away, rippling over hillocks and outcrops, reaching down to the sea, a shimmering inconclusive extension of the panorama like the row of dots after an incomplete sentence. The predominant colours were reddish ochre and olive green, mingled together like the ingredients of a sauce, retaining their individuality yet also creating something new. In all that vast landscape there was no sign of man's presence, except for a distant plume of smoke from the papermill near the harbour where he had disembarked that morning. The only eyesore was a large patch of greenery off to the left, on the flanks of the mountain range. Its almost fluorescent shade reminded Zen of the unsuccessful colour postcards of his youth. Presumably it was a forest, but how did any forest rooted in that grudging soil come to glow in that hysterical way?
The road looped down to the main road leading up over the mountains towards Nuoro, the provincial capital where Renato Favelloni now languished in judicial custody. According to the map, the unsurfaced track opposite petered out after a short distance at an isolated station on the metre-gauge railway. Zen turned right, then after a few kilometres forked left on to a road badly in need of repair which ran across the lower slopes of the valley, crossing the railway line, before climbing the other side to join the main coastal highway.
Some distance before the junction, a high wire-mesh fence came down from the ridge to Zen's left to run alongside the road. At regular intervals, large signs warned 'Private Property – Keep Out – Electrified Fencing – Beware of the Lions'. The landscape was bare and windswept, a desolate chaos of rock, scrub and stunted ~ees. After some time a surfaced driveway opened off the road to the left, leading to a gate of solid steel set in the wire-mesh fence.
Even before the Mercedes had come to a complete halt, the gate started to swing open. Zen pressed his foot down on the accelerator and the car, still in third gear, promptly stalled. Managing to restart it at the third attempt, he drove through the barrier, only to find his way blocked by a second gate, identical to the first, which had meanwhile closed behind him, trapping the car between the wiremesh fencing and a parallel inner perimeter of razorbarbed wire. Remote-control cameras mounted on the inner gateposts scanned the Mercedes with impersonal curiosity. After about thirty seconds the inner gate swung silently open, admitting Zen to the late Oscar Burolo's private domain.
The narrow strip of tarmac wound lazily up the hillside.
After about fifty metres, Zen spotted the line of stumpy metal posts planted at irregular intervals, depending on the contours of the land, which marked the villa's third and most sophisticated defence of all: a phase-seeking microwave fence, invisible, intangible, impossible to cross undetected. Within the triply-defended perimeter, the whole property was protected by heat-seeking infra-red detectors, a move-alarm TV system and microwave radar.
All the experts were agreed that security at the Villa Burolo was, if anything, excessive. It just hadn't been sufficient.
Oscar's private road continued to climb steadily upwards, smashing its way through ancient stretches of dry- stone walling that were almost indistinguishable from outbreaks of the rock that was never far from the surface, loose boulders of all sizes lying scattered about like some kind of crop, but in fact nothing grew there except a low scrub of juniper, privet, laurel, heather, rosemary and gorse, a prickly stubble as tough and enduring as the rocks themselves.
Finally the land levelled out briefly, then fell away more steeply to a hollow where the house appeared, sheltered from the bitter northerly winds. From this angle, the Villa Burolo seemed a completely modern creation. The south and east sides of the original farmhouse were concealed by new wings containing the guest suites, kitchen, scullery, laundry room, garage and service accommodation. To the right, in a quarry-like area scooped out of the hillside, was the helicopter landing pad and a steel mast housing the radio beacon for night landings and aerials for Oscar's extensive communications equipment.
Zen parked the Mercedes and walked over to the main entrance, surmounted by a pointed arch of vagueli Moorish appearance. There was no bell or knocker iri sight, when the door opened at his approach and th~ caretaker appeared, Zen realized that it had been absurd to expect one. No one dropped in unexpectedly at the Villa Burolo, not when their every movement from the entrance gate to the front door was being monitored by four independent electronic surveillance systems.
As soon as he set eyes on Alfonso Bini, Zen knew why the caretaker had been ruled out as a suspect virtually from the start. Bini was one of those men so neutered by a lifetime of service that it was difficult to imagine them being able to tie their own shoe-laces unless instructed to do so. He greeted the distinguished foreign visitor with pallid correctness. Yes, Dottor Confalone had explained the situation. Yes, he would be glad to show Signo'r Gurtner around.
No doubt on Confalone's instructions, the tour started with the new wing, in order to dispel any idea that the property was in any way primitive or rustic. Zen patiently endured an interminable exhibition of modern conveniences, ranging from en suite jacuzzis and a fully equipped gymnasium to a kitchen that would have done credit to a three-star hotel. In the laundry room, a frightenedlooking woman was folding towels. Zen guessed that this was the caretaker's wife, although Bini ignored her as though she was just another of the appliances stacked in neatly forbidding ranks along the wall. The only aspect of all this which was of any interest to Zen was a small room packed with video monitors and banks of switches.
'Security?' he queried.
Bini nodded and pointed to a row of red switches near fhe door, labelled with the names of the various alarm systems. The only ones switched on were the field sensors on the inner perimeter fence and the microwave radar.
'So someone has to be here all the time?' Zen asked.
Bini made a negative tutting sound.
'Only if you want to check the screens. If any of the systems picks up anything irregular, an alarm goes off.'
He threw a switch marked 'Test'. A chorus of electronic shrieks rose from every part of the building.
'Very impressive,' murmured Zen. 'My client certainly need have no worries about anyone breaking in.'
The caretaker said nothing. His face was set so hard it looked as though it might crack.
Once the villa's luxury credentials had been established, Zen was taken into the older part of the house to appreciate its aesthetic qualities. A short passageway cut through the thick outer walls of the original farm brought them into a large lounge furnished with leather armchairs, inlaid hardwood tables, Afghan carpets and bookcases full of antique bindings. The head of a disgruntled-looking wild boar emerged from the stonework above an enormous open fireplace as though the animal had charged through the wall and got stuck.
Zen walked over to a carved rosewood gun-rack near the door and inspected the shotguns on display, including an early Beretta and a fine Purdy.
'Do they go with the property?' he asked.
The caretaker shrugged.
'There seems to be one missing,' Zen pursued, indicating the empty slot.
Bini turned pointedly away towards the sliding doors opening on to the terrace.
'What's this?' Zen called after him, pointing to a wooden hatch in the flooring.
'The cellar,' replied the caretaker tonelessly.
'And next door?'
Bini pretended not to hear. Ignoring him, Zen walked through the doorway into the dining room of the villa. In the lounge, the stones of the original walls had been left uncovered as a design feature, but here they had been plastered and painted white. Zen looked around the room that was horribly familiar to him from the video. It was a shock, somehow, to find the walls not splashed and flecked and streaked with blood, but pristine and spotless.
A shuffling in the doorway behind him announced the caretaker's presence.
'Fresh paint?' Zen queried, sniffing the air.
Just for a moment, something stirred into life in the old man's passive gaze. Angelo Confalone would have briefed him carefully, of course. 'Say nothing about what happened! Don't mention Burolo's name! Just keep your mouth shut and with any luck you might keep your job.'
Bini had done his best to obey these instructions so far, but now the strain was beginning to show.
'Nice and clean,' Zen commented approvingly.
The caretaker's mouth cracked open in a ghastly grin.
'My wife, she cleans everything, every day…'
