The Deliverance of Evil (37 page)

Thursday, July 13, 2006

Morning

F
OR YEARS HE HAD
avoided the stretch of the Appian Way that climbed upward as it passed the well-maintained low-rise housing hidden among the trees. It was an unconscious avoidance, as if his memory’s immune system had driven his consciousness away from that place.

Because remorse has a face, a name, a habitation.

He knew that his old acquaintance, Father Paul, was in charge of the volunteer organization association whose headquarters were in San Valente parish.

Sunlight filtered through the trees. While he was parking, he noticed that very little was as he remembered. The squat church had been repainted, the greenery was thicker and better manicured, and at the end of the lawn the large house had at least doubled in size. He crossed the small square of grass. The place felt mature, as if it had passed from infancy to adulthood.

Father Paul had been informed of his arrival. He strode across the lawn to greet him. His red hair was tinged with gray, his blue eyes were more cautious, less open to the world. His handshake was firmer than Balistreri remembered, and it was obvious that the man in front of him was a lot more confident than the chatty young man he’d met years earlier. It was the first time he’d seen him without his priest’s cassock.

Paul welcomed him warmly and led him to the back of the house. The tree where they had chatted the first time had grown. Under it were three chairs and a table set with glasses and mineral water. Beside the glasses were a BlackBerry and a pack of cigarettes.

“I never imagined you’d still be here after all this time,” Balistreri observed as they sat.

“Do you mean here in Rome or here at San Valente?”

“Well, both, I suppose. I remember you as a young man who really wanted to travel.”

Paul smiled. He no longer looked like a young American kid; he smiled like an adult who was sure of himself and his place in the world. And his Italian was perfect.

“You’re right, Captain Balistreri. When I look back, I’m a little surprised myself. Every year I thought I’d move on, and every year they asked me to stay. And little by little, San Valente became the world I’d so wanted to se. Orphans and volunteers come here from all over. So I never needed to travel.”

The chorus of birds in the trees mingled with the joyful sounds of children in the house.

“How many children are there?” Balistreri asked.

“We doubled in size ten years ago. At the moment we have thirty children ranging from ten to fourteen years old, and two volunteers who take turns covering the night shift. But we have dozens of houses like this on several continents.”

“And you run all of them?”

“No, not at all. I’m in charge of selecting and training the volunteers, and I run San Valente.”

Paul took a cigarette from the pack and offered one to Balistreri. “You smoke, if I remember correctly.”

Balistreri looked at Father Paul, the typical Californian health nut, lighting a cigarette and inhaling with the relaxed and confident air of someone who had achieved what he set out to achieve. And he couldn’t resist having a smoke with him, even if it was already his fourth of the day and his stomach was burning a little.

“And His Eminence?”

“Cardinal Alessandrini?” Paul smiled. “He’s the driving force behind this miracle. Without him, not even the Vatican would have been able to save these children from the hell they were living in.”

“Is he still in Rome?”

Paul pointed to the dome atop St. Peter’s, visible in the distance. “Cardinal Alessandrini’s never liked to be in the spotlight. He’s always been happy to make decisions rather than make appearances. Today he’s one of the new pontiff’s closest advisers, but he still lives on Via della Camilluccia in the same place.”

Paul enthusiastically set out the details of Cardinal Alessandrini’s project: the number of children saved from terrible circumstances, the number of dictators bending under the influence and determination of this man of steel to allow exploited and abused children who were victims of corrupt and immoral regimes to be removed, and the huge influence he wielded with the current pope.

When Paul’s BlackBerry rang he answered and spoke briefly, and then he turned to Balistreri. “If you don’t mind, Captain, I have a little surprise for you. I told Valerio you were coming.”

“Valerio?” Balistreri said. “Valerio Bona?”

“Yes. I don’t know whether you remember, but he sometimes lent a hand here in the parish.”

“I remember him very well. But I didn’t think he was still living around here.”

“Valerio graduated in computer science, worked a few years for IBM, and then came back to us. He runs our computer system.”

Balistreri couldn’t hold back. “But you two hated each other.”

Paul said, “We weren’t exactly friends, but ‘hate’ is too strong a word. Anyway, time sometimes works miracles.”

Valerio Bona arrived with his uncertain gait. He seemed a little hunched, and there was no hair on his shaven head. He came up and offered his hand without looking Balistreri in the eye. The golden crucifix round his neck was the same one he had worn twenty-four years before.

Valerio had aged more than Paul. Time hadn’t been kind to him. His eternally worried eyes now sat behind very thick glasses.

Balistreri said, “This really is a surprise. Do you live here, Valerio?”

“No, I work in the offices in a building near here, where I also have a small apartment.”

“Are you married?”

“No, I’m not married. I live by myself.” He said it evenly, but Balistreri caught a hint of regret.

Valerio told him about his computer science degree, the money he earned at IBM, and the feeling that his life was meaningless, until Cardinal Alessandrini suggested him for the job. In that way he could put his science into the service of his faith.

“He didn’t accept right away when we offered him the job,” Paul said. “I don’t think he wanted to work with me.”

Valerio gave a half-smile. “Maybe, but once I got to know you I was okay with it.”

“You discovered I’d become much more likable! Captain Balistreri, I imagine you’re here to discuss what happened on Sunday to Elisa’s mother.”

Hearing her name upset him. He quickly moved to change the subject.

“No, I’m not here about Mrs. Sordi’s suicide.”

“No?” Paul and Valerio exclaimed together.

“No. I’m here about a question from that time. But it has nothing to do with Elisa Sordi.”

Valerio listened gloomily, Paul with curiosity.

“There was a young Polish woman working at San Valente back then,” Balistreri said.

“There were lots of young Polish women working at San Valente then, after Wojtyla was appointed,” Paul said.

“Her name was Alina. Alina Hagi.”

The only sound was the singing of birds and the shouts of children. Paul lit a cigarette, and Valerio poured some water into a glass.

“You don’t remember her?” Balistreri asked.

“Who could forget her?” Paul said, staring at the big white house. “Alina Hagi, the energetic blonde—you met her yourself.”

A dozen children aged between ten and thirteen were playing football and a blond girl of about twenty was acting as referee.

He tried to draw on his photographic memory, keeping out the emotional one. “The girl who refereed the football and served at the food?”

“Yes, she was a force of nature. She’d been working with children for several years and the volunteers all went to her for help and advice.”

“Did you ever meet her husband?”

Valerio shook his head. “Never, but I knew she was married.”

“I saw him a few times,” Paul said, “I think he was Polish, too.”

“Romanian,” Balistreri corrected him. “His name is Marius Hagi.”

There was a long silence. Balistreri was aware that something in the air had changed.

After some time, Balistreri asked, “Do you know what happened to her?”

He met Paul’s eyes and caught a look of disapproval bordering on harshness. The man was exhibiting a strength that hadn’t existed twenty-four years earlier.

“I see you haven’t lost the habit of asking questions to which you already know the answers,” Paul said.

“Was Alina still working here when she had her accident?” Balistreri asked, ignoring the comment.

“Yes,” Paul replied. “After Alina’s death, Cardinal Alessandrini held a special Mass for her in the Vatican with all the children and volunteers.”

“And were you here at the time, Valerio?”

“No, I was working for Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno while I went to college. After what happened, the count didn’t want to employ me anymore, because of what I’d said about Manfredi, I think, and the fact that I was too close to the Catholic world.”

He didn’t say “after Elisa’s death,” as if her name shouldn’t be mentioned.

Balistreri said her name, though. He said both names. “Did Alina Hagi know Elisa Sordi?” he asked.

“No way,” Valerio said quickly. “Elisa never came to the church here, and Alina never went to Via della Camilluccia.”

As these names and people slowly emerged from the past, Balistreri had the feeling that he shouldn’t ignore them, although the people involved at the time were different now, and the connection between Elisa’s death and the present was still murky.

“Does the count still live there?” he asked.

“He’s never moved out of his penthouse. As you can see, we’ve all stayed put,” Paul replied.

“Manfredi, too?”

Paul said, “No, Manfredi’s the only one who went away. After Ulla killed herself, the count sent him to Kenya, where they have a huge estate. He earned a medical degree in South Africa.”

“Does he ever come to Italy?”

“He comes to see his father every so often, but no more than once or twice a year. Cardinal Alessandrini tells me that the Kenyans see him as a kind of god, because he treats them free-of-charge and heals them. As you see, anyone can change,” he said. He said it harshly, cruelly. Balistreri would never have expected that tone from him.

The person I was so sure was guilty has become a charitable doctor who heals the destitute.

“Was Alina particularly close to anyone?” Balistreri asked.

Paul and Valerio looked at each other, then Valerio spoke. “There was a tight-knit group of young people in those days. Alina was their leader.”

“Did any of them mention that Alina had problems with her husband?” he asked.

Paul said, “We’ve already told you we didn’t know her husband.”

When Valerio spoke, his voice was dull. “These were good Catholic young people, Captain. Not like . . .”

Not like Balistreri and Dioguardi
.

He decided it was time to leave. They said good-bye, but without any warmth.

Afternoon

Corvu, Piccolo, and Mastroianni were waiting in his office. They had brought in sandwiches, water, and beer for a working lunch. It was the first time they had done this since Coppola’s death, and his absence hung heavy in the room.

“The first answers to the questions are starting to come in,” Corvu announced with satisfaction as he approached the blackboard.

“But we have new questions to add,” Balistreri said. He told them what he had found out about Alina Hagi.

Corvu scratched his head sullenly. “I’m not sure I follow. Are you saying there’s a connection between this case and the Elisa Sordi case?”

“Not necessarily a connection,” Balistreri replied. “But Alina Hagi’s death twenty-three years ago, though it was certainly an accident, could be concealing something. And that something could be linked to today’s case.”

Corvu said, “We did find out something recent. Well, actually, it happened six months ago, immediately after the events of January 4. Then you got well and things changed.” Corvu looked like he didn’t know what to say.

Balistreri said, “Corvu, it’s okay. You can say it—I wasn’t interested in the case for a while. Now, tell us what this is all about.”

“It’s about Colajacono.”

Piccolo smacked the table. “I knew it!”

Balistreri stopped them all with a gesture. “Listen to me very carefully,” he said. “We’ve already had one death in the squad. Whatever we say, and I mean
whatever
, stays inside this room. I—and only I—will decide if and how it is to be acted on. I don’t want any personal initiatives, in particular about Colajacono and ENT.”

They were silent for a moment. Then, as if the words had been addressed to her alone, Piccolo said, “All right, I understand.”

“Now let’s hear it, Corvu.”

“After the shootings on January 4, the newspapers published Colajacono’s photo. And Pierre, the Bella Blu bartender, called me and told me he recognized him. I told him I’d call him back, but then you . . . anyway, I called him this afternoon.”

Balistreri swore to himself and Piccolo started to say something, then bit her tongue.

Corvu continued. “I went to meet him. And now we have the answer to the fourth question on the list. Why was Colajacono already tired on the morning of December 24? Because he’d spent almost the entire night before at Bella Blu. Pierre’s positive.”

Piccolo couldn’t contain herself. “The night of December 23, when Nadia went there and they killed Camarà. That bastard, he did it.”

“That’s enough, Piccolo!” Balistreri exploded. “I won’t tell you again. Until we have proof to the contrary, Colajacono and Tatò were two policemen who were brutally murdered and then decorated for bravery after they discovered Nadia’s killer. You broke the nose of one and the other you blackmailed with Linda Nardi.”

“But I’m sure that—”

“Your intuition’s not enough here—we need serious proof, which we don’t have. And we’ll never get it if, rather than looking for the truth, we look for confirmation of a story that happens to suit us.”

Piccolo lost it. “Do you want it all to end with those four illiterate Roma in prison and those four animals you killed on the hill? And what about Colajacono, who was waiting for Ramona—or have you forgotten about that? And how about what they did to Rudi to get the Bella Blu lighter? And blackmailing the deputy mayor, De Rossi? Or do you believe the bullshit story that Colajacono and Mircea didn’t know each other?”