Ambrogiani shrugged one shoulder by way of answer.
‘Even up here?’
‘Why not? They’ve got to go somewhere. All they do is kill one another down South. How many murders have there been so far this year? Two hundred? Two hundred and fifty? So they’ve started moving up here.’
‘The government?’
Ambrogiani gave the special snort of disgust that Italians reserve for use only when speaking of their government. ‘Who can tell them apart anymore, Mafia and government?’
This vision was more severe than Brunetti’s, but perhaps the nationwide network of the Carabinieri had access to more information than he did.
‘What about you?’ Ambrogiani asked.
‘I can make some phone calls when I get back. Call in some favours.’ He didn’t tell Ambrogiani of the one call he thought would be most successful, one that had nothing to do with calling in a favour; quite the opposite.
They sat there for a long time. Finally, Ambrogiani reached forward and opened the glove compartment. He began to rifle though the stack of maps that lay inside until he finally pulled one out. ‘Have you got time?’ he asked.
‘Yes. How long will it take to get there?’
Instead of answering, Ambrogiani pulled open a map and spread it open in front of him, braced against the steering wheel. With a thick finger, he roved around the map until he found what he was looking for. ‘Here it is. Lake Barcis.’ His finger snaked to the right on the lake and then cut sharply down in a straight line leading to Pordenone. ‘An hour and a half. Maybe two. Most of it is
By way of answer, Brunetti reached behind him and pulled his seat belt across his chest, snapping it into place between the seats.
Two hours later, they were driving up the snake-like road that led to Lake Barcis, one of at least twenty cars caught behind an immense gravel-filled truck that crawled along at about ten kilometres an hour, forcing Ambrogiani constantly to switch gears from second to first as they stopped on curves to allow the truck to manoeuvre its way around them. Every so often, a car swept past them on the left, then cut narrowly between two of the cars crammed behind the truck, forcing an opening with its front end and horn. Occasionally, a car pulled sharply to the right and sought a parking space on the too-narrow shoulder. The driver would pop out, pull open the bonnet, and sometimes make the mistake of opening the radiator.
Brunetti wanted to suggest that they pull over, since they were in no hurry, had no destination, but, even though he wasn’t really a driver, he knew enough not to suggest what to do. After about twenty minutes of this, the truck pulled off the road into a long parking area, no doubt designed for just this purpose, and the cars shot past, some waving their thanks, most not bothering. Ten minutes later, they pulled into the small town of Barcis, and Ambrogiani turned off to the left and down a sharp driveway that led to the lake.
Ambrogiani hauled himself out of the car, obviously rattled by the drive. ‘Let’s have something to drink,’ he said, walking towards a cafe that filled an enormous veranda behind one of the buildings beside the lake. He pulled out a chair at one of the umbrella-shaded tables and dropped into it. Before them stretched the lake, water eerily blue, mountains shooting up behind it. A waiter came and took their order, returned a few minutes later with two coffees and two glasses of mineral water.
After Brunetti had finished his coffee and taken a sip of the water, he asked, ‘Well?’
Ambrogiani smiled. ‘Pretty lake, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, beautiful. What are we, tourists?’
‘I suppose so. Pity we can’t stay here and look at the lake all day, isn’t it?’
It unsettled Brunetti not to know if the other man was serious or not But, yes it would be nice. He found himself hoping that the two young Americans had been able to spend the weekend up here, regardless of the reason for their trip. If they were in love, this would be a beautiful place to be. Himself his own editor, he corrected that to read, if they were in love, anywhere would be beautiful.
Brunetti summoned the waiter and paid him. They had decided on the ride up not to call attention to themselves by asking questions about trucks with red stripes turning onto side roads. They were tourists, even if they were in tie and jacket, and tourists certainly had the right to pull off at a picnic site on the way down and look at the mountains as the traffic sped past them. Because he didn’t know how long they would be, he stopped at the counter inside and asked if the barman could make a few sandwiches to take with them. The best he could do was prosciutto and cheese. Ambrogiani nodded, told him to make four and to put in a bottle of red wine and two plastic cups.
With this in hand, they returned to Ambrogiani’s car and drove down the hill, back in the direction of Pordenone. About two kilometres from Barcis, they saw a broad parking area on the right-hand side and pulled into it. Ambrogiani swung the car around so that they could see the road, not the mountains, killed the engine and said, ‘Here we are.’
‘It wasn’t my idea of how I’d spend my Saturday,’ Brunetti admitted.
‘I’ve had worse,’ Ambrogiani said and then talked about a time when he had been assigned to look for a kidnap victim in Aspromonte and had spent three days up in the hills, lying on the ground, watching through a pair of field glasses as people went into and out of a shepherd’s hut.
‘What happened?’Brunetti asked.
‘Oh, we got them.’ And then he laughed. ‘But it was someone else, not the one we were looking for. This girl’s family had never called us, never reported it. They were willing to pay the ransom, only we got there before they had the chance to pay a lira.’
‘What happened to the other one? The one you were looking for?’
‘They killed him. We found him a week after we found the girl. They’d cut his throat. The smell led us to him.
