Blood from a stone

living room and turned on the television. Paola took the remote and switched from channel to channel. They flicked past people trying to sell mattresses, women reading tarot cards, an old film, another old film, two people of indeterminate gender engaged in an activity that was perhaps meant to be sexual, another fortune teller, until finally they came upon the faintly alien face of the CNN newsreader.

‘They never have two matching eyes,’ Paola remarked as she sat on the sofa. ‘And I think they all wear wigs.’

‘You mean you watch this?’ asked an astonished Brunetti.

‘Sometimes, with the kids,’ she said defensively.

‘He said midnight,’ Brunetti reminded her and took the remote control from her hand. He pushed the mute button.

‘There’s time for something to drink, then,’ Paola said and got to her feet. She disappeared towards the kitchen, leaving Brunetti to wonder whether she would emerge with something real to drink or a cup of tisane.

His eyes turned to the screen and he watched what appeared to be a programme about the stock market: a man and a woman, equally other-worldly in appearance, chatted amiably, occasionally reducing each other to peals of not very convincing silent laughter, while below the picture scrolled stock prices that would reduce any thinking person to tears.

After about ten minutes Paola came back with two mugs, saying: ‘The best of both worlds: hot water, lemon, honey, and whiskey.’

She handed him one, then joined him on the sofa to observe the two not-talking heads. Soon she too registered the disparity between the hilarity of the presenters and the misery of the numbers that continued their tidal flow below them. ‘It’s like watching Nero playing the lyre while Rome burns,’ she observed.

‘That’s not a true story,’ the historian in Brunetti declared.

At five to midnight he restored the sound but quickly adjusted it to a barely audible minimum. With a final cheery smile, the two presenters disappeared, to be replaced by a rapid series of views of some Gulf state eager for foreign investment or tourism.

A globe, the throb of portentous music, and then the face of another presenter. Brunetti increased the sound and together they listened to a report on the latest suicidal attack in the Middle East, then one by an F16 with an equal number of victims. There followed a report from Delhi about another failed attempt to restore peace in Kashmir.

And then the presenter’s face took on an expression of learned seriousness. Brunetti increased the volume again. ‘And now, breaking news from Italy. We pass you to our local correspondent, Arnoldo Vitale, with a live report of a terrorist attempt that has been foiled by the Italian police. Arnoldo, are you there?’

‘Yes, Jim,’ said a lightly accented voice in English. There was a slight pause and crackle as the image changed and the voice line switched over. In the top left corner of the screen appeared a talking head, behind him the dome of St Peter’s Basilica.

The rest of the screen showed the grey stucco facade of an apartment building. In front of it were parked the black Jeeps and cars of the Carabinieri as well as four unmarked dark sedans. Men in helmets and flak jackets with CARABINIERI written across the back, all carrying machine-guns, milled around with evident lack of purpose. To the left of them stood a group of four or five men in combat gear, all wearing ski masks.

The voice continued. ‘This evening, Italian police raided an apartment in Vigonza, a generally peaceful suburb of the northern Italian city of Padova, not far from Venice. This in response to a report that members of an Islamic fundamentalist sect had been using one of the apartments in the building as a centre for meetings and training sessions. Italian security experts linking the group to the Al Qaeda terrorist organization and its attacks against American interests.

‘First reports that the police attempted to get the two men in the apartment to give themselves up. Response from the terrorist suspects violent, leaving the police no choice but to storm the apartment. In the ensuing gun battle, one police officer wounded and both of the terrorists in the apartment killed.’

‘Arnoldo,’ asked the unaccented voice, ‘how strong is this link to international terrorism?’

‘Yes, Jim, the police here say they have been aware of this group for some time. As you know, arrests have been made all over Italy this year of suspected terrorists. A government spokesperson reporting that this is the most violent confrontation so far and hopes it is not a sign of things to come.’

‘Arnoldo, is there any perceived threat to Americans travelling in Italy?’

‘No, none at all, Jim. The same spokesman said that any connection to US interests would be to US base in Vicenza, about twenty miles from here. Authorities examining that possibility, but believe no danger to the civilian population.’

As the two men spoke, the Carabinieri continued to wander about in front of the building. Finally the door opened inward and a man carrying the front of a stretcher emerged, then a second man. A long shape covered with a sheet lay on it. A second stretcher emerged, but the Carabinieri ignored both, turning to face the crowd that stood behind a hastily erected row of barriers.

‘Once again, Jim: terrorist network broken up by intervention by Italian police. No threat to Americans on vacation in the country.’ Voice sinking into inflated portentiousness, he concluded, ‘But it looks like Italy is now home to something other than la dolce vita.’

The picture returned to the newsreader. He gave a serious smile and said, ‘That was our Italian correspondent, Arnoldo Vitale, speaking from Rome. Italian police reporting break-up of terrorist ring based near Padova, Italy. No threat to Americans in the area.’

The camera panned to the woman sitting beside him. She turned to Jim, saying, ‘We’ve got more news from Italy, Jim, but of a different sort.’ There was a pause, one no doubt deemed long enough to erase the thought of the death of two men, and she went on, ‘In news that has stunned the fashion industry, one of Italy’s most famous fashion designers says he will not use leather or any animal products in his spring collection.’

Brunetti switched the channel to RAI, but the same old movie was still playing. He tried all of the channels in turn, but there was no report of the incident, not even on the local stations.

He turned the television off. ‘Did your father say where he was calling from?’

Surprised by the question, Paola said, ‘No, he didn’t.’

Brunetti looked at his watch. ‘If I call now and he’s not there, I’ll wake your mother, won’t I?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it will have to wait,’ he said, picking up his cup. But the drink was cold and he set it down untasted.

Brunetti slept little and was outside by six-thirty, walking in rain he barely noticed towards Sant’ Aponal and the edicola there. He saw the shouting headlines and bought four papers. As he handed Brunetti his change, the news dealer said, with a return to his normal tone, ‘Lousy rain. It’ll never stop.’

Brunetti ignored him and went back home, not bothering to stop to get brioche on the way. In the kitchen, he made himself a pot of coffee and set some milk on to heat. Then he mixed them in a mug and sat in front of the papers, which he had arranged in a neat pile with his glasses folded on top.

Paola came in half an hour later and found him still reading, newspapers open across the entire surface of the table. Though he had read all of the accounts carefully, he still had no idea why his father-in-law had told him to watch the news.

She poured what remained of the coffee into a cup, stirred in sugar, and came to stand behind him. Placing her hand on his shoulder, she asked, ‘And?’

‘And it’s pretty much what they said last night: two men in an apartment near Padova. The Carabinieri received a phone call saying they were members of a terrorist group that was preparing attacks against American interests.’

‘What interests?’ Paola asked.

‘That wasn’t explained. At least not in the papers,’ he said, pushing the one he was reading aside.

‘And then?’ she asked, her coffee forgotten, hand still on his shoulder.

‘And they went. You saw the way they were last night, cars and Jeeps and trucks, and God knows how many of them.’ Brunetti pulled one of the papers towards him and flipped back to the front page, where they could both see a photo of the same apartment, the same stretcher bearers, the same apparently purposeless