The words were addressed to nobody in particular, and were heard only by Father Jean, an old man who had stationed himself next to the Pernod bottle at the table. He peered upwards in the general direction of Father Paul’s face—which was a good eighteen inches above his own—and nodded. He was exhausted; that sort of combat does use energy and sometimes even he was surprised and alarmed at the deep sources of hatred that Father Xavier’s efforts at reform had stirred up in his usually placid soul. He had not come on to the terrace to be social; unusually for him, he was there because he needed a drink.
In the past he had always refused to be sucked into such disputes and still could not quite believe his new role as leader of the opposition. It was not what he had wanted; not his ideal way of spending his declining years. He still thought of himself as a natural loyalist. So he had always been ever since he was plucked out of village school at the age of twelve by a priest who had spotted his qualities.
But not this time, although the vehemence unleashed by the contest between himself and Xavier appalled him. Even at the height of the doubts and anguish thrown up by the great Vatican Council, he remembered nothing which could compare with the sheer unpleasantness the meeting room had witnessed that afternoon. But there was nothing to be done about it: the soul of the body was at stake; of that he was absolutely sure. Xavier was a good man, no doubt; a courageous one, even. And many saints had been as ruthless and determined to follow their vision, despite all opposition, as he was. Look at St Bernard; look at St Ignatius. Neither were exactly known for their ability to see all sides of an argument. But this was not the Middle Ages, nor the seventeenth century. Other techniques were required. Patience, tact, persuasion. And none of them were Xavier’s speciality.
So Father Jean nodded sadly to himself. “Over? Only for the time being,” he said. “I fear we have not seen the last of this dispute.”
Father Paul arched his eyebrow. “What more is there to say? It’s settled, isn’t it? You got your way. Surely you should be happy.”
Paul could speak with little heat because he, almost alone of the brothers, had not taken sides. Indeed, he wasn’t entirely certain what the dispute was about. He understood the occasion, of course, but the underlying cause meant nothing to him. All he understood was that it wasted a lot of energy that, surely, could be better spent.
“It was only defeated by one vote,” Jean replied. “Only by one vote. Last year-what did he try to do then? I don’t remember —he was turned down by five votes. Which means this will be taken as an encouragement, rather than as a defeat. You just wait.”
Father Paul poured himself an orange juice and sipped thoughtfully. “Oh dear. I do wish I could go home. I hardly seem to be doing the Lord’s work here.”
“I know,” Father Jean said sympathetically, wondering whether a second Pernod would be permissible. “You must find us shocking, and you’re probably right. And I’m sorry we’ve put off discussing the business of your going home yet again. Next time, perhaps; when tempers have cooled, we might bring the subject up. I will do my best, if that’s any help.”
A few kilometres away, in the very centre of the city, a quite different, more worldly, organization was ploughing its quietly effective way through life. The main door (newly electrified at hideously unnecessary expense) swished to and fro as eager policemen walked purposefully in and out. In small, windowless rooms technicians and filing clerks pursued their careers with keen concentration and devotion to duty. Further up the building greater harmony reigned, as detectives in their offices read, telephoned and wrote in their determined pursuit of Italy’s stolen artistic heritage. And from the top floor, from the room which was frequently described in the more respectful press as the brain centre of Italy’s Art Theft Squad, came a low rumble which was disturbed only by the persistent buzzing of a large, fat bluebottle.
The efficient machine was on autopilot; the brain was off duty. It was a hot afternoon and General Taddeo Bottando was fast asleep.
Not that this mattered, normally. Bottando was handsomely into his sixties and even he was now ready to agree that youthful sprightliness was no longer one of his dominant characteristics. Experience more than made up for this loss, however. So what if he husbanded his resources now and then? His overall strategic grasp was as good as ever, and his organizational powers unfaded by the years. Everybody knew what they were meant to do, and they got on with the business of doing it, without any need for him to supervise them day and night. And if something happened when he was not around (so to speak) then one of his team, such as Flavia di Stefano, was fully able to deal with the situation.
Such had been the way in which he had described his role that very lunchtime, to a pair of senior civil servants who had taken him out to a fine, excessively fine, restaurant to make up. For reasons which he couldn’t quite understand, Bottando had suddenly become popular, after years of battling for money and continued existence. Now, perhaps due to a major success a few months back, everybody loved him, everybody had always loved him, and everyone had always been his secret supporter against the machinations of others. All those years, and Bottando had never noticed. He had all but purred with pleasure, and had permitted himself to wallow in complacency as he played a significant role in the destruction of a second, then a third bottle of good Chianti.
Perhaps he should have seen it coming, an old hand like himself. The bonhomie, the admiration, the friendliness. But the wine and the warmth lulled him into assurance. Deep down, he was a trusting man, despite years in the police force contending with crooks and—what was worse—superiors. For once, he permitted himself to think that everyone was on the same side; we are all colleagues. Perhaps I really am admired and appreciated for my efforts.
His mood was one of confident, generous urbanity by the time the most senior of his colleagues—a man he had transferred away from his command years ago in a different life in Milan—leant forward with an ingratiating smile and said: “Tell me, Taddeo, how do you see the department developing? In years to come. I want you to take the long view here, you see.”
And so he gave a peroration, about international cooperation and regional squads and all that sort of thing. About new computers and new techniques and new laws which would all make the business of retrieving stolen works of art that little bit easier.
“And yourself? How do you see yourself?”’
If he hadn’t been wary before, the alarms should have gone off now. All the signs were there; but he never for a moment even suspected the existence of the huge and omnivorous trap doors creaking open to swallow him up. He talked about teams and leadership and overseeing functions, talking the foreign language in which he had become fluent, if not entirely comfortable.
“Good, good. I’m so glad we are in agreement. That does make our task so very much easier.”
Finally, at long last, despite the heat and the drugging effects of the wine and food, a warning tickle activated itself at the base of his thick and powerful neck.
“You see,” the man said as Bottando mentally assumed a crouching posture but kept silent, “there are all these reorganizations. This new promotion structure.”
“Which ones? Have I missed something again?”’
A nervous chuckle. “Oh, dear me, no. It hasn’t been published yet. In fact, you’re the very first person to be told of it. We thought it best, as you may well be the first person to be affected.”
More silence, more caution and a raised eyebrow.
“It’s all structural, you see, and I’d like it known that I am not happy with it.”
Which means, of course, that he is. Probably his idea, in fact, Bottando thought.
“So many people, all crammed up with no promotion prospects. The demographic age bulge. What’s to be done with them? All over the government, the very best people are leaving. Why is this? Because they’ve come to a dead end, that’s why. And then there is Europe. We are entering a new age, Taddeo. We must be prepared. The time to start planning is now. Not when it is all too late. So it has been decided—by people other than myself—to introduce some, ah, changes.”
“What, ah, changes?”’
“Two things. Specifically, there is to be an intragovernmental liaison group to coordinate all aspects of policing. It will start with a particular area as a way of testing procedures and operations.”
Bottando nodded. He had heard all of this sort of thing before. Every six months some bright spark in a ministry decided to nail his promotion prospects to yet another piece of liaising. Never came to anything much.
“And the second, which will ultimately be linked with the first, is to sort out the relationship between your department with the new international art safety directive.”
