‘Lucky bounce, Rodolfo.’
‘ Balle, my friend. You have just been outplayed physically and intellectually. My own surprise is that you still haven’t learned to lose with grace. After all, it’s all your party has been able to do for the last thirty years.’
He strode over to Zen, his skin gleaming with perspiration and flushed with victory. The Minister’s even, rounded features expressed an image of sensitivity and culture that was fatally undermined by the mouth, a cramped slot which might have been the result of plastic surgery.
‘You wanted to see me?’
Zen assumed his most respectful demeanour.
‘Yes, sir. I have a message for you.’
The Minister laughed shortly.
‘The problem of overmanning must be even more dire than I’d imagined if we’re using senior Criminalpol officials as messengers.’
He turned back to his opponent.
‘Consolation prize, Gino! You get to have first go in the shower while I see what this fellow wants.’
Rubbing his head vigorously with a towel, the Minister led the way down a short flight of stairs into his suite on the top floor of the building and threw himself down on a black leather sofa. Zen remained standing.
‘It’s about the Ruspanti case,’ he said hesitantly.
He expected some furious response, threats or insults, demands for apologies and explanations. The Minister merely stared up at him slightly more intently.
‘I’m sorry if… I mean, I understand that there were some… That’s to say…’
Zen broke off, disconcerted. He belatedly realized that he had allowed himself to be tricked into the elementary blunder of implying that what underlings like him did or failed to do could seriously affect anyone other than themselves. Moscati’s phrase about the Minister finding himself ‘in the hot seat’ as a result of Zen’s mishandling of the Ruspanti affair was pure hyperbole. Politicians could no more be brought down by such things than a ship could be capsized by the actions of fish on the ocean bed. It was the weather on the surface, in the political world itself, that would determine the Minister’s career prospects. Judging by his manner, the forecast was good.
‘I don’t want to rush you, er… what did you say your name was?’ he grunted, getting to his feet, ‘but if you have a message for me, perhaps you could deliver it without too much further delay. I have to see the Prefect of Bari in twenty minutes to discuss the Albanian refugee problem.’
He stretched out full length on the floor and started doing push-ups. Zen took a deep breath.
‘Yes, sir. The fact is, I’ve just returned from the Vatican, where I had an audience of His Excellency Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes, First Deputy to the Cardinal Secretary of State. His Excellency gave me to understand that he was entirely satisfied with my, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote. An official communique to this effect will be forwarded by the Papal Nuncio in due course.’
The Minister rolled over on to his back, hooked his toes under the base of the sofa and started doing sit- ups.
‘And you just wanted me to know that you’re happy as a pig in shit?’
‘No, sir. There’s more.’
‘And better, I hope.’
‘Yes, sir. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes confirmed that Prince Ludovico Ruspanti had been living in the Vatican City State for some weeks prior to his death. Not only that, but a special undercover unit of the Vigilanza Security Service was tapping Ruspanti’s phone and maintaining surveillance on his movements. The implication is that some people at least knew from the beginning that Ruspanti had not committed suicide, and perhaps even knew the identity of his killers.’
That made the Minister sit up, and not just for exercise.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘One of those people was Giovanni Grimaldi, the Vigilanza official who was assigned to Ruspanti on Friday afternoon. He also had access to the transcript of the Prince’s phone calls, which subsequently disappeared. The Curia also have evidence that Grimaldi was the source of the anonymous letter sent to the newspapers on Monday evening.’
‘Bet you’re glad you’re not in his shoes, eh, Zeppo?’
‘Zen, sir. Yes, sir. He’s dead. It was disguised as an accident, but he was murdered, presumably by the people who killed Ruspanti. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes mentioned that the Vatican was induced to give Ruspanti sanctuary by the promise of information about a secret political conspiracy within the Order of Malta, a group called the Cabal. Nothing more seems to be known about this organization, but the implication must be that it was their agents who faked Ruspanti’s suicide and arranged for Grimaldi to have his fatal accident.’
The door opened and Gino strode in, spick and span in a Valentino suit, reeking of scent, his hair implant cockily bouffant.
‘All yours, Rodolfo.’
The Minister got up heavily. He looked older and moved stiffly.
‘Just a moment, Gino. I won’t be long.’
Gino shrugged casually and left. It was he who looked the winner now. The Minister mechanically towelled away the sweat on his brow and face.
‘Is that all?’ he muttered.
‘Almost,’ nodded Zen. ‘There’s just one more thing. Yesterday I received an anonymous telegram saying that if I wanted to “get these deaths in perspective”, I should go to a certain address on the Aventine. It turned out to be the Palace of Rhodes, the extraterritorial property of the Order of Malta.’
The Minister grimaced contemptuously.
‘So what? Someone saw your name in the paper and decided to have a bit of fun at your expense. Happens all the time.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. But the message referred to “deaths”, plural. At the time it was sent, only one person had died — Ludovico Ruspanti. But the people who sent the telegram already knew that Giovanni Grimaldi would be killed the following day. They’d spent the Monday afternoon making the necessary arrangements. And on the wall of the room where Grimaldi was killed, they’d chalked an eight-pointed Maltese cross.’
The Minister regarded Zen steadily for what seemed like a very long time. All his earlier facetiousness had deserted him.
‘Thank you, dottore,’ he said finally. ‘You did right to keep me informed, and I look forward to receiving your written report in due course.’
He flung his towel over his shoulder and padded off to the bathroom.
‘Can you find your own way out?’
The lift was through the Minister’s office, where Gino was studying a framed portrait photograph of the Minister with Giulio Andreotti. He smiled cynically at Zen.
‘Behold the secret of Rodolfo’s success,’ he said in a stage whisper.
Zen paused and looked up at the large photograph, which hung in pride of place above the Minister’s desk. Both politicians were in formal morning dress. Both looked smug, solid, utterly sure of themselves. Beneath their white bow-ties, both wore embroidered bands from which hung a prominent gilt pendant incorporating the eight- pointed cross of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.
‘With Big Ears by his side,’ Gino explained, ‘he’ll go all the way.’
‘And how far is that?’ asked Zen.
Gino stabbed the outer fingers of his right hand at the photograph in the gesture used to ward off evil.
‘All the way to hell!’
The lift seemed to have a mind of its own that day. Zen was sure that he had pushed the right button, but when the doors slid apart the scene which greeted him was very different from what he had expected. Instead of the polished marble and elegant appointments of the Criminalpol offices on the third floor, he found himself in a cavernous hangar, ill-lit and foul-smelling. The oppressively low ceiling, like the squat rectangular pillars that supported it, was of bare concrete. The air was filled with a haze of black fumes and a continuous dull rumbling.
