Death in a Strange Country

to see her a few times during the last two years, apparently the only person in the city who had.

‘Lucky you. Does she talk to you, too?’

‘Yes.’

‘In Siciliano?’

‘I don’t think she knows how to speak anything else.’

‘How much do you understand?’

‘About half,’ Brunetti answered, then added, for truth’s sake, ‘but only if she talks very, very slowly.’ Though Signora Ruffolo could not be said to have adapted to life in Venice, she had, in her own way, become part of the police legend of the city, a woman who would attack a commissario of police to protect her son.

Soon after Rossi left, Fosco called back. ‘Guido, I spoke to a few people here. The word is that he lost a fortune in the Gulf business. A ship that was carrying an entire cargo - and no one knew what was in the cargo - disappeared, probably taken by pirates. Because the boycott was in effect, he couldn’t get insurance.’

‘So he lost the whole lot?’

‘Yes.’

‘Any idea how much?’

‘No one’s sure. I’ve heard estimates that range from five to fifteen billion, but no one could give me an exact amount. In any case, the word is thathe managed to hold things together for a while, but now he’s got serious cash-flow problems. One friend of mine at Corriere said Viscardi’s really got nothing to worry about because he’s tied into some sort of government contract. And he’s got holdings in other countries. My contact wasn’t certain where. Do you want me to try to find out more?’

Signor Viscardi was beginning to sound to Brunetti like any one of the rising generation of businessmen, those who had replaced hard work with boldness, and honesty with connections. ‘No, I don’t think so, Riccardo. I just wanted to get an idea of whether he’d try something like this.’

‘And?’

‘Well, it looks like he might be in a position to want to give it a try, doesn’t it?’

Fosco offered a bit more information. ‘The word is that he’s very well connected, but the person I spoke to wasn’t sure just how. Do you want me to ask around some more?’

‘Did it sound like it might be Mafia?’ Brunetti asked.

‘It looks that way.’ Fosco gave a resigned laugh. ‘But when doesn’t it? It seems, though, that he’s also connected to people in the government.’

Brunetti resisted, in his turn, the temptation to ask when didn’t it sound that way and, instead, asked, ‘What about his personal life?’

‘He’s got a wife and a couple of kids here. She’s some sort of den mother for the Knights of Malta - you know, charity balls and visits to hospitals. And a mistress in Verona; I think it’s Verona. Some place out your way.’

‘You said he’s arrogant.’

‘Yes. A few people I spoke to say he’s more than that.’

‘What does that mean?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Two said he could be dangerous.’

‘Personally?’

‘You mean, will he pull a knife?’ Fosco asked with a laugh.

‘Something like that.’

‘No, that’s not the impression I got. Not personally, at any rate. But he likes to take chances; at least that’s the reputation he has here. And, as I said, he’s a very well-protected man, and he has no hesitation about asking his friends to help him.’ Fosco paused for a moment and then added, ‘One person I spoke to was even more outspoken, but he wouldn’t tell me anything exact. He just said that anyone who dealt with Viscardi should be very careful.’

Brunetti decided to treat this last lightly and said, ‘I’m not afraid of knives.’

Fosco’s response was immediate. ‘I used not to be afraid of machine guns, Guido.’ Then, embarrassed at the remark; he added, ‘I mean it, Guido, be careful with him.’

‘All right, I will. And thanks,’ he said, then added, ‘I still haven’t heard anything, but when I do, I’ll let you know,’ Most of the police who knew Fosco had put out the word that they were interested in knowing who had done the shooting and who had done the sending, but whoever it was had been very cautious, knowing how well-liked Fosco was with the police, and years had passed in silence. Brunetti believed it was hopeless, but he still asked the occasional question, dropped a hint here and there, spoke vaguely to suspects about the chance of a trade-off in exchange for the information he wanted. But, in all these years, he had never got close.

‘I appreciate it, Guido. But I’m not so sure it’s all that important any more.’ Was this wisdom or resignation he was hearing.

‘Why?’

‘I’m getting married.’ Love, then, better than either.

‘Congratulations, Riccardo. Who?’

‘I don’t think you know her, Guido. She works on the magazine, but she’s just been here a year or so.’

‘When is it?’