Because if you’re to help, really help, the first thing you have to realize is that this is no ordinary kidnapping, for the simple reason that the Milettis are no ordinary family. Let’s start with Silvio. Of the whole brood, he’s the one who resembles his father most, physically I mean. In every other way they couldn’t be more different. Silvio hasn’t the slightest interest in the firm, or in anything else except his stamp collection, and one or two nastier hobbies. Ruggiero has never understood him. For example, when the time came for Silvio to do his military service everyone assumed that his father would make a few phone calls and get him exempted. Well, Ruggiero made the phone calls all right, but to make sure that Silvio not only did his full time but did it in some mosquito-ridden dump in Sardinia. He’d just begun to realize that his son was a bit of a pansy, you see, and he reckoned that was the way to make a man of him. I don’t think Silvio’s ever forgiven him for it. Not just the time in Sardinia, but above all the humiliation of having a father who thought so little of him he wouldn’t even play a few cards in Rome to get him off the hook.’
Crepi stood up, opened a small ceramic jar on the mantelpiece and extracted a short cigar. He offered one to Zen, who shook his head and extracted one of the four Nazionali remaining. He realized with dismay that he had forgotten to bring a supply of those deliciously coarse cigarettes made from domestic tobacco, costing only a few hundred lire a pack but as difficult to find as wild mushrooms. In Rome he could count on getting them from a tobacconist to whose son he had once given a break, but in Perugia what would he do?
‘I won’t waste time on Cinzia,’ Crepi continued. ‘She’s just a pretty child who’s growing old without ever having grown up. There are only two important things about her. One is that husband of hers. I must admit to a sneaking admiration for Gianluigi, although he’s undoubtedly one of the most appalling shits ever invented. He’s not from round here, of course. You spotted those ugly Tuscan ‘c’s, like a cat being sick? Santucci’s been on the make since the day he was conceived. Marrying Cinzia Miletti hasn’t done his career any harm, of course, but he would have risen anyway, anywhere, under any circumstances.’
Zen smiled slyly.
‘We have a saying in Venice. Whether the water is fresh or salt, turds rise to the top.’
He immediately regretted the comment. What was he doing talking to Crepi in this familiar fashion? But his host’s laughter sounded genuine enough.
‘Quite right, quite right! I’ve been at the top myself, so I should know! Oh yes, Gianluigi has done all right for himself. With Silvio taking no interest and Pietro abroad, he’s wormed his way into the senior management level at SIMP. But of course Ruggiero still makes all the final decisions, and there’s no love lost between those two, needless to say. It must be quite a relief for Gianluigi to have the old man out of the way. But we mustn’t forget the other important thing about Cinzia, which also applies to her little brother. It’s simply that when Ruggiero passes on, God forbid, they’ll each inherit twenty-five per cent of SIMP. A quarter of the company each! That’s quite a thought, isn’t it? Particularly when you realize that our foxy little Tuscan is married to one quarter and has the other very firmly under his thumb. Daniele ignores me and treats Silvio like shit, but he obeys his brother-in-law.’
Zen took another little sip of grappa, rolling it around his mouth. The rough, stalky taste burned down his throat and up into his brain. Why was Crepi telling him all this?
‘What about Pietro?’ he asked. ‘Isn’t it rather surprising that he’s not here in Perugia during his father’s ordeal?’
Crepi nodded.
‘He did come back at first, but when the negotiations began to drag out he claimed that he had to go back to London to look after his business interests. He takes after his father in that. Silvio inherited Ruggiero’s looks, Pietro got the brains. He’s extremely sharp, but much too intelligent to let it show. Ruggiero has a slow country manner which has deceived a lot of clever Milanese into not reading the fine print. Pietro trades on his ten years in London. He originally went there to organize the distribution of SIMP products that end, then talked his father into letting him set up a semi-autonomous subsidiary to import a range of products. But that’s just a cover. His real business is currency manipulation. He’s organized a chain of more-or-less fictitious companies and shifts funds around between them, turning a tidy profit each time. Clever, eh? But Pietro is clever, and fiercely ambitious, although you’d never guess it from his manner. He acts like the model of an English gentleman, all vague and shy and diffident. But don’t let it fool you. You could use his ego to cut glass.’
Zen felt his head beginning to swim.
‘I don’t expect to have much to do with the family. They’ve made it quite clear that they’re not prepared to cooperate with the authorities.’
‘I know. What bothers me is that they’re not prepared to cooperate with the kidnappers either.’
‘But haven’t they already paid up?’
Crepi made an ambivalent gesture.
‘They’ve paid once, back in November. We all thought that was that. But instead of releasing Ruggiero those bastards came back for more. That’s when all the trouble started.’
‘How much more did they want?’
‘The same again. Ten thousand million lire.’
Zen made a face.
‘God almighty, they’ve got it!’ Crepi snorted impatiently. ‘And if they haven’t there are a hundred ways they could raise it. But they felt they’d agreed to the first demand too easily, and that this time they should strike a harder bargain, arguing over every last lira. Then there was the question of how to raise the money. More problems, more bickering. Exactly what should be sold? Should they borrow? Couldn’t Piero help out? And what about Gianluigi’s idea of doing a deal with a foreign firm interested in acquiring a stake in SIMP? Et cetera, et cetera. I won’t bore you with all the details.’
‘What about the police, the judiciary? Are they aware that Valesio is in regular contact with the gang?’
Crepi waggled his hands again.
‘Yes and no. They know, of course. In Perugia everyone knows everything. But officially they’ve been kept out of it. You see, part of the problem all along has been that the investigating magistrate who’s handling the case, Luciano Bartocci, is a Communist who’s got it in for the Milettis on principle. Given half a chance Bartocci would like to use the kidnapping as an excuse to pry into the family’s affairs for political reasons.’
‘Couldn’t he be replaced?’
After a moment Crepi gave another long, loud laugh.
‘My answer to that, dottore, is the same as a certain politician gave his wife when they went to the Uffizi to see that Botticelli which was cleaned recently. The wife is in raptures. I can just see it over the fireplace at home, she says. Listen, her husband replies, I can’t do everything, you know!’
Zen joined in his host’s laughter.
‘Anyway, this is really beside the point,’ Crepi resumed. ‘If the family were united, all the Bartoccis in the world couldn’t touch them. As it is, they would starve to death for want of agreeing which sauce to have with their pasta if the cook didn’t decide for them. And meanwhile Ruggiero’s life is in the balance! He’s over seventy years old, dottore, and his health is failing. Ever since the accident that killed his wife he has suffered from bouts of semi-paralysis down one side of his body. Two years ago it looked as though he would have to give up working altogether, but in the end he pulled through. Who knows how he’s suffering at this very moment, while we sit here warm and well fed in front of the fire? He must be brought home! The family must pay whatever is being asked, immediately, with no further haggling! That’s what you must tell them, dottore.’
To hide his look of dismay, Zen brought the glass to his lips and drained off the last drops of grappa.
‘What makes you think they’ll listen to me?’
‘I don’t mean the family.’
‘Who, then?’
Crepi leaned forward.
‘Your arrival here in Perugia will be widely reported. I’ll see to that! You’ll be interviewed. They’ll ask you about your impressions of the case. Tell them! That’s all. Just tell them.’
‘Tell them what?’
‘Tell them that you wonder how serious the Milettis really are about getting Ruggiero back! Tell them that the family gives no impression of having understood the extreme gravity and urgency of the situation. In a word, tell them that you’re not convinced that the Milettis are in earnest! Naturally I’ll give you my fullest backing. We’ll shame them into paying! Do you see? Eh? What do you say?’
But at that moment the phone rang.
