his uniform. In the end he had decided against it, on the grounds that any overt display of his status and authority would be outweighed by the implication that this was a purely military matter. These men would be either high- level civil servants or up-and-coming politicians. Either way, their goal was to rise in a political hierarchy where military rank counted for nothing. They would wear suits, so he was wearing a suit.
He had also spent much time considering what exactly to tell them. This was almost impossible to decide in advance, since he couldn’t be sure how much they already knew and to what extent they might be prepared to give him a free hand, if only to keep their distance from the whole affair. In the end he had formulated a menu of possible options that he hoped would cover most eventualities, but it still remained to choose and execute his responses correctly on the spot and without apparent hesitation. These people might be civilians, but it would be an error to assume that because of this they were necessarily stupid.
The urban villas to his right had given way to a blank stretch of high wall topped with angled barbed wire and signs reading Zona Militare. A few minutes later, Alberto reached the gate, showed his identification to the sentry at the gate and warmly acknowledged his respectful salute. Matters had improved beyond all recognition since the government had ended the draft. Now the intake consisted of young men who were personally pre-selected for the military virtues, instead of a gaggle of resentful scum resigned to the bleak prospect of two years’ servitude as the cost of keeping the army democratic and the country safe from a possible armed coup.
‘Your guests are already here, sir,’ the sentry said, pointing to a black limousine drawn up on the other side of the courtyard, where a bored-looking driver in a peaked cap and dark glasses leant against the right front wing, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper.
‘When did they arrive?’
‘About ten minutes ago. Three of them. They were shown up to the former deputy commander’s office in B wing.’
Alberto checked his watch. They had arrived early, damn it, trying to score a point before the meeting had even started. Well, if they wanted to play stupid power games, he still had a few tricks up his sleeve.
‘Is the colonel back from lunch?’ he asked the sentry.
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Contact the senior lieutenant on duty and tell him to proceed to the commander’s office on the double.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Alberto walked straight across the courtyard, through a door in the archway leading to the parade ground, and up two flights of stone steps. He glanced cautiously along the corridor at the top, then turned right and entered the first door he came to.
It was not a grand room, but it felt inhabited and businesslike. There were papers and files on the desk, and large maps and framed certificates of military awards on the walls. Best of all, Alberto knew the man in nominal command of this moribund establishment, having dropped in from time to time when he was feeling nostalgic for the old days. He also knew that the colonel’s lunch was invariably followed by a two- hour siesta at his private quarters on the other side of the parade ground.
The door behind him opened. It was the duty lieutenant. Alberto gave him his instructions and then went behind the desk. The chair was an old-fashioned swivelling affair in very dark oak. He adjusted the height of the seat until his shoes barely touched the ground, took a pen and a piece of paper from the stationery tray and began to write at random as the door opened again.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Alberto remarked urbanely as the three men walked in escorted by the young officer. ‘I was beginning to wonder what had become of you. Please, take a seat. Lieutenant, fetch another chair.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ snapped one of the Ministry officials. ‘I prefer to stand. I’ve been sitting for almost fifteen minutes in the office next door as it is!’
Alberto looked duly concerned.
‘Really? I do apologize. You must have been shown to the wrong room.’
The three newcomers looked uncertainly at each other as the lieutenant saluted and left. The one who had spoken waved the other two impatiently into the chairs on their side of the huge desk. He was in his mid-thirties, prickly and pushy, and made no attempt to conceal his distaste at the manner of the reception that he and his aides had been accorded.
‘I am Francesco Belardinelli, principal private secretary to the deputy Minister,’ he told Alberto. ‘You know what we’re here to discuss. There seems to be some considerable degree of divergence about the precise facts involved. Please be good enough to give us the whole story in your own words. Keep it brief, though. I can only spare an hour, and thanks to this mistake we have already wasted a quarter of it.’
The younger of the two aides switched on a small tape recorder and placed it on the desk, then took out a notebook and poised a pen over it. His older colleague sat tight, looking up at the ceiling like a builder checking for signs of damp. The secretary and the spin doctor, thought Alberto. He felt like a schoolboy hauled up before the headmaster to explain how the window of the old lady’s house on the corner came to be broken. Fortunately he had his answer ready.
‘I’m afraid I can’t comply with your wishes,’ he said.
Francesco Belardinelli eyed him with incandescent frigidity.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
‘This matter involves national security issues of the very highest sensitivity,’ Alberto replied evenly. ‘Under the terms of my remit, I am only empowered to reveal the full facts directly to the Minister.’
‘I am a representative of the Minister,’ Belardinelli rapped back.
‘So is the driver who brought you here.’
‘How dare you?’ the other man shouted, now openly furious.
Alberto spread out his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
‘It’s a question of security clearance, dottore. The first thing I did when this meeting was arranged was to check yours. I regret that it is not of a sufficiently high classification to permit me to divulge the full facts involved. I am however quite prepared to address any questions you may have, as long as the answer would not conflict with the limitations I have already mentioned.’
‘This is sheer insolence, Guerrazzi! You SISMI people are required to report to the Ministry.’
‘I am only required to report to my immediate superiors, to the Minister of Defence in person, and of course to the Prime Minister and to the President of the Republic should they so desire. Not to principal private secretaries with a B3 security clearance.’
Belardinelli hammered his right fist into his left palm.
‘Right! So this meeting is a complete farce and a total waste of time.’
He turned to the other two.
‘We’re leaving.’
Alberto got to his feet.
‘Wait a moment, dottore! I’m sure we can work out a compromise solution that will satisfy your needs while ensuring that security remains intact. To get us started, may I ask why this affair is of such interest to the Ministry in the first place? It’s really just a dirty little secret dating back thirty years, of no contemporary relevance whatsoever except in so far as its revelation would cause severe embarrassment to the armed forces, resulting in destructive criticism and loss of morale. Steps are being taken to ensure that this does not happen, and I have no doubt that the whole thing will be forgotten in a week or two. Frankly, you would do much better to leave the matter to the professionals and avoid any involvement.’
Belardinelli eyed him across the room.
‘I appreciate how difficult it must be for you to understand the wider issues involved, colonnello, locked as you are into your little secret society of codebooks, classified files and security clearances, but even you may be aware that a cabinet reshuffle is imminent. If it goes wrong, one or more of the coalition parties might withdraw, bringing down the government. Our rivals at the Ministry of the Interior have already launched their own investigation…’
Alberto nodded. ‘An officer named Aurelio Zen.’
‘ Bravo. I’m glad to hear that you are at least efficient. Nevertheless, there is clearly a secret to be discovered here. You have refused to reveal its precise nature, but you admit that it exists. If this Zen manages to unravel it, and this cock-and- bull story about a training accident involving nerve gas which we have been disseminating is revealed to be a lie, then the people at Interior will have scored a major coup. They will naturally
