“As soon as you get there, you can read them, copy them, do what you need to do. But these originals-they have to stay safe. You understand that?”
“Why are you trusting me instead of Kristin? I understand you two are good friends.”
“Exactly,” said Blume, winking at the young man and lowering his voice. “So if I have to choose which one of you I want to stay here with me this evening…”
Greg grinned. “Yeah, I totally get that.”
Blume stood close to him, pressing the plastic bag into his hand, urging him to leave. Greg looked for guidance to Kristin, who merely shrugged.
As soon as Greg had left, bag in hand, Kristin said, “I don’t know what game you’re playing.”
“No game,” said Blume absently. “Excuse me. That chili. I need to go to the bathroom again.”
“I think I’ll leave, too.”
“At least wait till I’m finished in the bathroom before you do.”
Kristin’s nose wrinkled. “Do you have to be so explicit?”
“Forthright, you mean. Explicit would involve description… give me three minutes.”
Blume locked the bathroom door, stood in the bath, opened the window, and peered out. He heard the squeak and clash of the front gate closing, and then Greg came into his line of vision on the sidewalk. Blume pulled out his phone and hit the redial button, then watched as Greg put the bag between his knees to search for his phone.
“It’s me,” he whispered when Greg answered. “Did I give you all three notebooks?”
He watched as Greg opened the bag, peered in, pulling one of the notebooks out a little.
“Yeah, I got three here.”
“Cool,” said Blume. “Maybe you should hand them in to the marines at the gate, you know?”
“I can handle it, Alec. It’s my job.”
“Great.” Blume hung up and watched Greg tuck the volumes firmly into his armpit and disappear into the night.
He came out of the bathroom. Kristin had redone her buttons and was looking severely at him. “You’re not being cooperative, Alec. It’s written all over your face.”
“Don’t you want to stay?”
“I don’t think so. I get the feeling you want me here as some sort of alibi. We can talk again another time. Thanks for the lovely dinner.”
She left. Blume went over to his kitchen window, which afforded a more generous view of the street below. Greg was out of sight now. As he watched, Blume saw the blue car pull out of its place, its metallic sheen glinting briefly as it passed a streetlight. Three minutes later, Kristin appeared. She glanced up at the window and he waved.
She did not wave back.
Blume made himself a sweet espresso on the stove and heaped sugar into his small cup. He blew it cold, then gulped it down like a shot of bourbon and kept the cup tilted to allow the sugary sludge at the bottom to slide into his mouth. Then he phoned Greg again.
“Me again. Do they teach you countersurveillance?”
“What’s this about?”
“Maybe you are being followed. I wouldn’t go home until you’re sure. Get the notebooks to the embassy. I’ll call you back in five.”
“Wait, I…”
Blume had a second coffee, with less sugar this time. Five minutes later he phoned again.
“Well?”
“You’re right. I am definitely being followed. I don’t think they are even trying to hide it.”
“They probably are,” said Blume. “It’s just they’re no good at it. Carabinieri. Can’t get anything right.”
“Is that who they are?”
“That’s what I would guess. You had better make the trip from your car to the embassy gates as short as possible.”
“I have a permit, I can drive right in,” said Greg.
“Well, thank God for that,” said Blume.
He opened the first notebook and began to read from where he had left off. Two hours later, he made another pot of coffee. It was not until six in the morning that he finally shut the second book.
Chapter 17
Blume slept like a baby for four hours. At ten, he went for a run in the park, already filling up with the Sunday crowds. He was still enjoying the ache and stretch of his leg muscles when he reached the station. Saturday nights were the busiest, late Sunday mornings were the quietest. Grattapaglia was standing by the coffee machine in the corridor, stirring sugar into the mini plastic cup that made coffee and everything else the machine dispensed taste like crude oil. Blume touched him on the elbow.
“You’re doing the reports?”
“Yes.”
“Glad to hear it. But things aren’t looking good for you. A special investigator is being appointed tomorrow. He’ll take a day or two to get started. You want to keep working right up to the suspension.”
Grattapaglia nodded calmly.
Where was all this serene acceptance of the veteran yesterday morning, Blume wondered.
Blume went into his office, the reinvigorating effects of his run already fading. He was about to call Caterina to find out where she had got to with Treacy’s notebooks, when the phone on his desk rang. It was the Questore, phoning from home, reminding him of the need to cooperate in the disciplinary action for the policeman who had assaulted the diplomat. Blume gave bland assurances and hung up not quite while his boss was still speaking, but almost.
Kristin phoned him on his cell.
That took longer than I thought, said Blume to himself. He had been expecting her call in the wee hours of the morning.
“I suppose you think that was a very clever thing to do?” she said as he answered.
“More than anything else, it was funny,” said Blume, though he heard his own voice say the word “funny” in a flat and unapologetic tone. “When did Greg find out?”
“This morning. I’m the only one he’s told, as you can imagine. He wants to kill you now.”
“I’d enjoy seeing him try.”
“I doubt you’d enjoy it really. Look, Alec, I need to know what you are doing. Not cooperating with the embassy is one thing. We’re fine with that, up to a point. But actively working against us…”
“I wasn’t. I’ll cooperate with you. I just need a little time to look into them.”
“This giving him blank notebooks was what, a practical joke?” asked Kristin. “ Uno scherzo da prete.”
“Sure it was.”
“What about Greg saying he was being followed and that you tipped him off. That was a joke, too?”
“You can’t believe anything Greg tells you after that,” said Blume.
“Did you use him as some sort of decoy?”
Blume’s phone beeped in his ear to indicate another caller was trying to contact him. He took the phone from his ear and looked at the display. Another unknown number.
“… waiting for an answer, Alec.”
“Look, Kristin, I’ll get back to you on this.”
“I really think you should.”
Whoever had been calling him had given up. His desk phone rang.
“Commissioner Blume.” Farinelli’s voice sounded softer on the phone, almost girlish. “In the office on a
