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  ‘I suppose we’d better get out and circulate,’ said one of the men, an aggressive-looking individual with a shock of jet-black hair and the build of a middleweight boxer.

  ‘I’ve already put out a few feelers,’ replied the other. He was shorter and slighter, wiry and slightly feral in appearance, with a scar on his left cheekbone and an incipient bald spot nestling amid his curly, light-brown hair.

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing. No one’s heard anything, or if they have they’re not talking. But to be honest they seemed as mystified about it as everyone else. Only more worried, of course.’

  Neither officer was in uniform, and their style of dress was completely different. The shorter one wore jeans, running shoes and an open-neck denim shirt. His companion was in a very expensive suit, a silk shirt and tie and black oxfords with a flawless mirror finish.

  ‘Somebody must know something,’ he said.

  ‘Unless Ermanno had a hand in his own disappearance …’

  ‘Even then, somebody must be hiding him out.’

  ‘But not necessarily anyone known to us. He was under judicial advisement, just like Abate and Della Ragione. Like them, he has an interest in lying low until …’

  He broke off, glancing at the wall. The two men exchanged a glance.

  ‘Until the situation stabilizes,’ the elegant one suggested. ‘And there are plenty of other people who have an interest in postponing judicial enquiries into their cases until …’

  ‘Until the situation stabilizes,’ his companion concluded with a nod. ‘Exactly. In which case there isn’t a chance of us finding out anything useful. You can’t play both sides against the middle if they are the middle.’

  There was silence for a while.

  ‘Marotta seems to have disappeared too,’ the man in the Lacoste shirt said casually. ‘Do you think there could be a link?’

  The other looked sceptical.

  ‘I don’t see it. Marotta’s just a gofer, when all’s said and done. The other three are in the upper echelons of the Gaetano clan, the command and supply level. I could see why they might want to take them out of circulation, but Marotta? He doesn’t know enough to be a danger to anyone but himself. They’d just hand him over and let him sweat it out.’

  Another silence.

  ‘Vallifuoco used to frequent prostitutes,’ the man in the suit murmured as though to himself.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Maybe that’s where he went last night, under cover of that business meeting.’

  His companion considered this a moment.

  ‘Maybe. We could look into the car, too. He drove a late model Jaguar, very distinctive.’

  ‘One of the whores I spoke to said he had very particular tastes. Bondage, whipping, drawing blood, that kind of thing. Apparently he used a different woman every time. He blindfolded them and took them to a place he had somewhere near the station where he kept the gear he used for these sessions. They could all remember what the place looked like inside well enough, but none of them has any precise idea where it is.’

  ‘Maybe that’s where he’s hiding out.’

  ‘That’s where I’m going to start, anyway. And you?’

  The other man shrugged.

  ‘I thought I might look into the car. That’s harder to hide than a man. Probably won’t get anywhere, but it’ll make the time pass more quickly.’

  As before, they exchanged a glance of silent collusion.

  ‘I wish I knew what was going on!’ the man in the suit exclaimed in a tone of irritation.

  The other shrugged again.

  ‘We’ll just have to wait and see. It might even be good news, who knows? Maybe there’s been a change of heart. At management level, so to speak.’

  They got to their feet.

  ‘See you tomorrow, then,’ said the elegant man.

  ‘Good hunting.’

  ‘You too.’

  Giochiamo!

  ‘So is it really beautiful?’

  ‘It has its charms.’

  ‘You’re going to stay there for ever?’

  ‘When’s that? All I know is that in a few more years I can retire, and a few years after that …’

  ‘You never used to be morbid, Aurelio.’

  ‘Blame it on Naples. The place reeks of mortality.’

  ‘I thought it reeked of rancid oil and bad drains.’

  ‘It comes to the same thing in the end.’

  They were sitting at a corner table in a restaurant near Rome’s main railway station. It was called Bella Napoli, whence Gilberto Nieddu’s original question. They had the place to themselves, this being just about its only virtue. The décor – all seashells, mandolins, dusty bottles of undrinkable wine, fishing nets and photographic murals of Vesuvius and the bay – had been applied with a heavy hand, and the food couldn’t begin to redeem it. Gilberto had suggested that they stick to pizza, on the grounds that they surely couldn’t screw that up.

  ‘So did you find anything?’ asked Zen, taking another bite which confirmed beyond doubt that, yes, indeed they could.

  Gilberto Nieddu glugged some beer and lit a cigarette.

  ‘It’s a joke! When you called me from Naples, I thought we were talking about some cutting-edge product, so I started calling around. That meant putting on my disguise and creeping out to a bar, of course. Then I had to scare up someone with the equipment to run whatever it was you were bringing.’

  He sat back, smoking contentedly.

  ‘And?’ prompted Zen edgily.

  ‘That meant telling Rosa where I was going. One thing my attorney was very clear about was that I must never ever leave home without leaving an accurate itinerary and estimated time of arrival. Apparently some people in my position have been snatched off the street and pressured into doing some deal before their family or lawyer even knows what’s happened …’

  ‘But you didn’t tell Rosa about me?’ Zen interrupted.

  ‘Of course not! We’ve all got our little problems, Aurelio. You respect mine and I’ll respect yours.’

  This was true enough, although in reality their problems were of a very different order. Zen’s involved sneaking up to Rome without calling in to visit his mother. Since Signora Zen had become a sort of honorary granny to the Nieddu children, this in turn meant seeing Gilberto Nieddu without his wife finding out. If Rosa learned about Zen’s visit, it would inevitably get back to Giustiniana and he would never hear the end of it.

  Gilberto’s problems were altogether more serious. But despite the fact that the Sardinian was one of his oldest friends, Zen found it hard not to feel slightly smug about them. Since leaving the police, Nieddu had built up a thriving business in the electronic surveillance field, specializing in industrial espionage. He had never lost an opportunity of gloating more or less openly to Zen about his successes out there in the ‘real world’, the implication being that it was at once lazy and unenterprising of Zen to keep slogging away at his safe but dead-end statale job when such rich pickings were to be had, for those with the get-up-and-go to pursue them, in the private sector.

  But Gilberto was no longer gloating. A former client of his company, Paragon Security, had brought himself to the attention of the anti-corruption Mani Pulite team of judges in connection with a contract for the widening of a motorway in Lombardy. In the course of a lengthy interrogation, one of the regional politicians involved revealed that, in addition to the sums specified in the winning bid, several billion lire had also changed hands privately.

  One aspect of the affair of particular interest to the authorities was how the entrepreneur in question managed to be so well-informed about the competing bids and bribes being offered by other firms, all of which, thanks to the seizure of his extensive records, were also under investigation. In the circumstances, the contractor felt no compunction in throwing a minnow like Nieddu to the judges, in the hope – vain, as it proved – of appeasing their feeding frenzy for a while.

  It being just as oner
ous and risky to remove bugging devices as to install them, they were still in place. The truth of the contractor’s allegations was proven, and Paragon Security itself came under investigation. Unfortunately, in addition to providing a range of services which were illegal in the first place, Gilberto Nieddu had also been fiddling his taxes. According to the declarations he filed, he had been earning barely more than Aurelio Zen’s modest stipend from the State. The sums disbursed by his clients, though, were larger than this by a factor of about ten. The judges were naturally curious to learn how he proposed to account for this discrepancy.

  ‘My only hope is Wojtyla,’ Gilberto announced in a mournful voice when he met his friend at Stazione Termini that afternoon.

  Zen looked askance.

  ‘How he help you?’

  ‘By dying. They still have an amnesty whenever a new Pope is elected. Anyone convicted of a nonviolent crime with five years or less to serve gets out. My lawyer – who incidentally has already accounted for about half the assets I’d salted away where the judges can’t get at them – reckons he can get me off with five to seven, less whatever I’ve served before being brought to trial. So it’s a fine calculation. For example, if I get six, with nine months detention pre-trial, I want the big Polack to buy the dacha three months after sentencing. On the other hand if I get five, he should drop dead right away. It’s about time, anyway. Rosa and her friends are all ready to convert to Islam. They say it’s less repressive for women.’

  He swallowed some more beer and lit another cigarette.

  ‘On the other hand, of course, the case may never come to court. There seems to be a very encouraging political vacuum at the top these days. People are starting to realize that this “Clean Hands” mentality is getting out of control. This sort of inquisitorial moralism is completely alien to our culture. Besides, if you really pursued it to its logical conclusion, you’d have to lock up eighty per cent of the population!’

  ‘Thereby providing jobs as jailers for the other twenty,’ Zen put in. ‘Who says a managed economy doesn’t work?’

  Joking aside, Nieddu’s position was anything but enviable. Although still at liberty, his office had been sealed, his assets seized and his business – so carefully built up over many years – ruined overnight. He was liable to be arrested at any moment, and meanwhile led a fugitive existence, shunned by his former friends and associates, waiting for the axe to fall.

  ‘Rosa’s doing the best she can,’ he remarked in a maudlin tone, ‘but at times she just goes to pieces completely. It’s the effect this is going to have on the children we worry about most. To be honest, if it hadn’t been for your mother giving us a break from time to time, I don’t think we’d have been able to make it. She’s a real treasure!’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Zen neutrally.

  Nieddu produced a grey plastic cassette from his pocket and passed it across the table.

  ‘Well?’ asked Zen.

  Nieddu rolled his eyes up to the ceiling.

  ‘After all that, it turned out to be just a video game! One of those cartridges you buy and plug into a machine hooked up to your TV. Come to think of it, you wouldn’t know. You don’t have kids.’

  Zen reached out idly and picked up the cigarette packet lying on the table.

  ‘That’s all? Just a game?’

  ‘What were you expecting?’ asked Nieddu.

  His friend shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Why are you so interested in it?’

  Zen gestured evasively.

  ‘It’s a long story,’

  He opened the open pack of cigarettes and took one.

  ‘May I?’

  Nieddu, who had no idea that Zen had supposedly given up smoking, waved freely.

  ‘So tell me about this game,’ Zen said, pushing his failed pizza aside.

  ‘What is there to say? It’s like any other. The scenery and cast may change, but the object is always the same. You’re trying to beat the system, access higher levels and rack up as many points and lives as possible.’

  Zen smoked in silence, nodding soporifically.

  ‘Sounds like the story of my life,’ he murmured.

  ‘In this case you’re a rogue cop trying to clean up a city which has been taken over by the mob. You also have to protect these beautiful women that the bad guys are out to get, and of course watch your own back. At least, that’s the opening scenario. I didn’t have time to find out what happens once you get past the first level.’

  ‘Ah, I don’t expect either of us will ever do that,’ Zen commented enigmatically.

  ‘You still haven’t told me why you’re so interested in it,’ Nieddu reminded him.

  Zen sighed.

  ‘Someone got in a knife fight in the port. We don’t know who he is or what he was doing there. I hoped this might supply some of the answers.’

  Nieddu seemed surprisingly interested in this inconsequential story.

  ‘The game cassette was in his possession?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Was he entering or leaving the port at the time?’

  ‘Leaving.’

  ‘Were there any foreign ships at the time? Especially Japanese or American?’

  Zen frowned.

  ‘What are you getting at, Gilberto?’

  Nieddu suddenly relaxed and gave one of his huge infectious laughs.

  ‘You’re right! No reason I should do your job for you. I’ve got enough problems of my own as it is.’

  Zen held up the grey plastic cassette.

  ‘You think this was being smuggled in? Why would they bother to do that if you can buy it over the counter?’

  Nieddu stood up.

  ‘Ah, well, that’s the question. Anyway, I must be going. I promised Rosa I wouldn’t be late.’

  He got out his wallet and made a show of offering to pay the bill, but Zen snatched it away.

  ‘This is the least I can do in return for your help, Gilberto. I only wish I could do something about your real problems. Perhaps I’ll get one of my Neapolitan contacts to ask San Gennaro to intercede for you. I’m told he’s very effective.’

  Gilberto Nieddu laughed once again.

  ‘Actually, I think that a miracle may already have occurred.’

  Zen looked at him curiously.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Nieddu shrugged.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I just have a feeling that my luck is about to change.’

  The two men exchanged an opaque glance. Zen started towards the door, then turned back.

  ‘Let me have another cigarette, will you?’

  Nieddu handed him the pack.

  ‘Can I have a light too?’ Zen added. ‘I seem to have left mine at home.’

  Nieddu laughed yet again, this time with a marked edge.

  ‘You’ll forget your own name next, Aurelio!’

  I due creduli sposi

  Another evening, another restaurant. This one also served Neapolitan specialities, but here no attempt had been made to create a supposedly characteristic décor evoking the city as it appeared through the misty eyes of expatriate nostalgia: colourful, chaotic, cheap and cheerful. For this establishment was in Naples, or more precisely in Posillipo, one of the most beautiful and exclusive neighbourhoods on the bay, situated at the tip of a small headland shaded by palms and lemon trees and overlooking the sea.

  At a table right up against the railings at the very edge of the terrace, Gesualdo Troise and Sabatino Capuozzo sat looking about them with a distinct air of unease.

  ‘Fancy place,’ said Sabatino. ‘Fancy prices too, I bet.’

  Gesualdo shrugged.

  ‘We’ll have to get used to it. This is the kind of thing the girls have been brought up to take for granted.’

  ‘Funny, when you think where the money came from.’

  A waiter, severely correct in his starched jacket, appeared at their table. Despite their unexceptionable suits and ties, he eyed them w
ith barely concealed disdain, as aware as they themselves that they were out of their depth here. Gesualdo informed him shortly that they were waiting for some friends to join them. The waiter removed an invisible speak from the immaculate tablecloth and ejected it unceremoniously over the railing.

  ‘Siente, cumpagne mije,’ murmured Sabatino.

  The waiter turned around with an expression of astonishment at this unwonted familiarity. Then he caught sight of the pistol. It was in a shoulder-holster just visible in the hollow which Sabatino had deliberately created by leaning forward so that his jacket bulged open.

  ‘These friends are young ladies from a very important family,’ Sabatino told him seriously. ‘We want them to have a good time, understand?’

  ‘Of course,’ the waiter replied in a robotic tone.

  ‘We may eat, we may not, but we want the best of everything. Good stuff, prompt service, no bullshit. If the evening’s a success, we won’t forget you.’

  ‘Even less if it isn’t,’ added Gesualdo.

  The waiter nodded rapidly.

  ‘Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take care of everything myself.’

  He departed rapidly into the elegant converted villa on the hillside behind them containing the bar and the internal dining room. Gesualdo sighed loudly.