'This piece of information came to light as a result of research carried out privately on our behalf. We know only too well what would happen if we communicated it to the judiciary. The magistrates have decided to charge Favelloni for reasons which had nothing to do with the facts of the case. They aren't going to review that decision unless some dramatic new development forces them to do so.
Isolated, inconvenient facts, which do not directly bear on the case they are preparipg, would simply be swept under the carpet.'
He swung round to confront Zen.
'Rather than squander our advantage in this way, we propose to launch our own initiative, reopening the investigation that was so hastily slammed shut for illjudged political reasons. And who better to conduct this operation than the man whose incisive and comprehensive review of the case has given us all fresh hope?'
Zen crushed out his cigarette carelessly, burning his fingertip on the hot ash.
'In my official capacity?'
'Absolutely, dottore! That's the whole point. Everything must be open and above board.'
'In that case, I would need a directive from my department.'
'You'll get one, don't worry about that! Your orders will be communicated to you in the usual way, through the usual channels. The purpose of this briefing is simply and purely to ensure that you understand the situation. From the moment you leave here today you will have no further contact with us. You'll be posted to Sardinia as a matter of absolute routine. You will visit the scene of the crime, interview witnesses, interrogate suspects. As always, you will naturally have at your disposal the full facilities of the local force. In the course of your investigations you will discover concrete evidence demolishing Pizzoni's alibi, and linking him to the murder of Oscar Burolo. All this will take no more than a few days at the most. You will then submit your findings to the judiciary in the normal way, while we for our part ensure that their implications are not lost on anyone concerned.'
Zen stared across the room at a detail in the corner of the tapestry, showing a nymph taking refuge from the hunters in a grotto.
'Why me?'
The young man's finely manicured hands spread open in a gesture of benediction.
'As I said, dottore, you have a good track record. Once your accomplishments in the Miletti case had been brought to our attention, well, quite frankly, the facts spoke for themselves.'
Zen gaped at him. 'The Miletti case?'
'I'm sure you will recall that your methods attracted, ah, a certain amount of criticism at the time,' the young man remarked with a touch of indulgent jocularity. 'I believe that in certain quarters they were even condemned as irregular and improper. What no one could deny was that you got results! The conspiracy against the Miletti family was smashed at a single stroke by your arrest of that foreign woman. Their enemies were completely disconcerted, and by the time they re-formed to cope with this unexpected development, the critical moment had passed and it was too late.'
He came round the desk, towering above Zen.
'The parallel with the present case is obvious. Here, too, timing is of the essence. As I say, the truth would in any case emerge in due course, but not before l'onorevole's reputation had been foully smeared. We have no intention of allowing that to happen, which is why we are entrusting you with this delicate and critical mission. In short, we're counting on you to apply in Sardinia the same methods which proved so effective in Perugia.'
Zen said nothing. After a few moments a slight crease appeared on the young man's brow.
'I need hardly add that a successful outcome to this affair is also in your own best interests. I'm sure you're only too well aware of how swiftly one's position in a organization such as the Ministry can change, often without one even being aware of it. Your triumph in the Miletti case might easily be undermined by those who take, ah, a narrow-minded view of things. The size of the Criminalpol squad is constantly under review, and given the attrition rate amongst senior police officials in places such as Palermo, the possibility of transfers cannot be ruled out.
On the other hand, success in the Burolo case would consolidate your position beyond question.'
He reached behind him and depressed a lever on the intercom.
'Lino? Dottor Zen is just leaving.'
Once again, Zen felt the pale, cool touch of the young man's hand.
'It really was most good of you to come, dottore. I trust that your work has not been… that's to say, that no serious disruption will make itself felt in…'
The appearance of the stocky Lino rescued them both from these incoherent politenesses. Like a man in a dream, Zen walked back through the dim vastness of the room to the walnut door, which Lino closed behind them as softly as the lid of an expensive coffin.
'This way.'
'That's very good,' Zen remarked as they set off along the corridor. 'Have they trained you to say anything else?'
Lino turned round looking tough.
'You want your teeth kicked in?'
'That depends on whether you want to be turned into low-grade dog food. Because that's what's liable to happen to anyone round here who fails to treat me with the proper respect.'
'Bullshit! '
'On the contrary, chum. All I have to do is mention that I don't like your face and by tomorrow you won't have a face.'
Lino sneered.
'You're crazy,' he said, without total conviction.
'That's not what I'onorevole thinks. Now beat it. I'll find my own way out.'
For a moment Lino tried bravely to stare Zen out, but doubt had leaked into his eyes and he had to give up the attempt.
'Crazy!' he repeated, turning away with a contemptuous sniff.
Zen left the portal of Palazzo Sisti with a confident, unfaltering stride, a man with places to go to and people to see. The moment he was out of sight around the nearest corner, his manner changed beyond all recognition. He might now have been taken for a member of one of the geriatric tourist groups that descend on Rome once the high season is over. Far from having an urgent goal in mind, he turned right and left at random, obeying impulses of which he wasn't even aware and which in any case were of no importance. All that mattered was to let the tension seep slowly out of his body, draining out through the soles of his feet as they traversed the grimy undulating cobbles, scattering pigeons and sending the feral cats scuttling for cover under parked cars.
In due course he emerged into an open space which he recognized with pleasure as the Piazza Campo dei Fiori, almost Venetian in its intimacy and hence one of Zen's favourite spots in Rome. The morning vegetable market created a gentle bustle of activity that was supremely restful. He made his way across the cobbles strewn with discarded leaves and stalks, past zinc bathtubs and buckets full of ashes from the wooden boxes burned earlier against the morning chill. Now the sun was high enough to flood most of the piazza with its light. The stall-holders were still hard at work, washing and trimming salad greens under the communal tap. Elderly women in heavy dark overcoats with fur collars walked from stall to stall, looking doubtfully at the produce.
Zen walked over to a wine shop he knew, where he ordered a glass of vino novello. He leaned against the doorpost, smoking a cigarette and sipping the frothy young wine, which had still been in the grapes when Oscar Burolo and his guests were murdered. A gang of labourers working on a house nearby were shouting from one level of scaffolding to another in a dialect so dense that Zen could understand nothing except that God and the Virgin Mary were coming in for the usual steady stream of abuse.
A neat, compact group of Japanese tourists passed by, accompanied by two burly Italian bodyguards. The female guide, clutching a furled pink umbrella, was giving a running commentary in which Zen was surprised to make out the name 'Giordano Bruno', like a fish sighted under water. She pointed with her umbrella to the centre of the square, where the statue of the philosopher stood on a plinth, its base covered with the usual incomprehensible graffiti.
Nearby an old woman bent double like a wooden doll hinged at the hips was feeding last night's spaghetti to a gang of mangy cats. Zen thought nostalgically of the cats of his native city, carved or living, monumental or obscure, the countless avatars of the Lion of the Republic itself. In Venice, cats were the familiars of the city, as much a part of it as the stones and the water, but the cats of Rome were just vermin to be periodically
