bodies set up to investigate so-called “criminal activities of the Mafia variety” within our political and administrative jurisdiction.’
He glanced at the other men, as though for corroboration. If so, none was forthcoming. As though embarrassed by his colleagues’ lack of response, Alagna gestured to the food.
‘But please! Help yourself!’
Carla looked at him, then at the other two, and lastly at the food itself. Although superficially attractive, even luxurious, there was something rather odd about the selection on offer. It included both smoked and poached salmon, a block of smooth meat pate in its wrapper of congealed butter and gelatin, a haunch of cold roast beef, and a selection of cheeses including Stilton, Brie and some sort of cream cheese smothered in nuts. A moment later, Carla had worked out why it seemed so odd: every single item was imported.
‘Aren’t you eating?’ she asked Vito, who smiled and shrugged.
‘We’re not hungry yet,’ he said.
Carla nodded.
‘Neither am I.’
The man at the end of the table, whom Vito had named Gaetano, suddenly spoke.
‘Perhaps later,’ he said. ‘We have all day.’
Carla recalled what Corinna had said.
‘Unfortunately I haven’t. I have to be back in Catania by six this evening. A friend of mine is expecting me for dinner.’
‘Who’s that?’
The question came from Gaetano.
‘Dottoressa Nunziatella,’ Carla replied succinctly. ‘She is a judge for the AntiMafia pool, where I work.’
‘You two must be very close.’
Gaetano again.
‘We’re friends, yes,’ Carla retorted.
Gaetano looked up at the ceiling, where a glass lamp like a melting zeppelin gathered dust at the end of its black cord.
‘And you’re having dinner with her again tonight? Two evenings in a row. Now that’s true friendship!’
The men all sniggered quietly.
‘How do you know about all this?’ Carla snapped.
The three men exchanged a glance, then resumed their purposefully purposeless gaze.
‘Eh, it’s a small place, Sicily!’ the one called Carmelo said at last.
Vito Alagna’s suave tones were almost a relief.
‘Be assured that we won’t detain you for long, signorina. We just need a brief update on the current situation with regard to the system you are working on. A sort of progress report, as it were.’
‘I’ve provided the director of the DIA in Catania with a series of progress reports,’ Carla replied.
Vito Alagna shrugged wearily.
‘Yes, I’m sure you have, but you know how it is! What with bad communications and the usual rivalry and backbiting, these reports are not always passed on as quickly as they should be, if at all. Now I’m sure that all you want to do is finish this assignment and get back to your home up in the north, right?’
Carla Arduini could not resist a decisive nod. Alagna laughed.
‘Excellent! In that case, our interests coincide. So let’s just run over the status of the project at this time, and touch briefly on any problems that may have arisen and your personal prognosis for a completion date.’
Which is exactly what she had done, Carla reflected in the car on the way back. She’d given the three men a succinct and professional overview of the situation to date, omitting all reference to ‘Count Dracula’, and provided them with her estimated best-case scenario for a handover to the AntiMafia authorities. Vito Alagna had listened quietly and intently, taking no notes but giving the impression of absorbing every detail Carla mentioned. The other two sat looking at their nails, saying nothing. It was around three o’clock when the one called Gaetano leaned heavily over on to his right buttock and emitted a loud fart.
‘Time we were going,’ he said to no one in particular.
‘Of course, of course!’ Vito Alagna exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘Thank you so much for coming, signorina. It’s been extremely helpful. The valet will fetch your car. Thank you once again. Goodbye, goodbye!’
Her return journey was easier, since the westbound tunnels on the A19 were not affected by the notional repair work. The only problem was a motorcyclist stuck just in front of her, riding some sort of powerful red machine no doubt capable of over 200 kmph. Carla’s little Fiat didn’t have enough power to overtake him, and since he seemed content to cruise along at a steady 90 kmph the whole way, she had no choice but to stare at his stubborn, leather-clad form all the way to Catania.
Back in her flat, she tried calling her father, but there was still no reply. She had a shower and then went back into the bedroom of her modern apartment, searching for the thick white terry-towelling gown she used to dry off in. It was not on the hook where she kept it, and it took a moment to locate it on a similar hook on the other side of the closet. The jacket and slacks she had hung there, still in their plastic wrapping from the cleaners where she had picked them up two days earlier, were hanging on the other hook, the one where Carla always kept her towelling gown.
Her personal mobile started to ring. Carla sidled towards it, glancing at the open doorway and the various inner recesses of the apartment, as yet unchecked.
‘Signorina Arduini?’ a charmless male voice asked. ‘This is the Bar Nettuno. We have a message that was left by a friend of yours. She said to phone you and tell you to pick it up immediately.’
‘Can’t you give it to me now?’ asked Carla irritably. ‘Who is this supposed friend, anyway?’
‘She didn’t leave a name, signorina, just a written message sealed in an envelope. She told me to ring you at six o’clock precisely and tell you to come and pick it up.’
Carla glanced at the clock. It was just after six.
‘Very well, I’ll be there shortly,’ she said.
Naked except for the towel clutched around her belly, she opened every door in the small apartment and verified that no one was hiding there. Nothing seemed to be missing, either. Carla switched on her Toshiba laptop and
turned away to look for some clothes. When she returned to the table, the screen was glowing. In the centre was a box with a circle slashed red and the words FATAL ERROR MESSAGE! THIS COMPUTER HAS PERFORMED AN ILLEGAL OPERATION AND WILL BE SHUT DOWN.
Looking out of the window at the apartment block across the street, Carla felt for the power switch and pressed it gently, stilling the computer, then closed the lid.
The Bar Nettuno was only a few steps away, an undistinguished enterprise installed on the ground floor of the apartment block visible from Carla’s window. Hurriedly dressed in jeans and a pullover, Carla strode in and identified herself to the barman, who nodded expressionlessly and passed her an envelope with her name on it. Inside she found a handwritten note: ‘I’ll call the pay phone in the corner, beside the video game, at six fifteen, then every five minutes until I get you. CN.’
Carla glanced at her watch. It was six twelve. Three minutes later, the phone started to ring. Corinna Nunziatella sounded embarrassed.
‘I apologize for all this nonsense, cara, but if we’re going to do this, we’d better do it properly.’
‘You think your phone is tapped?’
‘Under the circumstances, that’s the only sensible assumption to make. Yours too, for all I know. And cellphones are notoriously insecure. So this seemed the best way. How was your day in Palermo?’
Carla told her. There was silence the other end, then a long sigh.
‘This means we’re going to have to be even more careful about our arrangements for tomorrow.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll explain when we meet. Have you got a pen and paper? Now listen carefully. Take the 10 a.m. AST bus to Aci Castello. Go down to the coast and walk north to Aci Trezza. It’s only a couple of kilometres along a very pretty path with a view of the rocks which the Cyclops named Polyphemus threw at Ulysses and his men after they blinded him. Do you know your Homer?’
‘Surely that happened somewhere in Greece?’
