they acquired it?'
Toscano's really belongs to his wife. At least it's listed in her
name.'
'You told me Filippi was married to the President's cousin.'
'Yes. He is. But the stock is in his name, not hers. It seems that
he was paid in stock while he was on the board.'
Neither spoke for a long time until finally Brunetti broke the silence
by saying, 'It would be in both of their interests to see that the
price of the stock didn't drop.'
'Exactly,' agreed Avisani.
'A parliamentary investigation might have just that effect.'
This time it was the journalist who answered with a noise, though his
was more a grunt than a hum.
'Did you check the stock?' Brunetti asked.
'Steady as a rock, well, as a rock that continues to move upward and
that gives out steady dividends.'
The phone line was silent, but both of them heard the tumble and roll
of the other's calculations and conclusions. Finally Avisani said,
sounding stressed, 'I've got to go, Guido. We might wake up tomorrow
morning with no government.'
'It's a pity Tommaso d'Aquino is no longer with us,' Brunetti observed
mildly.
Confused, Avisani asked, 'What?' then amended it to 'Why?'
'He might have added that to his proofs of the existence of God.'
Another muffled noise and Avisani was gone.
But how, Brunetti wondered, to penetrate the world of the cadets? He
had long held the view that it was no accident that the Mafia had grown
in the home of the Vatican, for both demanded the same fidelity from
their followers and both punished betrayal with death, either earthly
or eternal. The third in this trinity of twisted loyalty was
undoubtedly the military: perhaps the business of imposing death upon
the enemy made it easy to impose it upon their own.
He sat for a long time, dividing his gaze between the wall of his
office and the facade of San Lorenzo, but on neither surface saw he any
way to penetrate the code that reigned at San Martino. Finally he
picked up the phone and called Pucetti. When the officer answered,
Brunetti asked, 'How old is Filippi?'
'Eighteen, sir
'Good.'
'Why?'
'We can talk to him alone.'
'Won't he want a lawyer?'
'Not if he thinks he's smarter than we are.'
'And how will you make him think that?'
'I'll send Alvise and Riverre to bring him in.'
Brunetti was very pleased by the fact that Pucetti refrained from
laughter or comment, seeing in his discretion sign of both the young
man's intelligence and his charity.
When Brunetti went downstairs an hour later, he found Paolo Filippi in
the interview room, sitting at the head of the rectangular table,
facing the door. The young man sat straight in the chair, his spine at
least ten centimetres from the back, his hands carefully folded on the
desk in front of him, like a general who has summoned his staff and
waits impatiently for them to arrive. He wore his uniform and had
placed his cap, neatly folded gloves carefully set on its crown, to
his
right. He looked at Brunetti when he and Vianello came in but said
nothing to acknowledge their presence. Brunetti recognized him
instantly as the boy whose ankle he had so delighted in kicking, and he
saw that the recognition was mutual.
Taking his cue from Filippi's silence, Brunetti walked to one side of
the table, Vianello to the other. Brunetti carried a thick blue file,
which he placed in front of him as he sat down. Ignoring the boy, he
reached out and turned on the microphone, then gave the date and the
names of the three people present in the room. He turned to face the
boy and, in a voice he made sound as formulaic as possible, asked
Filippi if he wanted a lawyer to be present, hoping that to the young
man's ears it would sound like the sort of offer a brave man would
spurn.
'Of course not,' the boy said, striving for the tone of bored
