The Abomination (7 page)

Which wouldn't be hard, she reflected, since Nathans hadn't even bothered to transfer it to someone else before she left. She suspected that the file of correspondence Barbara Holton had referred to was long since consigned to the trash.

“Well, we'll see. Under the Act, you have fifteen days to respond.”

“Unless we need extensions or clarifications,” Holly said mildly.

The other woman raised her eyebrows. “So you
are
familiar with the legislation?”

“I majored in government and military science. I'm also familiar with Executive Order 13526, which allows the government to retrospectively classify, redact or otherwise restrict any information that it decides should properly have been classified at the time.”

Barbara Holton regarded her silently for a moment. It was the first time Holly had challenged her. To her surprise, the other woman seemed almost pleased.

“The government won't classify this,” she said.

“May I ask why not?”

“Because the government doesn't know it exists. Let alone what it means.”

More conspiracies
. Holly said evenly, “Well, if it does exist, and there is no clear reason to redact it, then I will find it and pass it on to you.”

“Yes,” Barbara Holton said. “I do believe you will.” She stood up, leaving the yellow folder on the table. “Fifteen days,” she said, nodding at it. “Though I'd appreciate it if it could be quicker. Strange as it may seem, getting these old files is extremely urgent. If you need me, my cell number's on my card.” She held out her hand, her eyes holding Holly's, assessing her coolly. “A pleasure to meet you, Second Lieutenant.”

“Mike,” Holly said when her team leader returned from his briefing. “What's the SOP with Freedom of Information enquiries?”

Breedon shrugged. “You wait fourteen days, you send a polite note saying the information isn't available. Or you ask the applicant to provide the document file number, if you want them to get really pissed at you. What's it about?”

“Something to do with a Croatian general called Dragan Korovik.”

“Operation Storm?”

“That's right. You remember it?”

“Negative – that was well before my time. But I read about it. To be honest, that's one of the few wars no one even gives a fuck about any more. The Croatians were clearly the good guys – the Serbs were carrying out ethnic cleansing, bombing Sarajevo, trying to annexe Bosnia, all that shit, despite a UN arms embargo. In the end Bosnia and Croatia both survived and three democracies were born. In geopolitical terms, it's a rare instance of a happy ending.”

“She mentioned atrocities.”

“Yeah, well. You know how it goes: you say atrocity, I say an unfortunate instance of collateral damage.”

While he was speaking she'd been logging onto Intellipedia, the intelligence community's equivalent of Wikipedia. As one of the million or so intelligence professionals around the world cleared to use the global Intelink network, she could access confidential information on hundreds of thousands of subjects in seconds. “Women Under War appears to be a creditable organisation,” she said thoughtfully, scrolling through the pages. “It says here they've been involved in making representations to the ICTY.”

“Which is. . .?”

“The International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia. It's part of the UN International Court at The Hague.” She typed another search. “
That's
interesting.”

“What is?”

“General Dragan Korovik is being held at the ICTY right now, pending trial for war crimes committed back in 1995. He was handed over by the Croatian authorities just last year. A few weeks ago his lawyer said he'd be testifying that everything he did was sanctioned by the US government.”

“Which of course it wasn't,” Mike Breedon said reflectively. “Or we'd have been in breach of that UN resolution.”

She scanned the rest of the Intellipedia article. Dragan Korovik had risen from obscurity at the beginning of the war to take command of the fledgling Croat army. Initially on the back foot against the larger Serb forces, he'd then carried out what Intellipedia called a series of brilliantly executed counterstrikes, wresting a large chunk of western Bosnia from Serb control, most notably the heavily-contested region of Krajina. Civilian deaths had been high, however, and after the war Korovik was forced into hiding – although it was rumoured, Intellipedia said, that he'd actually been living quite openly under the protection of the new government. Only when his capture was made a condition of Croatia joining the European Union, a decade later, was he finally “discovered” and arrested.

“Sounds like a field ration of canned worms to me,” Mike said, reading over her shoulder. “What do you want to do?”

“I guess I'd better take a look in those archives.”

“Really?” His tone said he wouldn't have bothered.

“That's the law, right?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She looked up at him. “Aw, this Open Government shit gets my goat.” He grimaced. “Every time someone wants to accuse us of something, we end up looking for the evidence for them. Almost like we're being forced to work for the other side. What's the point?”

“Sure,” she said. “What's the point? But I'll follow up anyway. Just to keep her off our backs.”

“Thanks. Appreciate it, Holly.”

Despite what she had just said, it was not purely to keep Barbara Holton off their backs that Holly intended to provide her with such information as she could.
You will embody at all times the integrity and professionalism of the US Military
, Major Forster had said earlier. The law maintained that Barbara Holton was entitled to have her enquiry answered. And that meant Second Lieutenant Holly Boland would do her very best to provide it.

THE CARABINIERI BOAT
bounced at high speed over the waves. Kat, once again freezing, was glad now of the icy spray that slapped her face with every jolting impact. Lunch had encompassed an
antipasto
of baby octopus grilled directly over a gas flame and served with red flakes of chilli and plenty of good olive oil, followed by
spaghetti ai ricci di mare
, pasta tossed in a sweet, fragrant sauce of sea urchin sacs flavoured with fennel, vermouth and saffron, and finally a
tiramisu
, a rich coffee sponge soused with Marsala. During the meal the two of them had shared a bottle of light, smoky Friuli from the mountains. She wasn't used to drinking at lunchtime – well, no more than an
ombra
or two with friends – and she was hoping she'd be fully sober by the time they reached Poveglia.

Neither the wine nor the waves seemed to affect Piola. He was, she had decided, one of the calmest people she had ever met. Purposeful, yet laid back. And – remarkably for a senior officer, in her experience – he seemed genuinely interested in her opinions.

“So why does a woman dress up as a priest?” he'd asked at the restaurant, after the owner had taken their order.

She'd been thinking about this, so she answered immediately. “Not as fancy dress. I already checked – none of the carnival shops in Venice supply such a thing. Besides, our victim is quite small. These priests' robes were real, and they fitted. I think she must have bought them online.”

Piola raised an eyebrow. “You can do that?”

She nodded. “I found a couple of sites in the US that ship worldwide. Actually, I think her cassock is a Semi-Jesuit with Cincture, manufactured by an American company called R. J. Toomey.” She pulled out a piece of paper. “I printed off the page from their catalogue.”

Clearly impressed by her initiative, he took the page and examined it. “OK. Let's say you're right. Our victim is determined enough to get robes sent over from the US. Or maybe she's American, and brought them with her. I return to my original question: why?”

“The other thing I found online. . .” Kat spoke hesitantly, knowing that she was about to commit the cardinal sin of theorising ahead of the evidence. But Piola nodded for her to continue.

“Yes, Capitano?”

“There are organisations that campaign for women's ordination. You know, for women to be allowed to become priests.”

Piola gave her a sideways glance. “A ‘grave delict', as Father Cilosi reminded us. Of course, not everyone would agree.”

He was fishing, she knew; trying to discover whether he was working with a strident feminist. Just as she couldn't help wondering if, despite all indications to the contrary, she was working for yet another macho misogynist. It had happened too many times for her not to tread carefully.

“The Pope's ruling does seem a bit . . . extreme,” she said.

He smiled. “When I see the naivety of some of the things the Church does . . . They really have no idea what ordinary people think, do they?”

“Quite,” she said, relieved. “Anyway, it just seemed to me that Father Cilosi dismissed the possibility that the victim had anything to do with the Church very quickly. Maybe we should find someone who takes a different theological view before we accept that he's right.”

“It's a good point,” he said thoughtfully. “Check it out, will you? And well done, Capitano. That's just the kind of analytical thinking I don't always encounter in those of your rank and experience.”

She hoped he thought her flush of pleasure was just because her cheeks were being warmed by the wine.

“Did you notice that he lied?” he added.

“Cilosi?” she said, surprised.

He nodded. “When we showed him those tattoos. He was . . . discomfited, somehow. And then he gave an equivocal answer about how he could pass us on to someone who was an expert in the occult. It was almost as if he was trying to insinuate that the tattoos had some kind of dark significance, without actually saying so.”

“Why would he do that, though, if it wasn't true?”

Piola shrugged. “I don't know. Perhaps he just loves his Church so much that he doesn't like the thought of this woman being associated with it. Or perhaps it's something else completely, something that isn't even relevant. It's one of the things you learn about a murder investigation, Capitano. You don't necessarily have to tie up every loose end. You just get hold of them and pull, see which ones start to unravel.”

Their octopus came – a plate for the two of them to share containing about a dozen of the tiny creatures, each one barely bigger than a Brussels sprout and dotted with flakes of chilli. As they speared them with their forks, he said conversationally, “Tell me, what other investigations have you worked on, Captain?”

She told him about her most recent cases – mostly to do with immigration rackets and petty crime. He knew a surprising amount about each one, accurately pinpointing where mistakes had been made, and establishing what her own role had been. She realised he was only trying to build up a picture of how competent she was, what tasks he could safely delegate to her, but she also found herself flattered by his attention. The two of them, sharing a bottle of wine over a good lunch, talking intently across the table – in different circumstances, this would have counted as one of her more successful dates.

She banished the thought from her mind, appalled at herself.
Katerina Tapo, this man is your superior officer. You complain that men don't treat you professionally; so now be professional
.

She sat upright, determined to adopt a more appropriate demeanour. “I'm sorry, sir. What were you saying?”

She asked him about himself, but on that subject he was reticent – again, a refreshing change from most male officers of her acquaintance, particularly since in his case modesty was unwarranted. Amongst her generation of
carabinieri
, Aldo Piola was famous for his part in the so-called Relocation Trials. A few years before, the Italian government had adopted a policy of resettling known Mafia figures from the South in northern Italy, where, it was assumed, they would be cut off from their support systems. The policy had backfired, the resettled
mafiosi
simply setting up new operations in the North instead, using the same techniques of bribery and intimidation of witnesses that had been so effective in their hometowns. Piola had achieved three convictions in seven cases – not a huge number, but a record nevertheless. It was said that his bosses, many of whom had proved curiously less effective, were furious he'd made them look bad, and for this reason alone he was unlikely to rise higher than colonel – a relatively lowly rank in a country where the very slowest train is designated “Express” and the most commercial grade of olive oil “Extra-Virgin”.

Emboldened by the wine, she asked him about that, and he laughed.

“Why would I want promotion? You think Carabinieri generals have an easy life? They spend their whole time having meetings and being told off for other people's mistakes.” He grew serious. “When I was very young, I thought I wanted to be a priest. But show me a priest who actually gets to make the difference that we do. If you do your job well, there's no more satisfying conclusion than seeing someone who committed a crime go to jail, and know that it was you who put them there.” He sighed, suddenly sombre. “Of course, in Italy all too often they don't – go to jail, I mean. And that's the main reason some officers decide they can't be bothered any more.”

There was an instance of Piola's unusual approach when he called for the bill. The owner immediately announced that he was always happy to give a free lunch to the Carabinieri, so grateful was he for their work in keeping the streets safe, so much more did he admire them than those lazy good-for-nothings the State Police, et cetera, et cetera. Piola didn't argue. He simply waited patiently for the man to finish, then pulled out two twenty-euro notes and said politely, “I'll need four change.” He must have been keeping a tally all along.