Immacolata fell in behind them and then casually drew alongside, as though she were just another weary traveller heading for the exit.
'Excuse me, ladies!' she whispered in the tones of one born well within hearing of Bow Bells. The two women stopped and looked at her in astonishment.
' You'll be wanting a ride into town, I dare say/ taunacolata continued rapidly, urging them on towards the door. 'Perhaps somewhere to stay, too. A race cosy residential hotel, safe and clean but not too pricey, know what I mean? I know just the place. Put yourself in Auntie Imma's hands, my dears. I'll see you right!
The women consulted briefly in a silent glance. Then the taller one turned back to Immacolata with an amused smile., 'That's good. These is our baggages.
Oh bella improwisata!
And when they finally made it to the top of the steps, guess what? The car was gone.
Of course, everyone knew that parking your car on the street in Naples was just asking for trouble, to such an extent that some insurance companies refused to offer coverage at any price. This was all the more true in the case of a luxury import, which was no doubt why Don Ermanno had had his Jaguar equipped with a variety of anti-theft devices, including special locks and two alarm systems.
Nevertheless, it was gone. This was particularly galling for Gesualdo and Sabatino, who were used to getting a measure of respect from the trash who pulled these kind of jobs, and even more because this unexpected lack of mobility was going to make it difficult if not impossible to carry out the assignment for which they had reluctantly torn themselves away from the embraces of their respective conquests and rushed at full speed up the darkened alleyway of the Scalini del Petraio as though through infinitely thin, tenuous layers of black satin.
It was Gesualdo who had taken the call, rolling naked out of bed and fumbling amongst his clothes until he located the phone.
'We just had a hit,' a voice said.
'Which line?'
'Zembla.'
'Give me play-back.'
A scratchy silence intervened, then a new set of voices came on the line.
'… remember that we spoke earlier today. I'm now in a position to offer you the information I mentioned then.' 'Regarding what?'
'Regarding the present whereabouts of Attilio Abate, Luca Delia Ragione and Ermanno Vallifuoco.'
There was a long silence.
'Why should I care about that?'
A faint laugh, like an exhalation of air bellying out the curtains and making the candles flicker.
'I think we both know the answer to that, Don Orlando.
Excuse me. Signor Zembla, I mean.'
Another silence.
'Well, I'm listening/ 'As I have already had occasion to remark, these phones are notoriously insecure. In the circumstances, I hope you will not object to a personal meeting. If you will leave the building in which Signor Squillace's apartment is situated and proceed north on foot towards Piazza degli Artisti, I will make contact at some suitable point.'
'It's very late…'
'Later than you think, perhaps. That's why this information is so vital and so sensitive.'
The recording dissolved in a haze of crackles, then Gesualdo's caller came back on the line.
'That's it,' he said.
'Caller's number?'
'Phone box at a service station on the motorway.'
'Time?'
'Six and a half minutes ago. You'd better get moving.'
And so they had, although Sabatino had been decidedly reluctant. He had been having a very pleasant time with Libera, who was both compliant and inventive, with some interesting moves he hadn't come across before.
Just because Gesualdo's partner had proved to be less forthcoming seemed at first no reason to drag him, Sabatino, out on a wild goose chase at that time at night.
But Gesualdo rapidly made it clear that they had no choice. Not only was Alfonso Zembla not what he seemed, but it now appeared that his alternative identity as 'Aurelio Zen' was, as they had suspected, also a fake. It was only on hearing the anonymous caller address him as Don Orlando that Gesualdo realized that the avuncular, mild-mannered, slightly ineffectual individual who had insinuated himself into their lives bore a striking resemblance to Don Orlando Pagano, head of one of the leading clans in the city, who had recently disappeared from circulation.
His voice was all wrong for a Neapolitan, but Don Orlando had spent several years in exile near Verona as a guest of the government, and could probably fake a creditable Northern accent.
As if this was not enough, the caller had explicitly promised 'vital and sensitive' information concerning the present whereabouts of the three supposed victims of the Strode Pulite group. If there were a grain of truth in this, it might represent a potentially fatal breach of security within this mysterious organization. And the whole conversation was preserved on tape, along with Gioacchino's injunction to 'get going'. They would not be forgiven if they let such a chance slip.
The first stage had been bad enough: the hurried dressing, the garbled explanations, the mad dash up those steps through the black drapery of the night. Even with all the time they put in at the gym, Gesualdo and Sabatino were soon gasping for breath. And then the discovery that some son of a whore — some half-smart low-life with no connections, some small-time self-starter who couldn't even get a job with a recognized team — had ripped off their car, reducing them to the expedient of walking, running, stumbling and crawling up another half-mile or more of this terrible Via Crucis, tormented not only by the physical stress but even more by the fear that it was all in vain, that by the time they got there it would be too late.
At length they emerged, panting and sweating, on the blessedly straight and flat expanses of Via Cimarosa.
There was no one in sight, no unusual activity, no sign of anything of interest. They walked down the street past a succession of turn-of-the-century apartment blocks, the street doors securely locked, the shuttered windows above dark. Somewhere in the distance a deep, businesslike motor roared along a street lower down the hill.
Then Sabatino pulled Gesualdo sharply into an adjacent doorway. A figure, tall, dark and spare, had appeared in the entrance of a building some distance ahead. The man paused briefly, looking about, then stepped out on to the pavement and walked off at a steady pace, heading north.
XXXII
By contrast, Aurelio Zen was in the best of humours. The phone call he had just received effectively killed two birds with one stone. Not only had it got him off the hook with Valeria Squillace, romantically speaking, but if his anonymous informant was telling anything like the truth — and what interest could he have in doing otherwise? Zen might well be in a position to hand the Questura not only the information he had extracted from John Viviani concerning the Marotta stabbing, but also a substantial bonus in the form of a major breakthrough in the terrorist case currently occupying national attention. After a coup like that, he could return to his former state of absentee indolence without the slightest risk of any reprisals.
He proceeded briskly along the deserted street, dodging the prows of the cars parked at all angles across the pavement. One of these was wedged so tightly against the wall of the adjacent building that he was forced to turn back and go around the other end. It was then that he noticed the two men fifty feet or so farther back. He paused for a moment, then continued on his way with a little more urgency in his stride. At the next corner he turned left
