobserved so far, but one can never be too careful.’

‘Oh, just one small thing …’

Zen was searching in his coat pocket for his notebook and a pen.

‘While I was in Bolzano, I ran into a patrolman named Bruno Nanni.’

He wrote the name down, tore out the sheet and handed it to Brugnoli.

‘He’s doing his hardship time up there, and it seems to have been very hard on him indeed. Basically he’s an excellent young officer, very willing and capable, but he’s totally out of his depth in the Alto Adige and, I have to say, given to occasional outbursts which in my opinion might reflect negatively on the force’s reputation in that sensitive area. I hate to bother a man like you about a trivial matter of this sort, but I was just wondering if …’

‘Where does he want to go?’ asked Brugnoli.

‘Bologna.’

The other man nodded.

‘I’ll send a memo down to Personnel this afternoon.’

‘I think it might be best.’

To Zen’s surprise, Brugnoli walked over to him and tugged the sleeve of his coat.

‘Eh,
dottore!
’ he said with a light laugh. ‘Don’t take all the supposed changes around here too literally. Yes, many things have changed, but the important ones remain the same. That applies to your relationship with me and the people to whom I was alluding earlier. You look after us, and we’ll look after you. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

Zen gave a series of rapid nods.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, I understand completely.’

VIII

During the period of quarantine that Brugnoli had imposed, Zen phoned the caller whose number had appeared on the screen of his mobile earlier, apologized for being unable to respond at that time – ‘I was in a meeting’ – and arranged a rendezvous. He then took himself off to a cheap and cheerful bar on Via Nazionale where he ordered a glass of spumante, for no particular reason, and read a series of long, intelligent and densely analytical articles in
La Gazzetta dello Sport
on the burning issue of the moment, namely whether the coach of the national football team should be replaced after the recent series of humiliating results against opponents whose countries in some cases hadn’t even existed ten years earlier, and if so by whom.

At one o’clock promptly, he was standing on the pavement of the steep street a bit further down the hill, opposite Palazzo Colonna. He had to wait about twenty minutes before a car drew up at the kerb. It was a dark blue Fiat
macchina di rappresentanza
of the type associated with high-level government officials. The driver stepped out and opened the back door for Zen to enter. He was a young man, short and swarthy even for a southerner, with intensely black eyes and hair, wearing a superannuated suit slightly too tight for his bulky physique, a white shirt and blue tie and an incongruous peaked cap. He looked like a part-time assistant to a cut-price provincial undertaker.

Gilberto acknowledged Zen with a deliberately casual nod, and then added an incomprehensible aside to the driver before closing the glass partition to the front compartment.

‘What was that?’ asked Zen as the Fiat squealed away.

‘Just giving Ahmed directions.’

Zen thought about this for a second, then decided to ignore it.

‘Glad you’re free for lunch,’ he said brightly. ‘Where are we going?’

Gilberto pushed a button on the console in the central armrest. There was a whirr of machinery as opaque blinds descended over all the windows and the glass partition, cutting them off totally from the outside world.

‘What on earth?’ exclaimed Zen.

Gilberto laughed and pressed another button, lighting up the sealed interior.

‘Hope you don’t mind, Aurelio, but the answer to your question about lunch is a bit of a secret, actually. You’ll understand once we get there.’