'Of course. I'll let you know if there are any developments.' He was awakened by a light tapping at the door. It opened to reveal the consul. 'You have a visitor,' he said.
Zen rolled up off the bed. It was like being back in hospital, he thought. People came in and out of your room and told you what to do next. He had been living like this for almost a year now. When would he sleep in his own bed again? But where was that bed? Rome, he supposed, but the idea didn't carry complete conviction.
His visitor turned out to be Borunn Sigurdardottir, the policewoman who had interviewed him at the airport the day before. She nodded at him and made a short speech which Snaebjorn Gudmundsson translated.
'She brings good news. The chief pathologist has now confirmed the preliminary findings of the autopsy performed yesterday. His conclusion is that Signor Angelo Porri died of natural causes, a heart attack to be precise. The police therefore have no further interest in the matter, and you are free to go, with apologies for the unavoidable delay.'
Inspector Sigurdardottir handed over the passport in the name of Pier Giorgio Butani to Zen. Then she flashed Zen a brief smile, like a shaft of sunlight glancing off an ice field, and left.
'Well, that’s all very well' Zen said testily to Snaebjdrn Gudmundsson. ‘I can leave, but how? The only ticket I've got is on Alitalia. Do they fly to Iceland?'
'No.'
'Then what am I supposed to do, have them divert another plane to pick me up?'
‘I imagine that they will have made arrangements with another airline to fly you to America. We can check with the airport. But the first step is to inform the embassy in Copenhagen. I'll do that on the land line in my study.'
He returned a few minutes later.
'Well, that’s done. They're going to contact Rome. We're to await instructions.' A silence fell.
'Where did you learn Italian?' asked Zen.
'When I was a student in Florence, many years ago.'
'Studying what?'
'Art.'
'Oh yes, you said you were an artist.' 'Yes.'
Zen glanced around the stridently bare walls. 'So you sell all your work?' 'None of it.' 'None?'
'No. If s no good, you see.'
Zen smiled politely.
'I'm sure you're just being modest'
'Not at all. I may not be much of an artist, but I'm an excellent judge of art. I sometimes wish I weren't. It might make it possible to believe that my stuff had some value. But it doesn't. I know that'
'But you keep working?' 'Oh yes. What else would I do?' 'So where are your paintings?' Snaebjorn Gudmundsson stood up. 'Would you like to see them?'
Zen's heart sank. The last thing he wanted was a guided tour round some amateur dauber's studio. Fortunately the telephone rang next door.
'It’s Rome’ said the consul, reappearing in the doorway a moment later. Tor you.'
Gudmundsson's study, by contrast with the living area, was a jumble of papers and files. Zen seated himself at the desk and picked up the phone.
'Pronto.'
'Buona sera, dottore. This is not a secure line, so ifs important that we do not identify ourselves or be too specific about the matters under discussion.'
'I understand’
'We have spoken before, most recently on your connecting flight from Pisa to Milan.' 'Ah yes.'
'I understand that you have had a tiresome time recently, but that everything is now sorted out’
'That s right. What’s not clear is how I'm to continue my journey.'
'The answer is that you aren't.' 'I'm not?'
'No. There have been developments. In fact we have reason to suppose that they may have pre-dated your departure, but our American counterparts have only just seen fit to inform us.'
'I hope there's no lack of trust implied.'
'If so, it would be totally unjustified. There have been no breaches of security this end, I can assure you.'
'That s good to know. So if one of these attempts on my life finally succeeds, I can die secure in the knowledge that the leak was of non-Italian origin.'
'Please don't be facetious. Ifs also most inappropriate to mention such matters on this connection. In any case, there will be no more such episodes.'
'That's certain, is it?'
'Absolutely certain. As I said, there have been developments, as a result of which the event at which you were to participate in the United States has now been postponed and may well be cancelled altogether.'
Zen hardly dared to believe what he had heard.
'In short, one of the two principal protagonists has decided to co-operate with our side’ the Foreign Ministry man went on. 'As a result, your participation has been rendered superfluous. There is therefore no need for you to attend, and no risk that any further attempts will be made to prevent you from doing so.'
Zen laughed lightly.
'It was Nello, right?' he said.
'Please!'
'All right, but it was, wasn't it?' 'Well, yes. How did you know?'
'He talked to me in the car, while they were driving me to meet you know who. He explained how they lit the landing strip for the aircraft. The other man told him to shut up. I could tell he was a talker then. Any competent cop or magistrate could have got him to open up eventually. He was one of those people who just can't bear to be silent’
'Well, that’s what happened. And you'll be pleased to know that there's some evidence that the incident at Versilia may have been a contributing factor. In their view, it seems, that was their last hope of preventing your appearance at the event in America, and when it failed the outcome was preordained. So one of the protagonists, the one you mentioned, apparently decided to make a deal. His cooperation in return for a new identity and a new life over there’
'Any chance of that for me?'
'Better still, you can have your old one back. You're to return immediately for a complete briefing at your normal place of employment. Our embassy in Copenhagen will send full details to the consul shortly. I wish you a pleasant journey and a safe return home.'
When Zen reappeared in the living room, Snaebjorn Gudmundsson looked at him curiously.
'The embassy in Denmark is going to contact you about my travel arrangements,' Zen told him.
'Ah’
'Basically, I'm going back to Italy.' ‘I see.'
'Immediately’
The consul nodded his understanding of the rules of this game. He glanced at his watch. 'Well, that'll probably be the two-thirty to Copenhagen.'
Zen looked surprised.
'What time is it now?'
'Half past ten. Plenty of time.'
'It can't be only half past ten! It must be noon at least.'
'No, half past ten in the evening. The flight's in the early morning. We're so remote, you see. It takes three hours to get to Europe, and we're on British time, so that's another hour. If you want to get to a business meeting on time, you have to leave after midnight. But don't worry, I'll get you there in plenty of time.'
He looked at Zen and smiled.
'You asked to see my paintings. Come this way.'
Zen, who had completely forgotten this aspect of their conversation, followed the consul into his kitchen, then out into the back yard of the house, a concreted rectangle containing a large pile of black ash.
