‘So you’re no longer in touch with Gabriele.’
Nestore got to his feet.
‘I’m no longer in touch with anyone from those days, Alberto. And the only reason I’m talking to you is because you dragged me up here with an urgent summons that made it all sound vitally important, a matter of life and death. I don’t get it. All right, Leonardo’s body has been found. So what?’
Alberto slipped immediately into another of the roles that Nestore knew so well, but had forgotten; in this instance, that of the great professor indulging a promising student by deliberately misinterpreting his ploddingly literal question for a more suggestively meaningful one.
‘Before the Viminale moved, I would absolutely have agreed with you,’ he replied, nodding slowly. ‘The investigation was initially being handled by the Brothers-in-Law, and the combination of their own ineptitude and a little judicious guidance orchestrated by yours truly promised to bring the whole unfortunate business to a speedy and discreet conclusion.’
This is how women must feel, thought Nestore, listening to some bore droning on, trying to impress them. Except that they at least know what he wants. But what did Alberto want?
‘What day is it?’
He was pleased to note the momentary flash of startled confusion before the reply came.
‘Why, Sunday.’
‘Correct. It also happens to be my birthday, and I’m celebrating by having lunch out with my friends, none of whom would know you from the Romanian guest worker who washes the dishes at the very exclusive restaurant where I am due in just under an hour. I am no longer Nestore Soldani. My name is Nestor Machado Solorzano and I am a Venezuelan citizen living a blameless life in a quietly luxurious tax haven in southern Switzerland. I am grateful for the help that you provided in the past over those oil contracts and arms deals, but you got your cut at the time. In short, Alberto, unless you can demonstrate in the next thirty seconds that what happened all those years ago is of the slightest consequence to me now, then with all due respect I invite you to stick your Italian intrigues up your arse and leave me in peace.’
He had been expecting fury and fireworks, but to his astonishment — disappointment even — Alberto just crumpled.
‘Of course, of course!’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry. Let’s start back to the station. The train will be along soon and you’ll be back in Campione in good time for your lunch. I had no idea that it was your birthday and I apologize for intruding. Only I had to be sure, do you see?’
When there was no answer, he repeated the apparently rhetorical question in an even more emphatically anguished tone.
‘Do you see?’
I was completely wrong about him, thought Nestore. The old boy’s gone to pieces. It’s all front, bluster and bluff, and the generalized paranoia of the old.
‘See what?’ he demanded roughly.
‘That I had to be sure.’
‘Sure of what?’
Alberto paused for a moment, holding his companion by the arm. He gave a brief laugh to signal an upcoming joke.
‘That I’d “secured my flanks”. Remember that pedant Oddone in his lecture on Cannae? “Aemilius Paullus had imprudently neglected to secure his flanks.” At which Andrea promptly pipes up, “And his rear was wide open too.” Ah, happy days!’
Nestore pointedly consulted his watch, and Alberto hastened to lead the way along the path again.
‘Anyway, that’s rather my position just now, you see.’
‘“Securing your flanks”. Meaning me and Gabriele?’
There was no reply.
‘What’s become of Gabriele, anyway?’
Not that he gave a toss. This was just a social chat now, a question of finding some topic in common to keep the embarrassment of silence at bay.
‘He runs a bookshop in Milan,’ Alberto murmured.
Nestore nodded.
‘I can imagine him doing that.’
‘Only he doesn’t seem to be there at the moment. Or at his house either. In fact he seems to have disappeared. It’s all a bit worrying. Are you sure you have no idea where he might be?’
‘We haven’t been in touch for over twenty years.’
‘Ah, right. Well, we’re looking into it. We’ll find him sooner or later. It’s just that time is of the essence.’
‘“We”?’
Alberto’s demeanour changed in some indefinable way.
‘I moved over to intelligence work about the same time that you went off to South America.’
‘The servizi?’
Alberto acknowledged the point with a self-satisfied bow.
‘SISMI, the Servizio Informazioni e Sicurezza Militare. Better promotion prospects, not to mention the possibility of assisting you in your business ventures, but above all a real opportunity to serve my country. There’s little chance of Italy being involved in open warfare in the immediate future, but there’s no end to the covert wars. The post offers me superior challenges and superior resources. That’s how I’ve been able to maintain up-to-date records on you and Gabriele, just in case the need should ever arise.’
‘The need for what?’
‘To meet and talk frankly about the situation. Above all, to ensure that our secret remains ours, and will not become a public scandal which could compromise public trust in our armed forces in the most disastrous way, as well as reopening the terrible scars left on our body politic by the events of the seventies.’
Pompous prick, thought Nestore.
‘Well, I’m glad I’ve been able to reassure you,’ he said affably.
‘Indeed. Now it’s just a question of tracking down Gabriele and having the same conversation with him. I’m sure the outcome will be the same too. I hear the train coming. Many thanks for your cooperation, Nestore, and profound apologies for the disturbance. But I did have to be sure. You understand that, don’t you? I did have to be sure.’
Nestore shrugged wearily.
‘No problem, Alberto. Only next time, not on my birthday, all right?’
Alberto regarded him with a look which Nestore found impossible to decipher.
‘There won’t be a next time.’
He turned and walked away into the surrounding forest of beeches. Nestore headed off across the tracks to the station building.
So what the hell had all that been about, apart from the loss to him of the fifty-franc fare and a quiet Sunday morning at home? All this secret service stuff! Alberto must have gone gaga in his sealed world of spooks, where the only people you could discuss your work with were as crazy as you. And all he’d wanted had been the reassurance that Nestore wouldn’t blab about Leonardo’s death. As though he would! They could have met at one of the cafes in the main square of Campione, for God’s sake. It would have taken a fraction of the time, and the end result would have been exactly the same.
The journey back down the mountainside, at a steady fourteen kilometres an hour, seemed to take an eternity. When they finally arrived, Nestore got out and glanced around the car park. The Italian car had gone and there was no sign of the broken-nosed bouncer. Probably some mummy’s boy from Como who’d come up to Switzerland for the day to give himself a thrill.
He unlocked the Mini Cooper and climbed in. It felt cramped somehow. Reaching down under the seat, he pulled the lever up and pushed back. The seat slotted into its most extended position. Nestore sighed and started up the engine. He always had that problem when Andreina had been using one of their cars. She moved the driving seat forwards so she could reach the pedals, then forgot to return it to its original position. It was one of many sloppy traits of hers that he no longer found charming. But Andreina never drove the Mini, and anyway if the seat had been moved, surely he would have noticed it on the way there? He shrugged and gunned the car out of town
