Flavia barely got into the office the following morning when a dire message came through from Alberto. Foreign ministry, please. Now. Heavy-duty stuff indeed, the sort of thing Bottando would do. But he was not around and she was in charge. She had never been in the building before, let alone been summoned to a meeting headed by a full-blown, senior smoothie.
He also, it seemed, was not used to dealing with members of the police and managed to convey the impression very swiftly that he strongly suspected that all such people had sweaty hands and probably did not bathe all that frequently. He sat behind his desk for all the world like someone preparing to make a last stand against the barbarian hordes, and made polite but condescending conversation until the distinguished visitor was ushered in.
This was, oddly enough, a trade representative from the Greek embassy, which caused confusion all round until it was explained that just because he was a trade representative, it didn’t mean he had anything to do with trade, you see.
“May I ask why the head of the department is not here, as I ordered?”’ the Italian said. Flavia bristled slightly, and she noticed an amused look from Alberto.
“I am the head of the department,” she said, and noticed how well and easily the words rolled off her tongue. “And you ordered nothing. You asked me to come, and I agreed. Now, do I gather that you, sir, are a spy, and we’re playing silly games here?”’ she continued, ignoring the Italian completely.
“Exactly, dear lady,” he enthused. “Silly games. Exactly that.” He gave her a large stage wink as he nodded approvingly.
“Good. I’m glad we’ve got all that sorted out,” said the Italian in a suit. “Perhaps we might proceed. I don’t have all day, and Signor Fostiropoulos is a busy man as well.”
“That’s a pity,” Flavia said. “We have all the time in the world. What’s a murder or two, after all?”’
“That’s what we’re here for, is it not?”’ Fostiropoulos said.
“I don’t know. Why are we here?”’
“You have been making enquiries, about a Signor Charanis.”
“We have.”
“And I am here to inform you that you have made a bad mistake. The idea that he could be in any way involved in any disreputable activity is quite ludicrous.”
“I don’t even know who he is.”
“He is a very wealthy man. Huge interests, all absolutely above board. He is a greatly respected man.”
“And a powerful one, if he sends you along to defend him.”
“Don’t be flippant. Or rude, signorina,” said the Italian diplomat.
Fostiropoulos nodded. “Quite all right. He is indeed powerful. I have come along merely to save you from wasting your time on a fruitless line of enquiry.”
“He wouldn’t collect paintings, would he?”’
“Very much so. But that is hardly a crime.”
“You still haven’t told me why you are so sure it’s fruitless.”
“Firstly because Signor Charanis is at this moment in Athens, and has been since last week. Secondly because the man you are interested in is in his thirties while Signor Charanis is seventy-two. And thirdly because it is simply absurd to consider the idea that he would ever consider doing such a ridiculous thing. He could buy this picture—could buy the entire monastery, in fact—out of his small change.”
“I see. Nonetheless, we do have a rented car with our victim getting into it, and it was rented in the name of Charanis.”
“Criminals have been known to use pseudonyms in the past.”
“Have you seen his photograph?”’ Flavia handed over the grainy reproduction taken from the video machine. Fostiropoulos took it and, she noted, kept it. The difference between a spy telling the truth and a spy telling a lie was, she supposed, difficult to detect; and Fostiropoulos had probably had years of practice. Flavia’s instincts, more than her observation, told her the man instantly began covering something.
“I don’t recognize him. Certainly not Signor Charanis, who is over seventy.”
“I see.”
The Greek stood up. “That’s my contribution done, then. I must be going. I do very much hope that you find this man, whoever he may be. And that you will find that I have been of assistance to you. I’m sorry to bring this meeting to an end so swiftly, but I think there is nothing else to say on the subject. It was a pleasure to meet you, signorina.”
He nodded to Alberto, who had not been successful in saying anything at all, and did the same to the diplomat, who showed him out with all due ceremony, then shut the door and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Goodness,” he said. “That was close.”
“What was?”’
“We very nearly had a major incident on our hands there. Do you have any idea how powerful this man is? Fortunately, swift action avoided it.”
“What major incident? Come to think of it, what swift action? I didn’t notice anything.”
“He was very upset.”
“No, he wasn’t.”
“I hope you appreciate his consideration in coming here.”
“No one has thanked us for our consideration in coming here yet,” she snapped. “We’re not responsible to you, you know. Besides, he didn’t say anything at all.”
The diplomat eyed her coldly. Flavia eyed him back. She didn’t understand why she was behaving like this, but she undoubtedly enjoyed it. Did Bottando enjoy being obstreperous so much? Was it one of the hidden perks of the job?
“What could he say? You go around levelling baseless accusations which turn out to be a tissue of nonsense to conceal the gross mistakes you’ve committed, and you expect him to help? A lesser man than Fostiropoulos would have lodged a complaint at ministerial level and left it at that.”
“In that case you people are complete idiots.”
“I beg your pardon?”’
“And you are a bigger idiot than most. We make a routine enquiry—which normally takes weeks to process —and within twenty-four hours we have a top-level meeting with some Greek spook, who comes round here like a bat out of hell to point us in another direction. Doesn’t that strike even you as a bit odd?”’
“No.”
“I’m quite prepared to accept that our thirty-ish suspect is not a seventy-two-year-old millionaire. So ready to accept it that this meeting was unnecessary. So what was it in aid of? Eh?”’
A shrug, and the meeting ended. A few seconds later, Flavia and Alberto found themselves once more in the empty corridor outside.
“Moron,” she said when the door to the office had shut. “What a waste of time.”
“Do you believe him or not? Fostiropoulos, I mean,” Alberto asked.
“I believe what he said. It’s what he didn’t say that bothers me. Still, we’re just not going to get any help from that quarter, I’m
afraid. Back to work.”
They walked down the stairs, and queued at the desk in the lobby to hand in their security passes and sign out. The receptionist checked the passes, ticked them off and said, “This was left for you, signorina.”
She handed Flavia a small envelope; she opened it and read:
“Dear Signorina di Stefano,
“I trust you will do me the great honour of joining me for a drink at Castello this evening at six p.m.
“Fostiropoulos.”
She groaned. “Of all the luck. Not only do I not get any useful information, I have to spend the evening being oozed over.”
“Don’t go,” suggested Alberto.
“I’d better. You never know. I might squeeze something out of him. If I don’t, I might risk another international incident. I must say, I do hate the personal touch. Especially when touch is likely to be the operative word.”
