climbers, and tried to descend without aids. But he wasn’t dressed correctly for this, or even for walking at such an altitude, still less exploring those tunnels, which are cold, as you know. In fact, from what the photographs show, he didn’t seem to be wearing any shoes or boots.’
‘He was barefoot?’
‘Apparently, yes. Of course, people who come alone into the mountains for adventures are often a little bit strange, but I have never heard of this before. Besides, if he was going to do something extreme in this way, he would surely have informed a relative or the hotel keeper of his intentions and estimated time of return. If someone goes missing, there’s always a search and an enquiry, at least in my country. Even if they don’t find him, the police keep an open file in case a body turns up. We get a few up in the Alps once in a while, particularly now that the glaciers are receding so fast. Those bodies are often chewed up by the ice, but even then they are almost always identified, even if they have been there fifty or more years. In this case the corpse was not so badly decayed, because of the cool stable air in the tunnels. You would think it would not be so difficult to put a name to this person.’
‘You would, wouldn’t you?’
At the point where the path up the face of the massif crossed the old military road, they turned right and started zigzagging down the way they had ascended over four hours earlier, Anton effortlessly, Zen taking frequent pauses to admire the view.
‘You mentioned some photographs,’ Zen said as they picked their way down the steep, rock-strewn track.
‘Yes, Rudi was carrying a camera on his belt, and he took a few shots of the scene just to prove that we hadn’t touched anything or interfered in any way. In the event we forgot all about them, but it didn’t matter. The officers who answered our call weren’t interested. They just took our names and addresses and a brief statement and then said we could go. And of course we were only too happy to do so, and still perhaps a little in shock from this experience. So it was only when we got back to Innsbruck that Rudi remembered the photos.’
‘Where are they now?’
‘I have a set with me. I’ll give them to you when we get back to the rifugio, if you like. But these are just amateur snapshots, taken in a moment of some stress and anxiety. The quality isn’t that good, and of course you’ll have access to the official photographic record taken when the body was removed.’
‘Yes, of course. Still, it would be interesting to see them, if you don’t mind.’
‘Not a problem. I brought them just for that.’
The path narrowed to wind over the shoulder of a rocky bluff, followed by an even more precipitous descent, and silence once more became an acceptable option.
It was pitch-dark by the time they reached the small hostel in the bleak, rock-strewn plain where the road crossed the pass towards Cortina and the valleys to the east. Once through the double set of doors, the smoke- laden fug was initially overwhelming after the icy air outside. Bruno was propped up in a booth at the far end, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was being pointedly ignored by everyone else in the bar. Catching sight of his superior, he hurriedly straightened his uniform, replaced his cap and stood up, but Zen waved to him to stay put. The young patrolman nodded, sat down again and picked up the crossword puzzle magazine he had been working on.
The bar was crowded with a gang of German motorcyclists of both sexes, all sheathed in garish leather suits, as well as a smattering of elderly people who looked local, although where they could have come from was a mystery. Zen led Anton into the restaurant area at the side of the building. There were the same red and white checked curtains over the tiny windows, the same glossily varnished wooden chairs and tables, the same dim lighting from elaborate brass fixtures with frosted glass bowls, but this space was unoccupied and much quieter, apart from a muttered news bulletin from the inevitable television set mounted on a cabinet at the end of the room.
A blank-looking girl of perhaps fifteen came over, a notebook in her hand. After a brief discussion, they settled on a selection of cheese and salumi, a bottle of red wine and two large bowls of soup. Out of sheer habit, Zen initially ordered minestrone, until Anton sensibly pointed out that to be worth eating this required fresh vegetables and high-quality olive oil and parmesan, none of which was likely to be available at this remote spot. Instead they both opted for lentil soup made with chunks of smoked bacon.
‘So, I hope you feel that your visit has been worthwhile,’ said Anton.
It took Zen a moment to realize the oddity of the question. Anton had spoken German to the waitress, who had replied in the same language. Everyone else in the room was speaking either German or, like the TV newscaster, Ladino, the archaic dialect of Latin which had survived only in this isolated mountain range. There wasn’t a word of Italian to be heard or seen anywhere in the place. Zen felt very much as if it were he, and not Anton Redel, who had travelled to a foreign country.
‘Indeed,’ he replied. ‘You too, I trust.’
The Austrian laughed.
‘Oh yes! It is always a pleasure to come down here to our former transalpine provinces. Everything is so cheap, too. But this is the first time I’ve had the additional pleasure of doing so at the expense of the Italian government.’
When their food arrived, Anton’s choice proved to have been inspired. The lentils and bacon were a thick, unctuous, rib-sticking delight, more stew than soup. The cold cuts, too, were subtly different from their southern cousins, darker and smokier in flavour and texture. The wine was from the Adige valley where they had both started their journey that morning. It was a very young light red with a tart raspberry taste and a slight prickle of spritz. It was utterly delicious, and cut the rich, heavy food perfectly.
When they had eaten, Anton lit a small cheroot.
‘So, the photographs.’
He got up and went over to the stairs leading to the bedrooms. Zen’s driver appeared at the table.
‘Ready when you are, capo.’
Zen relaxed into Italian as if into a warm lavender-scented bath. He dug out his battered pack of Nazionali and lit up.
‘Calm down, Bruno. I’m not quite finished yet.’
‘ Benissimo. Only it’s just starting to snow. We should be able to make it down the mountain if we start soon, otherwise…’
He shrugged expressively.
‘I’ll be as quick as possible,’ Zen told him.
‘I’ll go and get the car warmed up.’
Bruno walked off back to his table as Anton reappeared, holding an envelope which he placed on the table between them. It contained four colour prints which Zen looked through one by one without saying anything. Indeed, it was difficult to find anything to say. The pictures looked like reproductions of modern art, all blobs and scurries, masses and evasions of colour and form whose presumed significance could only be their apparent lack thereof.
‘Rudi didn’t have much time, and his camera is not so good,’ Anton explained through a cloud of cigar smoke. ‘But it is digital, so I’ve enclosed a diskette with the files.’
‘Files?’
‘In case you want to do an enhancement. They’re compressed, of course. You’ll need to unzip them.’
Zen extracted a black plastic rectangle from the envelope. He nodded sagely and puffed on his cigarette. Yet another foreign language. Compression and unzipping he could more or less understand, but what sort of magic was involved in an enhancement?
‘This one, for instance,’ the Austrian added, selecting one of the prints and turning it the right way up. Zen suddenly realized that it showed the outflung wreck of the corpse lying broken on the floor of the blast pit. It was dressed only in a shirt and slacks. The feet appeared to be bare. The face was turned away, but the right arm lay outstretched across the jagged rocks. Anton pointed to some markings just above the elbow.
‘It might be significant to know exactly what this is,’ he said. ‘But such details will naturally have emerged during the postmortem examination.’
Was there a hint of irony in his tone? It was hard to tell with the Austrians. They liked to present themselves as slow, cosy, complacent country bumpkins, but their empire had produced some of the most incisive thinkers and
