surely more than a hundred. He tried to do the numbers in his head, but his uncertainty about the volume, as well as how many rows stood behind the ones they could see, meant that he could not estimate the total more than to say each row contained at least twelve thousand litres.
Not that the number meant anything, not without knowing the contents. After that, they could tabulate the extent of the danger. All of these thoughts, numerical and otherwise, went through his mind as the light played over the facade of barrels.
‘Let’s have a look,’ Brunetti said, keeping his voice down. He and Vianello descended to the bottom step. ‘Give me the light, Pucetti.’
Brunetti freed his arm from Vianello’s and stepped on to the floor of the tank. Pucetti passed the Ispettore and stepped down, then took another step, and joined Brunetti. ‘I’ll come with you, sir,’ the younger man said, shining the light on to the mud just beneath their feet.
Vianello lifted one foot, but Brunetti put a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I want to see how we get out of here, first.’ He was conscious of how softly they all spoke, as if to cause an echo might bring peril.
Instead of answering, Pucetti waved the beam of light back up the curving stairs, all the way to the top.
‘In case we have to move quickly,’ Brunetti said. In the glow from the flashlight, he reached out and took it from Pucetti’s hand. ‘Wait here,’ he said and moved off, his left hand sliding along the wall of the tank. He moved slowly until he found the door and then the inner keyholes of the two locks.
Not too far ahead he saw what he had hoped to see: the horizontal hand-bar of a smaller emergency exit cut into the larger door. Brunetti saw no written warning about an alarm nor any sign that it was wired to one. He pressed down on the bar, and the door swung outward on well-oiled hinges. The air brushed across his face, bringing different smells and a reminder of just how foul the air inside was. He toyed for a moment with the idea of leaving the door propped open, but decided against it. He pulled it closed, and the inner cold and smell returned.
He lit his way back to the others. Before he could say anything, Pucetti stepped closer and linked his arm in Brunetti’s, a gesture Brunetti found touchingly protective. Tentatively, arm in arm, they set off, careful of where they trod on the icy surface, pausing after every step to see that their feet were safely grounded on the frozen peaks and crevices of the floor. Caution slowed them, so it took them some time to reach the centre of the front line of barrels.
Brunetti ran the light across them, hunting for something that would disclose their contents or origins. The first three gave no indication of either, though the white skull and crossbones suggested the superfluity of such niceties. The next barrel had traces of white paper where something had been ripped away, leaving two faded Cyrillic letters. The container beside it was clean, as were the next three. Close to the end of the row stood a barrel with a sulphurous green trail leading from under the lid to a patch of dried powder in the mud in front of it. Pucetti released Brunetti’s arm and walked beyond the last barrel. Brunetti turned the corner and flashed the light along the side of the rows of barrels. ‘Eighteen,’ Pucetti said after a moment. Brunetti, who had counted nineteen, nodded and moved back to have a closer look at the corner barrel; he could see an orange label just below the lid. German was not a language he could read, but it was one he could recognize. ‘
‘I think we’ve seen enough, Pucetti,’ he said and turned back to where he thought Vianello was waiting.
‘Right, Commissario,’ Pucetti said and started towards him.
Brunetti stepped away from Pucetti, called Vianello’s name and, when he answered, pointed the beam in the direction of his voice. Neither of them saw what happened. Behind him, he heard Pucetti take a sharp breath — of surprise, not of fear — and then he heard a long slithery noise that he was able to identify only in retrospect as the sound of Pucetti’s foot sliding suddenly forward on the frozen mud.
He felt something slam into his back and he had a moment’s terror at the thought that it was one of the barrels. Then a thud, then silence, then a sudden cry from Pucetti.
He turned slowly, moving his feet carefully, and pointed the light towards Pucetti’s voice. The young officer was on his knees, wiping his left hand across the front of his coat, moaning while he did so. He stuffed his hand between his knees and began to rub it back and forth against the cloth of his trousers.
‘
‘Vianello, the tea,’ Brunetti shouted and turned to point the light wildly, no longer sure where Vianello was, nor the door.
‘I’m here,’ the Ispettore said, and suddenly Brunetti had him transfixed in the light, thermos in one hand. Brunetti pulled Pucetti forward and locked his own hand around his lower arm, shoving Pucetti’s hand towards Vianello. The young man’s palm and part of the back of his hand were covered with traces of some black substance, much of which he had managed to wipe on to his clothing. Amidst the black, the skin was red, in places peeling back and already bleeding.
‘This is going to hurt, Roberto,’ Vianello said. He raised the thermos above the young man’s hand, and at first Brunetti didn’t understand what he was doing. But when the liquid spilled out, steaming, he realized that the Ispettore hoped that it would cool at least minimally before hitting the burnt flesh of Pucetti’s hand.
Brunetti tightened his grip, but there was no need to do that. Pucetti understood and stood motionless as the tea hit and then splashed across his hand. Brunetti stepped back, the better to keep the light steady on what was happening. The stream fell, leaving a halo of vapour all around it. Time seemed without end. ‘Here,’ Vianello finally said and handed Brunetti the thermos.
The Ispettore pulled off his parka and ripped a piece of the fleece lining from the inside. He dropped the jacket in the mud and used the ragged strip to wipe between the young man’s fingers, as thoughtful and careful as a mother. When he had most of the black goo removed, he took back the thermos and dribbled more tea across Pucetti’s hand, turning the hand carefully to see that the liquid went everywhere before running off on to the ground.
When the thermos was empty, Vianello dropped it and said to Brunetti, ‘Give me your handkerchief.’ Brunetti gave it to him, and Vianello wrapped it around Pucetti’s hand, tying it in a knot on the back. He picked up the thermos, pulled the young man to him in a one-armed hug, then said to Brunetti, ‘Let’s get him to the hospital.’
25
The doctor at the Pronto Soccorso at the Mestre hospital took almost twenty minutes to clean Pucetti’s hand, soaking it in a mild cleansing liquid and then in a disinfectant to lower the risk of infection from what was, in essence, a burn. He said that whoever had thought to wash his hand had probably saved it, or at least prevented the burns from being far worse than they were. He slathered on salve and wrapped Pucetti’s hand until it looked like a white boxing glove, then gave him something for pain and told him to go to the hospital in Venice the next day, and every day for a week, to have the dressing changed.
Vianello stayed with Pucetti while Brunetti was out in the corridor talking to Ribasso, having reached the Carabiniere after some difficulty. The Captain seemed not at all surprised by Brunetti’s account and, when Brunetti finished telling him about Pucetti, replied, ‘You’re lucky my sharpshooters decided to leave you alone.’
‘What?’
‘My men saw you drive in and go up the ladder, but one of hem thought of checking the registration. Good thing you used an official car or there might have been trouble.’
‘How long have you been there?’ Brunetti asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral.
‘Since we found him.’
‘Waiting?’ Brunetti asked, his mind running after possibilities.
‘Of course. It’s strange they’d leave him so close to where the stuff is,’ Ribasso said, offering no explanation. Then he went on, ‘Sooner or later, someone has to come for what’s in there.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘They will.’
