The Deliverance of Evil (40 page)
The count was silent, his deep black eyes unreadable.
“Yes, I remember Alina Hagi. Cardinal Alessandrini introduced me to her one day together with her husband, Marius. Two very special young people, both blessed with great energy.”
Balistreri knew it would be useless to ask direct questions. He remained silent and enjoyed his cigarette.
“I’ll have my accountants check my records for you. I think I gave Marius Hagi some work, as I did with everyone, perhaps too readily.”
Balistreri shifted uncomfortably in his chair. It would be difficult to discuss Anna Rossi and Francesco Ajello without showing his cards.
“Do you happen to know whether Alina Hagi was particularly close to any of the volunteers?”
The count gave him another smile. “I never saw Hagi’s wife again. As you know, unlike Ulla, I kept far away from San Valente and Catholic circles. However, I imagine you’ve already questioned Father Paul and Valerio Bona in this matter.”
“Yes, I’ve spoken to them. And they mentioned a very close friend of Alina’s whose boyfriend was one of your employees.”
“What does that have to do with the death of this Nadia or with Marius Hagi?”
Balistreri said the only thing he could say. “We’re not convinced that Alina Hagi’s death was completely accidental. A few days before she died, her friend noticed her arms were covered with bruises. We don’t know if Hagi was responsible, but if we find evidence of violence in Marius Hagi’s past, that would support the theory that he was a party to the crime that took place this Christmas.”
It was a logical explanation. It wasn’t perfect, but it would do. The count mulled it over in silence, as if he were calling up a distant memory. Finally, he spoke.
“Captain Balistreri, if you’re not in a hurry I’d like to show you something before we continue this conversation. Now that the sun is setting we can go outside.”
The French windows that opened onto the terrace surrounded by tall plants were wide open, and the sun’s setting rays fell on the parquet flooring. Outside, Balistreri saw the parasol, the work table with the PC, and the powerful shoulders.
A tomb on which I put a lid that was wasn’t strong enough to last.
Hearing the sound of footsteps, Manfredi turned around. Balistreri turned into a pillar of salt. The disfigured youth was an adult with a normal face and calm demeanor. There was no angioma, no harelip, no swollen eyelid. His black hair had no need to hide anything. The plastic surgery had worked a miracle in aesthetics; the rest must have been worked by the medicine of the mind. Now Ulla’s angelic face could be clearly seen beside the aquiline nose and features of the count. The slender lines of the scars could just about be seen, but the surgeons had done an incredible job. His powerful muscular structure was the same as it was twenty-four years ago, now it was covered with a suntan that must have been natural. The ugly duckling had become a normal man, handsome even in the contrast between his father’s marked features and his mother’s delicateness.
Manfredi rose to come and meet them. He had grown a little in height and was taller than Balistreri by half a head. He held out his hand, and Balistreri shook it in silence.
“I’m glad to see you, Captain Balistreri.” His voice was quiet, soft and deep. He spoke soothingly, like a doctor with a good bedside manner. His eyes were bright and clear. His manner was unruffled, as if he were greeting an old acquaintance, not one of the pack of hounds that had once hunted him down.
Balistreri decided to be sincere. “I’m glad to see what I see.”
The count said, “I’ll leave the two of you to catch up while I go look for a few things in my records.”
They sat down at the table. Balistreri stole a glance at the computer screen.
Paris: Tenth Conference on the Pathology of Infection. Presentation by Professor Manfredi dei Banchi di Aglieno, Nairobi University.
“I’m presenting our latest research,” Manfredi explained. “The Paris conference starts on Monday, then I have another in Frankfurt the following Monday. After that I go back to Africa.”
“I understand you’ve been living in Kenya for many years now.”
“Since August 1982. Our family has a large farm and estates on the border with Uganda. I got my degree in South Africa, and now I practice medicine in Nairobi. Look.”
He clicked, and up came a photo that showed Manfredi in a white lab coat surrounded by hundreds of smiling people. He was standing in front of a new white building with a large pair of scissors, ready to cut the ribbon. The caption read,
Nairobi Hospital: Opening of the New Infectious Disease Unit. December 25, 2005
. That had just been a few months earlier.
“With my father’s financial help, we’ve built a new unit for the care of infectious diseases. Unfortunately, in Africa diseases grow and multiply just as quickly as their trees and mosquitoes do. We’re trying to turn things around there. Of course, when I have the opportunity to attend a conference in Europe, I make sure to stop off in Rome and visit my father.”
The more Balistreri observed Manfredi, the more he wondered how such a transformation was even possible. Could a full-grown human being turn into a different human being entirely? Because that was what Manfredi was—an entirely different person.
Manfredi spoke evenly as he told his story. After Ulla’s death, his father had sent him away from Rome to the family’s estate in Kenya. Subsequently, he had entrusted him to the care of the best psychiatrists and plastic surgeons in South Africa. Then he’d studied medicine in Cape Town. Upon earning his degree, he’d begun conducting research into diseases among the local populations in the desert and highland villages. There was no hint of any personal attachments in the story. He didn’t mention a wife or children, only his father.
“I’m sorry to be so blunt, but the change is just amazing,” Balistreri said.
“It’s a miracle,” Manfredi agreed. “And maybe if all those other things hadn’t happened I’d still be up in my room in the dark with my posters, my angry music, and my disfigured face.”
“You still paid too high a price,” Balistreri said.
Manfredi let the statement pass by, along with flight of the swallows over the terrace lost in the greenery and last shadows of the dying sun.
“My mother was an unhappy person. Marrying my father had been a big mistake, but she was Catholic, so she wouldn’t think of divorcing him.”
“Your mother was a victim of several people, starting with me. Can you ever forgive me?”
Manfredi’s blue eyes wandered over beyond the trees toward the twin building. The windows on the third floor were all closed. Balistreri tried not to look and lit another cigarette.
“I haven’t forgiven you,” Manfredi said. His voice betrayed a trace of the old arrogance. “What have you been doing all these years, Captain Balistreri?”
“Not sleeping well, that’s for sure.”
“What brings you back here on another search for the truth?”
“Giovanna Sordi.”
“I figured. You owe her even more than you owe me.”
At that moment the count came back with two pieces of paper. He handed Balistreri the first. It was an invoice made out to Marius Hagi.
“He worked for me only once, in the spring of 1982. He organized a visit to Auschwitz for my wife. Ulla had begun to study the persecution of the Jews. She was interested in understanding the role the Catholic Church played in either stopping or supporting the Nazis. Hagi had contacts in the area.”
“Did your wife go?”
“Yes, in May. Anyway, we never used Mr. Hagi again. I suppose we had no reason to.”
Balistreri glanced at the other sheet.
“Here’s the information I’ve got about other person you wanted to ask me about,” the count said.
“I didn’t mention anyone else,” Balistreri protested.
“There was no need to,” the Count replied.
He handed him an account sheet for Francesco Ajello. It was a decidedly longer summary than the one on Hagi, with the description and date of every piece of work—all items regarding the count’s property. Every so often a payment was mentioned. The work began in January 1982 and broke off in November 1985, after nearly four years. The count anticipated his question.
“Ajello graduated and went into practice for himself.”
“And since then?” Balistreri asked.
“Since then, nothing on a professional level. Every year I get a Christmas card from him.”
“Did he ever work here?”
“No, never. This is my home. As you know, I’m a private man. Ajello worked at the law firm that handled my business.”
“Did you ever meet his girlfriend, Alina Hagi’s friend?”
“No,” said the count. “I never knew much about Ajello’s personal life.”
“I saw Alina Hagi’s friend once.” They both turned to Manfredi.
“You knew Alina Hagi?” Balistreri asked in surprise.
“Not really, but I ran into her here and she introduced herself. She was very kind. I think she was moved by my looks.”
“And what was Alina Hagi doing in your house?” Balistreri asked.
“My mother had invited her over. She wanted some advice about traveling to Auschwitz. She was with another young woman—probably the friend you’re talking about.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Manfredi shook his head. “No, she never told me her name. But I remember she was the opposite of Alina Hagi. One was small and blond, the other tall and dark.”
It was incredible. The one tenuous thread he had followed without much conviction was now unraveling into thousands of others all linked to a past that he had buried so deep. And those threads, shaped like a spider’s web, were dragging him back in time toward a memory that he’d almost succeeded in blotting out completely.
The people in the present—Hagi, Ajello, Samantha Rossi’s mother—were now getting mixed up with those in the past. He wondered where the line of demarcation was, if there was one. When he left the residential complex on Via della Camilluccia, he had the same feeling he’d had many years before—that the truth was at the same time both very close and very far away.
. . . .
Returning home he passed through the center, full of people crowding into bars, restaurants, and theaters. It was a splendid Saturday evening in summer; everyone was out to have fun. He looked over at St. Peter’s dome, toward where Linda Nardi lived. He picked up his cell phone then put it down for a while. Then he dialed Angelo Dioguardi’s number. There was no answer.
Before going to sleep, he indulged in an old habit he’d broken many years earlier: a nightcap of whiskey, straight up, and a cigarette.
Morning
H
E SLEPT LITTLE AND
badly, no more than two hours. It was the heat, the sounds of festive nights, the mosquitoes buzzing around, and the annoying thoughts he couldn’t manage to eject from his mind. His stomach was burning from the whiskey. His head hurt from all of the cigarettes.
He got up at dawn feeling terrible. From Mrs. Fadlun’s oven came the smell of baking cakes. On Saturdays Jewish people rested, but on Sundays they worked. He took a cold shower and gulped down a coffee with no sugar. He immediately smoked a cigarette, then got himself ready for the office.
His need for action increased at the same rate as he was physically and mentally tired, which was doubly dangerous.
At seven in the morning Rome was silent, full of sunshine, and absolutely deserted after a Saturday night of partying. Few bars had raised their rolling shutters at that hour. He bought a paper and drank another coffee, sitting down at a table to smoke a second cigarette. It would either be extremely easy to speak to Cardinal Alessandrini or impossible. Corvu would have found a way.
His deputy arrived at the office at seven thirty. He had told him a thousand times that on Sundays he could take it a little easier, but Corvu never listened. And with him came Giulia Piccolo, who immediately retreated into her cubicle.
Corvu’s manner was more resolute than usual. “Sir, I’ve thought a lot about this and I have to say I’m not absolutely in agreement,” he said, nodding to Piccolo in her cubicle.
“You’re right,” Balistreri replied. “Call her in. I hope she’s gotten the message.”
Corvu gave him a surprised look, smiled, and quickly went to get her.
Piccolo came in with her eyes lowered. “Captain, I’m sorry. Please accept my apologies.”
“All right, Piccolo. Let’s move on. I have to share some things with the two of you.”
They leaned in closer with enthusiasm and listened attentively. They knew the Elisa Sordi case was still considered Homicide’s worst botched job and that their boss was indirectly involved in the humiliation of its remaining unsolved. Piccolo was also told about how Belhrouz died. The only thing Balistreri kept to himself was the question over Colajacono’s death. He needed to break his feeling of isolation, but not to that extent.
Corvu immediately called his trusted friend at the Vatican. After a few minutes, Balistreri was speaking to Cardinal Alessandrini’s personal assistant.
“Via official channels, it would be impossible, as you well know, Captain. But the cardinal will see you informally. He’ll be at the Pontifical Lateran University at ten thirty this morning, before the Angelus. After that, he leaves with His Holiness for Castelgandolfo.”
Balistreri nodded. “Okay, while I’m out, you two start filling in some answers on this damned blackboard. And find Ornella Corona. I want to speak to her before I see Ajello.”
“With your permission, I’d like to take some time off this afternoon so I can take Natalya out to lunch. She’s leaving tomorrow to visit her family in Ukraine.” Corvu appeared to be holding his breath as he waited for Balistreri’s answer.
Balistreri said, “Why don’t you go to Ukraine with her? You really should see a bit of the world beyond Sardinia.”
Corvu said, “But we’re in the middle of an important investigation.”
“Ask Natalya if she wants you to come,” Piccolo said. “If she does, I’ll be able to handle the investigation on my own for a few days.”
Balistreri left at nine thirty and began to walk slowly to St. Peter’s Square. The citizens of Rome were still asleep, but dozens of tourists were converging on the Vatican by foot and by bus for the papal blessing.
He arrived early. The cardinal’s personal assistant ushered him into a large lecture hall filled with young priests of every race and nationality. It reminded him of the day he’d first met Alessandrini in his penthouse. The cardinal was up on the stage, handing out diplomas.
As opposed to the count, Cardinal Alessandrini had never made him feel uneasy but he rather irritated him more than anything else. In 1982 he had been a newly appointed cardinal; now he occupied one of the Vatican’s highest positions. Alessandrini had to be around eighty, almost the same age as the new Pope. His hair was white, but his face beamed with the same intelligence and energy. Alessandrini saw him and, without worrying about protocol, gave him a small sign of welcome.
At ten thirty the hall emptied rapidly, and the cardinal beckoned him to come forward. “They’re rushing to snag the best seats for the papal audience,” he explained when he saw Balistreri watching the young priests swarm out of the room.
The Cardinal had his usual air of a thinking man who preferred action, greeting him as if they had seen each other every day over the past twenty-four years.
“I’m glad to see you in good health. I heard they almost performed last rites over you.”
“I’m fine, Your Eminence. I was lucky.”
Alessandrini smiled. He hadn’t forgotten his verbal duels with the younger Balistreri, when he had tried to persuade him that only divine justice had the blessing of infallibility.
They sat behind the professorial chair. “I’ve thought a great deal about Elisa Sordi over the years,” the Cardinal said, “and even more this week after her mother’s suicide.”
“I’ve thought about it myself, Eminence, and I haven’t found a solution to the crime nor an excuse for my sins back then.”
A shadow passed across the cardinal’s face. “God forgives all sins if the repentance is sincere.”
“But there are sins for which there’s no redemption, isn’t that so?”
“No, there’s forgiveness and possible expiation for every sin. If you confessed and were really penitent, then any priest would absolve you.”
Balistreri decided to change the subject.
“In any case, I must thank you for seeing me, Eminence. The agreement between Italy and the Vatican doesn’t permit me to bother you. Besides, I’m embarrassed to tell you, but—”
“I’m happy to help. And I know you aren’t here about Elisa Sordi. Paul already told me about your visits to San Valente.”
“You should be proud of Father Paul. He’s doing amazing work, just as you hoped he would one day.”
“Paul already possessed an extraordinary soul all those years ago, but he was confused. We helped him channel his positive energy. I’m pleased you noticed.”
“Valerio Bona seems to be a different story, though.”
“Each individual has his own way of behaving. Valerio has his demons, as we all do. He’s more troubled because he’s more fragile.”
The cardinal paused. He seemed to be thinking about something. “Alina Hagi. That’s what brought you back to San Valente, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Marius Hagi’s wife.”
“Marius Hagi. Isn’t he connected to the men who shot you?”
“I see you’re well informed. Hagi was the employer of the men who shot me, but he hasn’t been implicated in their activities in any way.”
“Is the death of that young Romanian woman, Nadia, connected to all of this?”
“Yes, Your Eminence, it is. We’re trying to determine whether Mr. Hagi was a mild-mannered, hard-working young man or a violent one.”
“Is there some kind of link to Elisa Sordi’s death?” the cardinal asked.
The unexpected question shook Balistreri. He couldn’t understand the reasoning behind it. And yet the cardinal wasn’t the type to make inconclusive deductions.
“There’s no evident link among these crimes. But some of the same people are involved in them, and not just Hagi. Father Paul probably told you about Anna Rossi and Francesco Ajello: two people who were connected with San Valente and the residential complex on Via della Camilluccia.”
“They are two very different and separate places, Captain Balistreri.”
The atmosphere changed slightly. The cardinal looked as if something had suddenly occurred to him—something troubling.
“Separate but connected, Your Eminence. And at least three people involved in these current events had something to do with San Valente, directly or indirectly.”
“How do Anna Rossi and Francesco Ajello fit into your current investigation?”
Balistreri stared straight into his eyes. The cardinal knew the official response. They were dealing with a confidential investigation. Not even a close confidant of the pope could be informed.
Balistreri, however, decided to tell almost the whole truth. “Francesco Ajello runs the nightclub where Nadia spent the evening before she was killed.”
“And Anna Rossi, Samantha’s mother? Are Nadia’s and Samantha’s cases connected?”
He couldn’t tell him that. It would have put the lives of his squad at risk. He was already mourning a member of his team. The cardinal might seem like a saint, but he was still a mortal man with a mortal man’s weaknesses and secrets.
“I can’t tell you that, Eminence.”
The cardinal seemed more worried than offended. His eyes wandered over to the balcony where the pope would stand in a little over one hour. With the young priests gone, the room was silent, which was in keeping with the somber surroundings. Balistreri realized he was asking a lot, maybe too much.
The cardinal pushed up the sleeves of his red vestment, as if it were a sweatshirt he’d thrown on.
“You have your work cut out for you, Balistreri. I shall try to be less of a hindrance to you this time.”
“Do you think you hindered the investigation back then, Eminence?” Balistreri asked, surprised.
Again, the cardinal looked distracted by distant memories. “Perhaps,” he said, but he didn’t give any further explanation.
“We had two different opinions. Yours turned out to be the correct one,” Balistreri admitted.
“Yes, I’m still convinced it was. However, you wish to know from me whether Hagi was a gentle man or a violent one. I honestly don’t know. I saw him with Alina on no more than two or three occasions.”
“Still, you must have had a personal opinion.”
Alessandrini smiled at him. “I see you haven’t changed much. I believe all those years ago we discussed how dangerous personal opinions can be in these situations.”
Balistreri nodded. “That’s right, but I’m convinced there’s always a reason behind certain feelings. And the feeling I have about Marius Hagi—”
The Cardinal stopped him with a gesture. “I told you I would help you this time, and I’ll tell you one thing about Marius Hagi. The man I knew as Alina’s husband was an absolutist—you could read it in his eyes. For him there was only good and evil. He could take on four men single-handed, but he wasn’t the kind to take pleasure in strangling a defenseless young girl. He would have seen that as too cowardly.”
“What about Alina? And Anna Rossi?”
“Hagi revered Alina as if she were the Virgin Mary. I saw Anna Rossi very few times, and then I saw her again a year ago at her daughter’s funeral.”
“That leaves Francesco Ajello.”
There was a slight pause, the usual slight irritation that Ajello’s name evoked in many people.
“Francesco was a promising and ambitious young man; he handled some paperwork for me very skillfully. Then he broke up with his girlfriend and stayed away from the parish. But Paul can tell you more about him. He’s taking the kids to the beach today, but he’ll be at San Valente tomorrow.”
It was eleven thirty. He could have gotten out of there with the excuse that the pope was waiting for him, but he didn’t move to go.
“If I have to make a confession one day, would you give me absolution, Eminence?” Balistreri asked.
Alessandrini placed a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, but only if you are sincerely penitent.”
. . . .
“Ornella Corona’s at her beach house in Ostia. She’s expecting you after dinner,” Corvu announced at lunchtime.
“All right. I’m going to stay here and try to get some work done today while it’s quiet.”
“Angelo called from London. He says hello.”
“From London?”
“Today’s the Texas Hold ‘Em world championship final, live on TV starting at four. Angelo’s one of the finalists.”
“Is Margherita with him?” he asked.
Corvu pointed to the open letter on her desk. “That’s from Margherita. She’s asking to extend her holiday for a week and to be transferred.”
Balistreri raised his eyebrows. “All right, Corvu, enjoy your lunch with Natalya.”
“Do you need me this afternoon?”
“Corvu, it’s Sunday, and your girlfriend’s leaving town tomorrow morning. Don’t you have something better to do than sit in the office?”
“All right, thanks. But if you need me let me know.”
“I need you to tell Natalya you’re going with her to Ukraine tomorrow. That’s an order.”
Corvu started to protest, but then he looked at Balistreri’s face and thought better of it.
Afternoon
For a while Balistreri did nothing but smoke and drink a beer as he looked out of his office window at the flow of overheated tourists walking below. He was now smoking nearly a pack a day. His stomach burned from the cigarettes, not to mention too much coffee and beer. He pushed the thought aside. Then he realized he’d forgotten to take his antidepressants. Despite feeling tired, he wasn’t depressed. So many things had happened in just one week, starting with Italy’s victory. Linda had left him. Or perhaps it was he who had left her. He thought about it constantly and wasn’t sure what had happened. Something inside him was changing. His buried memories were rising up again, together with that anger he had managed to quell.
In that week, so many years before, he and his friend had continued to chat a great deal, almost always in the car parked on the pavement, and they had tacitly avoided going back to that terrible night. But from that July in 1982, Angelo Dioguardi had reacted by throwing off his previous existence and, with a great effort, had tried to live a little for himself and a lot more for others. Balistreri, on the other hand, had slowly started to disintegrate in his own remorse.
I’ve gone to sleep, leading a life that’s not mine in a world I hate.
But now Giovanna Sordi had taken him back to that night. Angelo had disappeared and had finally called from London, sending his good wishes but no invitation to call back.