Death in a Strange Country

‘Post,’ Butterworth responded immediately. ‘This is a post. The Air Force has bases. We have posts in me Army.’

‘Ah, I see. In Italian, they’re both bases. Would it be all right for me to remain here for a while?’

After no more than a moment’s hesitation, Butterworth said, ‘I don’t see any problem with that.’

‘And the apartment, Major? How will I get in?’

Major Butterworth got to his feet and started around his desk. ‘We’ve got two men there. I’ll call them and let them know you’re coming.’

‘Thank you, Major,’ Brunetti said, standing and extending his hand.

‘It’s nothing. Glad to be of help in this.’ Butterworth’s grip was strong, forceful. But, Brunetti noted as they shook hands, the American hadn’t asked to be told what he might discover about the dead man.

The blonde was no longer at her desk in the outer office. Her computer screen glimmered to one side of her desk, as blank as her expression had been.

‘Where to, sir?’ asked the driver when Brunetti got back into the car.

Brunetti gave him the sheet of paper with Foster’s address on it. ‘Do you know where that is?’

‘Borgo Casale? Yes, sir. It’s just behind the soccer stadium.’

‘Is that the way we came?’

‘Yes, sir. We passed right alongside it on the way. Would you like to go there now?’

‘No, not yet. I’d like to get something to eat first.’

‘Never been here before, sir?’

‘No, I haven’t. Have you been here long?’

‘Six years. But I’m lucky to have been posted here. My family’s from Schio,’ he explained, naming a town about half an hour away.

‘It’s very strange, isn’t it?’ Brunetti asked, waving a hand at the buildings around them.

The driver nodded.

‘What else is here, except for the offices? Maggiore Ambrogiani mentioned a supermarket.’

‘And a cinema and a swimming-pool, a library, schools. It’s a whole city. They even have their own hospital.’

‘How many Americans are here?’ Brunetti asked.

I’m not sure. About five thousand, but that would be with wives and children, I think.’

‘Do you like them?’Brunetti asked.

The driver shrugged. ‘What’s not to like? They’re friendly.’ It hardly sounded like an enthusiastic recommendation. Changing the subject, the driver asked, ‘What about lunch, sir? Would you like to eat here or off- base?’

‘What do you suggest?’

‘The Italian mensa is the best place. You can get food there. Hearing this, Brunetti wondered what the Americans served in their own dining-halls. Rivets? ‘But ifs closed today. Strike.’ Well, there was proof that it was really Italian, even on an American military installation.

‘Is there anywhere else?’

Without answering, the driver slipped the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. Suddenly, he swung around in a sharp U-turn and headed back towards the main road that bisected the post. He made a series of turns around buildings and behind cars, none of which made any sense to Brunetti, and soon pulled up in front of yet another low cement building.

Brunetti looked out of the back window of the car and saw that they were stopped diagonally in front of the right angle made by two shop fronts. Above one glass door, he saw ‘Food Mall’. Wasn’t that what lions did to their prey? The other sign read ‘Baskin Robbins’. Not at all optimistic, Brunetti asked, ‘Coffee?’

The driver nodded at the second door, clearly eager for Brunetti to get out. When he did, the driver leaned back across the seat and said, ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes,’ then shut the door and pulled away sharply, leaving Brunetti on the curb, feeling strangely abandoned and alien. To the right of the second door he could now see a sign which read, ‘Capucino Bar’, the sign-maker apparently an American.

Inside, he asked the woman behind the counter for a coffee then, knowing there would be no chance of lunch, asked for a brioche. It looked like pastry, felt like pastry, but tasted like cardboard. He placed three thousand-lire bills on the counter. The woman looked at the notes, looked up at him, took them, then placed on the counter the same coins he had found in the pockets of the dead man. For an instant, Brunetti wondered if she was attempting to give him some private signal, but a closer look at her face showed him that all she was doing was giving him the proper change.

He left the place and went to stand outside, content to get a sense of the post while waiting for his driver to return. He sat on a bench in front of the shops and watched the people walking past.

A few glanced at him as he sat there, dressed in suit and tie and clearly out of place among them. Many of the people who walked past him, men and women alike, wore uniform. Most of the others wore shorts and tennis shoes, and many of the women, too often those who shouldn’t have, wore halter tops. They appeared to be dressed either for war or for the beach. Most of the men were fit and powerful; many of the women were enormously, terrifyingly fat.

Cars drove by slowly, their drivers searching for parking spaces: big cars, Japanese cars, cars with that same AFI number plate. Most had the windows raised, while from the air-conditioned interiors blared rock music in varying degrees of loudness.