a resident bodyguard for that very reason, although there will be people keeping an eye on you. But Versilia's full of tourists at this time of year, and as long as you're reasonably cautious there's no earthly reason why anyone should give you a second thought. Just remember who you're supposed to be, and try to look the part.' This last was a reference to one Pier Giorgio Butani, a distant cousin of Girolamo Rutelli. Butani really existed, just in case anyone checked, but he had moved with his parents to Argentina in the mid-Fifties, only rarely visited Italy and had never been to Versilia.
Zen left the house at a quarter to eight, which gave him just enough time to reach the restaurant in time by cutting across the park at the end of the street The sun was already down behind the umbrella pines, the air was fresh but still pleasantly warm. The birds that flocked in the gardens all around were chirping and chattering loudly, but there was no other sound. Zen passed under the gateway to the original estate, past the ruins of the porter's lodge, and over a hump bridge across one of the narrow canals constructed a century or more earlier to drain the malarial swamps.
In the wood, the shadows were gathering swiftly. The birds here were larger and louder, rarely showing themselves except to swoop in packs across the track in front. To either side, the undergrowth was dense and impenetrable, except to the various small animals which could be heard scuttling away at the sound or smell of this intruder.
It was only when he turned left on to the track leading back towards the shoreline that Zen noticed the other man. He was about thirty metres back, walking calmly along. By now it was almost dark beneath the tall pines. Zen could just make out that the man seemed to be wearing jeans and a short jacket of some kind, and was glancing about him to either side as though admiring the beauties of nature.
Zen ignored the warning signal which automatically sounded in his brain, and carried on towards the invisible strip of streets where Augusta's was situated. He had to learn to become an ordinary civilian again, he told himself. The days of danger and glory were over. No one was trying to kill him, no one was even interested in his existence except as a token witness at a foreign trial, flown in like a consignment of truffles or rare wine, a luxury import to impress the locals and make the old country look good. Nevertheless, he counted off another thirty metres, and then dropped his bunch of keys. Retrieving them, he noted that the other walker had also made a left turn at the parting of the ways.
For a moment, he was half inclined to force a confrontation and find out who the man was, but then it occurred to him that it might well be one of those whom he'd been told would be 'keeping an eye on him'. If so, that would be unprofessional and an embarrassment for all concerned. And if not, it would break the cardinal rule of his existence here in Versilia, which was not to draw attention to himself. In the end he decided to do nothing, but he lengthened his stride as much as possible, eager to see the bright lights and crowded streets again.
He was looking forward to his dinner with Gemma, even though he knew hardly anything about her. In the long wearisome months since the 'incident7 and the death of his mother, he had been alone almost the whole time, apart of course from the purely professional and usually painful attentions of doctors, nurses, policemen and bureaucrats. However the evening turned out, it would be a welcome change from all that. And if he knew nothing about Gemma, she knew even less about him. Almost everything he'd told her during their very brief exchanges had necessarily been a lie. He reminded himself that he was going to have to keep that up during the whole of the time they were together, adding new details where called for, but such as were consistent with what Gemma already knew. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a relaxing evening after all.
At last the gateway at the south-western edge of the former estate appeared in the gloom up ahead. This time, Zen risked an unmotivated glance behind. The man who had been there was nowhere to be seen, but they had passed many minor paths off through the undergrowth to either side, any one of which he might have taken. A moment later Zen had crossed another of the drainage canals, and was out in the streets leading down to the sea.
Da Augusto, as its folksy name suggested, looked like a perfectly ordinary fish restaurant anywhere from one end of the Versilia resort coastline to the other. It consisted of a nondescript two-storey building on a back street three blocks inland from the lungomare, with a glass extension jutting out to the kerb at the front and a garden area with a retractable awning at the rear. There was nothing to suggest that it was anything other than a reasonably decent eatery serving reasonably fresh fish cooked reasonably well at a more or less reasonable price. It was only when you tried to get a table that it became apparent that there was rather more to it than that.
The distinction was based not so much on the food, which was at best a notch or so above many other places in the area, as on the restaurant's unchallenged pedigree as the chosen haunt of almost every Italian political and show business personality of the last half century, many of whose personally inscribed photographs lined the walls. What had happened off camera was reputedly still more interesting. That table in the corner, according to some, was where Anita Ekberg was being entertained by Marcello Mastroianni on the memorable evening when she bent down to retrieve something from her handbag, causing her unsupported right breast to tumble out of her dress. According to others, that one over there, against the wall, was where Giulio Andreotti and a group of his closest allies had decided not to negotiate with the Red Brigades to secure the release of Aldo Moro. And over there, at the back of the main room, rumour had it that a groupie had crawled under the table and brought a certain pop star to orgasm in her mouth on a bet from another member of the band, who wanted to see if she could make the star in question bring the events in progress to the attention of the staff and customers. She had reputedly succeeded.
Zen was greeted by a functionary who managed to combine the glacial serenity of the traditional English butler with the menacing directness of a Mafia thug. His first glance at Zen amply revealed the extent to which he was unimpressed by this new arrival.
'My name is Pier Giorgio Butani,' Zen told him in a tone suggesting that he was even less impressed. 'I am dining with Dottor Rutelli.'
For a moment, the functionary's composure deserted him completely.
'Dottor Rutelli?' he whispered. 'But he's already here, thought Zen glumly. Damn. The doorman was staring at Zen with something approaching desperation. 'Massimo Rutelli?' he queried at length. Zen shook his head tetchily. 'What? No! His brother, Girolamo.'
The man laughed almost hysterically. He grabbed a leather-bound menu.
'Ah, yes, of course! Right! This way, please. Just over here. Be so good as to take-a seat. May I take your coat? Thank you, thank you.'
Zen sat down, took out his mobile phone and loudly faked a call.
'Girolamo?' he shouted, glancing idly at the menu. 'Oh, where the hell are you? I'm starving. Me? At Augusta's, of course.
What? What? Why? Really? Oh, too bad! Well, so be it. I'll call you tomorrow, okay? All right. Fine, fine.'
Just as he replaced the phone, a stunningly beautiful woman walked into the restaurant and stood looking around quizzically. It took Zen a moment to recognize her. He'd almost never seen her fully clothed before, he realized, pushing back his chair and hurrying over.
'Gemma, my dear! What a surprise! And what a great pleasure. Now you haven't eaten, have you? And what were your plans?'
He turned her away towards the wall and pretended to listen, nodding sympathetically while she explained her plans. In reality, Gemma was staring at him with an expression which mingled amusement and alarm.
'Oh no you're not!' Zen declared decisively, taking her arm and steering her into the room. 'Wasting your time with those boring little people? Out of the question! You're dining with me, my dear, and that’s that.'
He paused to confront the doorman.
'I just phoned Dottor Rutelli. Unfortunately he's been forced to cancel our dinner engagement due to urgent personal problems, but he was kind enough to invite me to use the booking on my own behalf. He specially recommended the lasagnette con pesce cappone. We'll have that as a starter.'
He ushered Gemma, who was by now almost giggling, over to the table.
'What on earth was that all about?' she demanded, taking off her cream linen jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair.
'Don't complain. I told you I'd get us a reservation, and I have.'
'So you know the Rutelli brothers. Of course, I should have realized, that’s who normally has that tavolo where you are now.'
'I don't really know them. Girolamo is the friend of a friend. But I knew he had a house here which he
