Death in a Strange Country (36 page)

‘Al Covo?’

Manfully, he did not
wince at what he knew that would cost. First, the shoes, and now dinner at Al
Covo. The food was glorious; to hell with what it cost. He smiled. ‘Reserve for
eight-thirty. And ask the kids if they want to come.’ After all, he was a man
who had been given back his life that afternoon. Why not celebrate?

When he got to the
Faliers’
palazzo,
Brunetti was faced with the decision that always
awaited him there, whether to use the immense iron ring that hung from the
wooden door, dropping it against the metal plate beneath and sending the
message of his arrival booming across the open courtyard, or to use the more
prosaic doorbell. He chose the second, and a moment later a voice spoke through
the intercom, asking who it was. After he gave his name, the door jolted open.
He pushed it back, slammed it closed behind him, and walked across the
courtyard towards the part of the
palazzo
that fronted onto the Grand
Canal. From an upstairs window, a uniformed maid looked out, checking to see
who had come in. Apparently satisfied that Brunetti was not a malefactor, she
pulled her head inside the window and disappeared. The Count was waiting at the
top of the outside staircase that led into the part of the
palazzo
where
he and his wife lived.
 
                     
                     
             

Though Brunetti knew that
the Count would soon be seventy, it was hard, seeing him, to think that he was
Paola’s father. Older brother, perhaps, or the youngest of her uncles, but
certainly not a man almost thirty years older than she. The thinning hair, cut
short around the shining oval of his head, suggested his age, but that impression
was dispelled by the taut skin of his face and the clear intelligence shining
from his eyes. ‘How nice to see you, Guido. You’re looking well. We’ll go into
the study, shall we?’ the Count said, turning and leading Brunetti back towards
the front of the house. They passed through a few rooms until they finally
arrived at the glass-fronted study that looked out over the Grand Canal as it
curved up towards the Accademia Bridge. ‘Would you like a drink?’ the Count
asked, going to the sideboard where a bottle of Dom Perignon stood, already
open, in a silver bucket filled with ice.

Brunetti knew the Count
well enough to know that there was absolutely no affectation in this. If the
Count had preferred to drink Coca-Cola, he would have kept a litre-and-a-half
plastic bottle in the same ice bucket and offered it in the same manner to his
guests. The Count had been born having no one he needed to impress.

‘Yes, thanks,’ Brunetti
answered. This way, he could set the tone for an evening at Al Covo. If the Count
turned his back, perhaps he could get away with the ice bucket and thus pay for
that dinner.

The Count poured
champagne into a fresh glass, added some to his own, and handed the first glass
to Brunetti. ‘Shall we sit, Guido?’ he asked, leading him towards two easy
chairs that were turned to face out over the water.

When they were both
seated and Brunetti had tasted his wine, the Count asked, ‘In what way can I be
of service?’

‘I’d
like to ask you for some
information, but I’m not sure just what questions I have to ask,’ Brunetti
began, deciding to tell the truth. He couldn’t ask the Count not to repeat what
he told him; an insult like that would be difficult for the Count to forgive,
even of the father of his only grandchildren. ‘I’d like to know whatever you
could tell me about a Signor Gamberetto, of Vicenza, who has both a hauling
company and, apparently, a construction company. I don’t know anything more
about him other than his name. And that he might be involved in something
illegal.’

The Count nodded,
suggesting that the name was familiar but that he preferred to wait until he
knew what else his son-in-law wanted to know before saying anything.

‘And then I’d like to
know about the involvement of the American military, first with Signor Gamberetto,
and second with the illegal dumping of toxic substances that seems to be taking
place in this country.’ He sipped at his wine. ‘Anything you can tell me, I’ll
be very grateful for.’

The Count finished his
wine and placed the empty glass on an inlaid table at his side. He crossed his
long legs, exposing an expanse of black silk sock, and brought his fingers
together in a pyramid under his chin. ‘Signor Gamberetto is a particularly
nasty, and particularly well-connected, businessman. Not only does he have the
two companies you refer to, Guido, but he is also the owner of a large chain of
hotels, travel agencies, and resorts, many of which are not in this country. He
is also believed to have recently branched out into armaments and munitions,
buying into partnership with one of the most important arms manufacturers in
Lombardy. Many of these companies are owned by his wife; therefore, his name is
not anywhere present in the papers that deal with them, nor does it appear in
the contracts made by those businesses. I believe the construction business is
under his uncle’s name, but I could be wrong there.

‘Like many of our new
businessmen,’ the Count continued, ‘he is strangely invisible. He happens,
however, to be more powerfully connected than are most. He has influential
friends in both the Socialist and Christian Democratic party, no mean feat, so
he is very well-protected.’

The Count got up and
walked over to the sideboard, came back and filled both their glasses, then
went and replaced the bottle in the ice bucket. When he was comfortable in his
chair again, he continued. ‘Signor Gamberetto is from the South, and his father
was, if memory serves, a janitor in a public school. Consequently, there are
not many social occasions when we are likely to meet. I know nothing about his
personal life.’

He sipped. ‘As to your
second question, about the Americans, I’d like to know what prompts your
curiosity in this matter,’ When Brunetti didn’t answer, the Count added, ‘There
exists a great deal of rumour,’ Brunetti could do no more than speculate about
the dizzy heights at which such filings were rumoured, but still he said
nothing.

The Count twirled file
stem of his glass between his thin fingers. When it became evident that
Brunetti intended to say nothing, he continued, ‘I know that certain
extraordinary rights have been extended to them, rights which are not
stipulated in the treaty we signed with them at the end of the war. Various of
our many short-lived and variously incompetent governments have seen fit to offer
them preferential treatment of one sort or another. This, you realize, extends
not only to things like allowing them to peppercorn our hills with missile
silos, information to be had from any resident of the province of Vicenza, but
to allowing them to bring into this country just about anything they wish.’

‘Including toxic
substances?’ Brunetti asked directly.

The Count bowed his head.
‘It is rumoured.’

‘But why? We’d have to be
insane to accept them.’

‘Guido, it is not the
business of a government to be sane; it is their business only to be
successful.’ Dismissing what he must have perceived as a pedantic tone, the
Count became more direct and particular. ‘The rumours say that, in the past,
the cargoes were merely transshipped through Italy. That they came down from
the bases in Germany, were unloaded here, and immediately loaded onto Italian
vessels that took them off to Africa or South America, where no questions were
asked about what got dropped into the middle of the jungle or the forest or the
lake. But since many of these countries have experienced radical changes of
government in recent years, these outlets have been cut off, and they refuse
any longer to accept our deadly rubbish. Or they are willing to accept it, but
now the price they put upon doing so has become exorbitant. At any rate, those
who receive the ongoing shipments at this end are unwilling to cease doing so -
and thus cease to profit from them - merely because they can no longer dispose
of them in other places, on other continents. So they continue to arrive, and
room is found for them here.’

‘You know all of this?’
Brunetti asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise, or was it something
stronger?

‘Guido, this much - or
this little - is common knowledge, at least at the level of rumour. You could
easily discover it in a few hours on the phone. But no one
knows
it
except the people who are directly involved, and they are not the sort of
people who talk about these things. Nor, I might add, are they the sort of
people one talks to.’

‘Snubbing them at
cocktail parties can hardly be enough to make them stop,’ Brunetti snapped. ‘Nor
will it make the things they’ve already dumped suddenly disappear.’

‘Your sarcasm is not lost
on me, Guido, but I’m afraid that this is a situation in which one is helpless.’

‘Who is “one”?’ Brunetti
asked.

‘Those who know about the
government and what it does but are not part of it, not in any active sense.
There is also the not inconsiderable fact that it is not only our own
government which is involved, but that of America, as well.’

‘To make no mention of
the gentlemen from the South?’

‘Ah, yes, the Mafia,’ the
Count said with a tired sigh. ‘It would seem that this is a web woven by all
three of them, and, because of that, triply strong and, if I might add as a
note of warning, triply dangerous.’ He looked over at Brunetti and asked, ‘How
closely are you involved in this, Guido?’ His concern was audible.

‘Do you remember that
American who was murdered here over a week ago?’

‘Ah, yes, during a robbery.
Most unfortunate.’ Then, tiring of his pose, the Count added, soberly, ‘You’ve
discovered some connection between him and this Signor Gamberetto, I assume.’

‘Yes.’

‘There was another
strange death among the Americans, a doctor at the Vicenza hospital. Is that
correct?’

‘Yes. She was his lover.’

‘It was an overdose, as I
recall.’

‘It was a murder,’
Brunetti corrected but offered no explanation.

The Count sought none and
remained silent for a long time, sitting and staring at the boats that travelled
up and down the canal. Finally he asked,
‘What are you going to do?’
     
                     
           

‘I don’t know,’ Brunetti
answered and then asked in his turn, bringing himself close to the reason for
his coming, ‘Is this something over which you have any influence?’

The Count considered this
question for a long time. ‘I’m not sure what you mean by that, Guido,’ he
finally said.

Brunetti, to whom the
question was sufficiently clear, ignored the Count’s remark and provided him,
instead, with more information. ‘There’s a dumping site up near Lake Barcis.
The barrels and cans are from the Americans’ base in Ramstein, in Germany; the
labels are in English and German.’

‘Did those two Americans
find this place?’

‘I think so.’

‘And they died after they
found it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does anyone else know
about this?’

‘A Carabiniere officer
who works at the American base.’ There was no need to bring Ambrogiani’s name
into this, nor did Brunetti see fit to tell the Count that the only other
person who knew anything about this was his only child.

‘Can he be trusted?’

‘To do what?’

‘Don’t be intentionally
ignorant, Guido,’ the Count said. ‘I’m trying to help you here.’ Not without
difficulty, the Count gained control of himself and asked, ‘Can he be trusted
to keep his mouth shut?’

‘Until what?’

‘Until something is done
about this.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that I’ll call
some people this evening and see what can be done.’

‘Done about what?’

‘About seeing that this
dump is cleared up, that the things are taken away.’