where nothing much seemed to happen. He had been stuck out here for a year now, heading some grandiosely named European directive, as cut off from the mainstream of policing as his location suggested. Only bankers should have to work in this awful place; scarcely even a decent restaurant to go to at lunchtime, and Bottando was a man who liked his lunch.
Whereas the art squad building was run down but beautiful, underfunded but buzzing with activity, Bottando's new suburban empire was grand, dripping in cash but ugly and deathly quiet. Merely getting into the building required going through the sort of security procedures that usually defend classified government installations. Everybody was terribly well-dressed, the carpets were thick, the doors swished to and fro electrically, the computers hummed. A policeman's paradise, enough resources to tackle the world. Poor, poor man, she thought.
But Bottando put a brave face on it, and Flavia smiled encouragingly, both of them going through the ritual of pretending that all was well as they did on every occasion they met. He talked about the splendid things his new operation would shortly accomplish, she made joking remarks about European expense accounts. Neither ever referred to the fact that Bottando was showing his age just a bit more, that his conversation was just that touch duller, that his jokes and good humor were now ever so slightly forced.
Nor was his heart in it any longer; he was away more often than he was behind his desk, constantly, it seemed, taking holidays. Winding down. Preparing his exit. It was only a matter of time before the holiday became permanent. A couple of years and he would have to retire anyway, although while in his old post at the art theft squad he had fended off even the thought; there was nothing to retire to. He was one of those people whose very existence was inconceivable without his job and his position.
His promotion had lost him both, and maybe that was the intention. To ease him out by easing him up, and perhaps Bottando was ready to go; he would have fought the move more had he not been halfway there already. He had won bigger battles against greater odds in the past. Maybe he'd had enough.
Fairly often now, Flavia came to see him not because she wanted his advice but because she wanted him to give it. She had been running the art theft squad for a year and had settled in. Better still, she found she was good at it and no longer needed to be anybody's protegee. She had leaned on Bottando heavily in the earlier days, but needed to do so no longer. He had, she was sure, noticed this and was pleased for her. The last time he came to the department, a few months back to check some old files and gather some materials, she knew he was just checking to make sure all was well. She was also sure that the visit was for no real reason, and that he stayed most of the afternoon—
wandering about, reading this and that, chatting to people in corridors, going out for a drink afterward— largely because he had so little of substance to do in his own offices.
She only hoped that he didn't suspect that sometimes—just sometimes—she felt a little sorry for him.
This time, however, there was no artifice in her visit. She was entering dark and stormy waters, and needed a bit of navigational guidance. She half-knew already what the advice would be; she nonetheless still needed to hear it.
Bottando came out of his office to greet her, gave her an affectionate kiss, and fussed about making her comfortable.
'My dear Flavia, how pleasant to see you. Not often we have you out in the provinces like this. What can I do for you? I assume, that is, that you haven't come just to feast your eyes on a properly funded department?”
She smiled. 'I always like to see how things should be done, of course. But, in fact, I am here for some more of your best vintage advice. Premier cru, if you please.”
'Always willing to put age at the service of enthusiasm,' he replied. 'As you know. I hope it is a real problem this time, not just something constructed to make me feel less obsolete.”
He had noticed. Damn. Flavia felt genuinely, truly remorseful.
'You once told me prime ministers can ruin your life,' she said.
'So they can. Especially if you get in their way. What have you got to do with prime ministers?”
With a brief preface about injunctions placed on her for silence, she told him.
Bottando listened intently, scratched his chin, stared at the ceiling, and grunted as the tale progressed, just as he always had when they had talked over a problem in the old days. And as the story continued, Flavia saw the slightest gleam come into his eyes, like an old and battered flashlight given a new battery.
'Aaah,' he said with satisfaction as she finished, leaning back in his chair and gorged on the tale. 'I can quite see why you want a second opinion. Most interesting.”
'Exactly. The first question that strikes me, of course, is why such interest from on high? I mean, urgent meetings with the prime minister because of a picture?”
'I suppose you have to take the explanation about the government's sensitivity toward the European presidency at face value,' Bottando said thoughtfully. 'If I remember, the prime minister wants to make law and order his top priority. Antonio Sabauda will have a hard time pontificating about security if everybody is sniggering at him behind their memoranda all the while. No politician likes to look silly. They're very touchy on the subject; that's why they confuse their egos with the national interest so often.”
'Maybe. Nevertheless, it strikes me that should anything go wrong, and there is a good chance that it will, then I am in a somewhat exposed position.”
'Nothing on paper, I take it?”
Flavia shook her head. Bottando nodded appreciatively.
'I thought not. And the only other person to hear what was said was old Macchioli.
Who is as malleable as a piece of lead sheeting.' More thought. 'Let's say it goes wrong. Everything appears in the newspaper, big scandal. Indignant prime minister says that he gave you instructions personally to drop everything and recover the painting, yet you did nothing about it. Hmm?”
Flavia nodded.
'Even worse, news takes some time to get out. Same indignant prime minister expressing shock that a policewoman should go around raising cash from unnamed sources to pay a ransom.”
Another nod. 'I could go to prison for that.”
'So you could, my dear. Two years, not counting anything that might be tagged on for corruption and conspiracy.”
'And if everything goes well...”
'If everything goes well, and you get the picture back, you will have performed a sterling service, which no one will know about. But you will know that the prime minister—a man who has many enemies and who has been in political life so long his skills as a survivor should never be underestimated—connived to get around the law so he could look good strutting the international stage. Knowledge, sometimes, can be a dangerous thing. Were you more ruthless, you could perhaps apply a little pressure on him, but he is more likely to see you as an ever-present threat and take the appropriate action. Something subtle, so that if you ever said anything, the response could be along the lines of 'poor embittered woman, trying to create a fuss because she was dismissed for incompetence.' Or corruption, or gross indecency, or something like that. Enough to make sure no one took you seriously. As I say, prime ministers can ruin your life.”
Flavia felt her heart sinking as he spoke. Everything he said she had known, of course; having it spelled out in quite such a bald fashion did not raise her morale.
'Recommendations?”
Bottando grunted. 'More difficult. What are your options, now? A strategic but untraceable leak to the press, followed by a public promise on your part to leave no stone unturned, etcetera? It would eliminate the prospect of going to jail at some future date, but pretty much ensure that prime ministerial wrath would descend on you with full force. End of a promising career. Do as you are told? Bad idea, for obvious reasons, especially as Macchioli would say on oath that you had been specifically instructed not to pay a penny.”
'Doesn't leave much, does it?”
'Not at the moment, no. Tell me, this ransom money, where is it to come from?”
'I have no idea. Maybe an extremely wealthy patriot will suddenly wander through the door with a checkbook.”
'Stranger things have happened. Let us assume that the money turns up. What then?”
'Get the picture back. Then go after whoever was responsible. They might do it again, after all.”
Bottando shook his head. 'Bad idea. What you must do is keep your head down. Do as you are told, and
