payable over two years, that’s a bonus of seventy-five thousand this year, same again next. How does that sound?”
“Appetizing,” said Blume, and sipped his water.
“You’ll see. Once you get into the spending bit, you’ll love it. Do you need any help in setting up a bank account? I know someone who operates out of Lugano. You know that thing about the Swiss not paying interest on deposits? Not true. Well, technically it is true, but the bank will open a money market fund for you, which is like having interest on the deposits. We can talk about that later. First income within two months, so you need to set up the account soon. Have you got around twenty-five thousand to open an account?”
“No.”
“Never mind. Call this guy.” Farinelli gave Blume a business card. “Get the account open soon. We don’t want the money to enter Italy at any point.”
“Great,” said Blume. He pocketed the card.
“Oh, wait. I think I gave you the wrong card. What’s the name on that?”
Blume pulled out the card and read it: “Claudio Neri, Dottore commercialista.”
“No, that’s the right one,” said the Colonel. “He’s the man you want. This works on the basis of trust, Commissioner. Which is why I am feeling very worried about what happened to Treacy’s manuscript. In the form of several notebooks, I believe.”
Blume widened his eyes as if in surprise.
“I specifically asked you to give them to me. I presumed you would have them photocopied and read them at your leisure, and it was never my intention to deprive you of that pleasure. But you removed them and said nothing, then tried to hide them from me. Why would you do that?”
Blume considered denial, but it suddenly seemed like so much time-wasting.
“If we are working on a relationship of trust, why did you have me tailed last night?”
“That was after.” The Colonel reached over to the next table, and lifted the menu.
“After what?”
“After you lied to me, and after I had Treacy’s place taken apart by a team. He was writing a book. I know this. The manuscript is not there. You were in there before me and now you have been seen with manuscripts.”
“Maybe these notebooks or manuscripts or whatever they are don’t exist except in your mind.”
“You handed them over to a functionary from the US Embassy, which was a bad move and narrows my options. I am presuming you copied them first.”
“Let me give you another thought to turn over in your mind as you choose dessert. Your men never saw the notebooks in my possession. All they saw was a functionary from the embassy with what seemed like notebooks leave my house and head straight for the embassy.”
“Am I supposed to think a US government employee agreed to run a decoy for you?”
“Keep your mind open to the possibility, Colonel. The Americans may or may not have Treacy’s notebooks. It’s fun to keep you guessing.”
An apple-shaped man with glossy cheeks approached the table, and the Colonel waved him away impatiently. “Not now, Vito. Thanks to the Commissioner here I have completely lost my appetite. Just bring me a coffee, a vinsanto, and a few cantuccio biscuits.”
To Blume he said, “What’s your game, here? You want a bigger cut, is that it?”
“Maybe,” said Blume. “Remind me why the notebooks are so important.”
“Have you read them?”
“Yes. They are interesting. They’ll make a good book, someday.”
“I told you,” said the Colonel. “Treacy is liable to have made discomforting allegations regarding the years 1978 to 1982. It would be useful for me to see these. It’s old politics, and no one’s very interested any more, but it’s still my job to deal with these things, just as younger people than me are dealing with more current matters of national security.”
Blume nodded as if in approval. “Exactly. And that is almost word for word the argument put forward by the US Embassy. Old stuff, no one cares but it would be nice not to give it a new airing. Now, as far as I can make out, you and the US Embassy have always been on the same side. Broadly speaking.”
The Colonel stared across the table. “Yes, we have. They will be pleased to see the manuscript go unpublished. Meanwhile, there may be some other details that affect me personally that I should like to know about. Perhaps you have already come across them?”
“I couldn’t say. Unless you are referring to the Mafia, or the Moro kidnapping, or, let me see… actually, you do crop up a lot.”
The Colonel’s coffee, fortified wine, and almond biscuits arrived. He ripped open two sachets of sugar and poured them into the cup, stirred, and said, “A redacted version. That’s what you are planning on giving me.” He inserted a biscuit sideways into his mouth. “Sun Tzu tells us that the converted spy must be treated with the utmost liberality,” he said. “I thought that’s what I was doing with you. But you’re not converted, are you? I’ll give you seventy percent of what we get from the sale of Treacy’s paintings.”
“I am not a spy either,” said Blume.
“No, maybe not. And another thing, I think you accepted my art deal too readily. If you were that venal, I’d have heard about it. So all I can think is that you are trying to double-cross me.”
“On whose behalf?” asked Blume.
“That’s the part I can’t figure out,” said the Colonel, licking his glistening thumb. “ Cui bono? ”
“Maybe I am working for the good of the State,” said Blume.
The Colonel laughed good-naturedly. “I don’t mind this standoff with you. It’s rejuvenating. But let’s not make it last any longer than it has to.”
“The paintings taken from Treacy’s place-where are they now?”
“Merely to demonstrate goodwill, I can tell you they are in storage at the Carabiniere Art Forgery and Heritage Division. As safe as possible. All mixed up with stuff from the gallery and items of evidence necessary for the investigations. A logistical nightmare. It’s impossible to keep track of these things. The place is run by kids with computers now. They’re no match for the old guard. It’s as if I had them in my hand.”
Blume stood up. “Thanks for lunch, by the way.”
Ten minutes later, Blume was leaning against a bollard next to Bernini’s sculpted elephant and thinking about the Colonel and Treacy. The blood, urine, and bile ethanol readings in the autopsy report were that of a serious drunk. Treacy’s liver was an inflamed wedge of fat permeated with cytokines. The ethanol reading for his vitreous humor confirmed the rest. He was literally drunk up to the eyeballs.
A group of Japanese tourists gathered around him, pulled out several-thousand-euros’ worth of high-tech equipment, and began to photograph the stone elephant.
Blume stood up, immortalizing himself in a dozen Japanese home videos, and walked the 200 meters to his station at Collegio Romano.
On his way back into the office, he bumped into Assistente Capo Rospo. “Did you get the preliminary autopsy report like I asked?”
“No,” said Rospo. “I tried. It’s not ready. They haven’t even done the autopsy yet.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“As far as I know,” said Rospo.
“The mugging report?”
“Almost done.”
“Good work, Rospo.”
“Yeah, well. Too much stuff to do.”
Blume sought out Panebianco and asked if he had seen Caterina.
“She had to go pick up her boy,” he said. “You know it must be really difficult being a mother, always having to run off in the middle of the working day.”
Blume went into his office and called Caterina on her cell phone. It rang and rang, then was answered with a disconnect.
