The Deliverance of Evil (39 page)
“You think they ambushed him on purpose?” Pasquali was shocked.
“Yes. First they told him Nadia was going to perform a little service for a politician. Then they told him that shepherd got drunk and killed her. They gave him enough information to track down Vasile, so he’d look good in the end. He was happy. But suddenly he realized that it hadn’t been the shepherd. He knew very well who it was, but he also knew that he risked being framed himself. He’d already been forced to be seen with Ramona at the Cristal to blackmail Augusto De Rossi. Now we also know that they’d deliberately called him to the Bella Blu on December 23 when Nadia was there. You can imagine how Colajacono must have felt. They’d pulled the rug out from under him.”
Pasquali frowned. “And you surmise that he turned on those who were giving the orders and they decided to silence him. Linda Nardi’s article was supposed to help avert this situation, but there wasn’t enough time. But you easily could have avoided telling Colajacono about Vasile’s wrist.”
Three policemen, including Coppola, are dead because I wanted to punish Colajacono for stripping Linda.
“They’d told Colajacono that all he had to do was stop the police from searching for Nadia for those two or three days when she would be used to blackmail a politician. I discovered his game and he called somebody. They arranged to meet him at the farmhouse to calm him and Tatò down. But he got there before the appointed time to look for evidence that would put the blame on someone else.”
“Meaning what?” Pasquali looked pale, and his pallor worried Balistreri.
“Forensics found no tracks on the dirt road to Vasile’s farmhouse except for those of the Giulia GT and the cars driven by Colajacono and Piccolo.”
“So I read. Another reason for ruling out the Invisible Man. How would he have gotten away from there? Did he fly?”
“He could have walked down the hill, though it was dark and cold. But there was also the hill to climb to get to the Giulia GT. I agree it’s too complicated.”
“Therefore no Invisible Man—a mere invention of Vasile.”
“So, if we count out Vasile because of his sprained wrist, who killed Nadia?”
“The other shepherd, his accomplice in the burglaries,” Pasquali replied quickly.
“Could be, but then Colajacono wouldn’t have been scared. Things went wrong and he knew it. He and Tatò went looking for the tire tracks from the motocross bike, but they were lying in wait to kill them.”
Pasquali paused to reflect. “Forensics would have found the bike’s tracks,” he murmured, confused.
“Not if the bike went off the road. A motocross bike is handy that way.”
“So your theory would be that the Invisible Man went up the hill on the morning of December 24 on the motocross bike, took the Giulia GT and left the bike, then came back around seven in the evening. with Nadia in the Giulia, killed her, and then departed on the bike.”
Balistreri said nothing. There was an anomaly in that reconstruction, but this wasn’t the moment to mention it.
Pasquali wanted a conclusion. “Where does all this lead?”
You know very well where it leads. To that wonderful example of integration, enlightened entrepreneur and benefactor of the destitute Mr. Marius Hagi.
Balistreri waited silently. It wasn’t up to him to make the connection. If someone was resistant to logic, it mean he had a different agenda.
Pasquali was a man of great experience and great intelligence. He knew when the game was up and it was necessary to bow out without incurring catastrophic losses.
“I’ll find a way to persuade the public prosecutor to let you speak to the three Roma who attacked Samantha Rossi. You go ahead and talk to her parents and find out whether there’s a link with Alina Hagi. But don’t mention the letters R and E to anyone, especially not Linda Nardi.”
“I’ll keep my distance from her.” As he said it, he became aware that he had no choice but to keep that promise.
. . . .
He was glad Samantha Rossi’s parents had moved away. His visit to San Valente had already reopened uncomfortable memories. Going back to see the house where Samantha was born and grew up wasn’t top of his life’s wish list.
They received him in the early summer evening, after working hours. It was a modern house: new, white, and clinical, like a hospital for anaesthetizing grief.
Anna Rossi was a good-looking woman in her forties. Samantha resembled her mother in her features, while she’d taken her height and bearing from her father. They welcomed Balistreri with cold politeness; after all, he believed the Roma boys to be innocent and had made the great blunder.
Balistreri knew he had to keep the visit as short as possible. His presence would only deepen their grief.
“I’m not here about your daughter, at least not directly,” he said.
While they were looking at him bewildered, he placed the photo sent him by Monsignor Lato on the table.
Anna Rossi’s sad look was lost in a memory that for a moment softened the bitter twist to her mouth.
“Alina,” she said in a flash.
Her husband looked at her perplexed. “Alina who?”
She gave him an affectionate look. “She was my best friend at the beginning of the 1980s. I’ve spoken about her sometimes—she was the one who died on her moped a year before we met.”
“And you saw Alina Hagi regularly at that time, Mrs. Rossi?” Balistreri asked.
Anna Rossi plunged into her memories.
“She was an extraordinary person. She looked like a fragile little doll with blond hair, but she was a bundle of positive energy. Alina could organize anything and get anyone to pitch in, from the orphans to us volunteers.”
“How did you meet her?”
“I came to San Valente through my boyfriend, who was studying law and helped out with the orphans’ immigration papers in the parish. He introduced me to Cardinal Alessandrini, who introduced me to Father Paul. That was in 1981, and Alina was my instructor in the training course. We became fast friends. She worked full-time there, but I only came when I had free time.”
“Did you know her husband as well?”
“A little. He came to pick her up in the evenings. He was very serious, not very communicative, but he was smart and determined. Then I saw less and less of him. The last time was at Alina’s funeral.” A shadow crossed Anna Rossi’s face.
“At the funeral you spoke to Alina’s uncle, a priest. Do you remember?”
“Yes. I was shattered, and he consoled me. Then I told him about something that had happened a few days before.”
“When you saw the bruises on Alina’s arms.”
“They were really bad. She said she’d fallen, but I knew it wasn’t true. I asked her whether her husband had done it, and she denied it.”
“Did Alina get along with her husband?”
“At the beginning, but it seemed to me that later the relationship fell apart. I don’t know what happened, but as time went on she just didn’t talk about him.”
“Had you been in touch the night she died?” Balistreri asked.
“Yes, she called me. She asked if she could come and sleep at my place. She’d never done that, and I didn’t ask why. She got into the accident on her way.”
“Was she involved with someone?” Balistreri asked.
Anna Rossi laughed quietly. “Alina Hagi was a saint, Captain Balistreri, a very devout Catholic. She’d have died rather than betray her husband.”
“Have you ever seen or heard from Marius Hagi?”
“No. When Alina died, it was as if I’d lost a sister. And then Samantha, too.”
Her husband put an arm around her shoulders. He tried distracting her. “What’s this about your old boyfriend?”
“Francesco? He was only a boyfriend, and he turned out to be up to no good. It was Alina who helped me see the reality; it was thanks to Alina I found the strength to leave him. We were a really good group of volunteers, you know? We were true believers. Francesco, on the other hand, was using the volunteer service as political leverage for his career, nothing more.”
Impulsively, Anna Rossi got up, crossed the living room, and rummaged around in a drawer. “Here we are,” she said, lifting out a photograph. “This is from 1982.”
She handed a photo to Balistreri. There was the San Valente church in the background. He peered at the smiling group of young men and women. He recognized Father Paul, Valerio, Alina Hagi, and Anna Rossi. Next to Anna Rossi, with an arm around her shoulders, just as her husband’s arm was around her shoulders now, stood a young man neatly dressed in a jacket and tie. He was younger then, but there was no mistaking Francesco Ajello, now an attorney and the manager of the Bella Blu nightclub and ENT shareholder.
Balistreri decided to keep his questions to a minimum.
“How did this boyfriend of yours become involved with the group of volunteers?”
“This boy here introduced him—they were friends.”
Her finger pointed to the skinny figure of Valerio Bona.
Many remarkable coincidences, as Pasquali would have said.
. . . .
It was a Friday evening. Pasquali had probably already left to spend the weekend in his hometown, and there was no need to call him. Balistreri immediately ruled out the idea of contacting Corvu. Ajello’s appearance on the scene put ENT at the center of the case again, and Ajello was ENT. And ENT was trouble. He had already lost Coppola, and Corvu had witnessed Belhrouz’s demise in Dubai.
He knew the struggle between caution and the truth was the struggle between what he had become and what he had been. Now he had to find a way forward that left the living still living and brought justice for the dead.
He had taken Father Paul and Valerio Bona’s cell phone numbers after their meeting. He called Paul first, since he thought he knew where he was.
“Captain Balistreri! We haven’t spoken in years and now you keep calling me. Would you like to meet up?”
Balistreri could hear the voices of children in the background, along with the clattering of plates. They were sitting down to dinner at San Valente.
“Could I come by now?”
“We’re about to eat. I’ll set a place for you.”
Paul greeted him in front of the large illuminated house. Several children were serving the dishes prepared by the cook in the kitchen. They were waiting for him to start. Paul pointed out an empty place between a little Asian boy and a small African girl who must have been between eleven and twelve years old.
They were serving delicious spaghetti with tomato sauce. The two children were joking between themselves and stealing sly glances at Balistreri. After a while, the little Asian boy plucked up the courage to say something.
“My name’s Luk. What’s your name?”
“Michele. I’m a friend of Paul’s. You speak Italian very well.”
“I’ve been here three years, thanks to Paul. He and the cardinal saved me.”
“And where are you from, Luk?”
“Cambodia.”
The girl tugged at Balistreri’s sleeve. She was a beautiful child with enormous eyes. “My name’s Bina. I’m from Rwanda, and I’m older than Luk.”
They spoke to him of their lives in San Valente with no mention of the first part of their lives. Balistreri noticed every so often that Paul was watching him. For half an hour he managed to forget all about rapes, murders, Hagi, Ajello, and ENT. It was as if he’d been transported into another dimension where the miseries of everyday life had been wiped out by the innocence and happiness of these orphans. The chaotic passion of 1982 had been transformed into an efficient organization that dispensed only happiness. He could see why Paul was proud of the place, and deservedly so.
When fruit had been served, Paul signaled to him to move outside. They sat under the usual tree in the flickering light of a lantern. A girl of about thirteen brought over a tray with two cups of espresso. Everything at San Valente had changed; everything had grown, including Father Paul.
“Coffee and a cigarette?” Paul proposed, confirming those changes.
It wasn’t decaf and it was excellent. Balistreri accepted a cigarette from Paul, his sixth of the day, after years of keeping to his limit.
“I went to visit Anna Rossi, Alina Hagi’s friend.”
Paul nodded. “I read about her daughter’s death. Cardinal Alessandrini called to comfort her.”
“Do you remember anything about Anna Rossi’s boyfriend?”
A slight, barely perceptible shadow crossed Father Paul’s face. “Francesco Ajello. He worked with Valerio for the count. He never came here; he worked in the office. He was studying law and helped the orphans get their papers.”
“Did the count introduce him to you?”
“I think so. Valerio knew him—he introduced him to the count, who had a word with Cardinal Alessandrini about him. The same as Elisa Sordi.”
“Did you like him?”
Father Paul lit another cigarette and Balistreri accepted his seventh without giving it a second thought.
“You tend to forget, Captain Balistreri, I’m first and foremost a priest.”
“But you were a young man then, with likes and dislikes, same as anyone else. Don’t you remember?”
Paul shook his head.
“What I said to you about Manfredi was poisoned by anger. I’ve lived to regret those words.”
“Can you tell me anything about Francesco Ajello?”
“I was a confused young man. My opinion wouldn’t be of much help to you.”
Balistreri decided not to press him further. They were forecasting a night and weekend of warm temperatures. There wasn’t a breath of wind in the dark of San Valente’s garden. The children had gone to bed, the lights and the cries extinguished. Around the lamp fluttered a lazy moth.
He left Father Paul and that unbearable peace with the feeling of having entered the darkest of labyrinths.
Morning
V
ALERIO BONA HAD ALWAYS
loved the sea in Ostia, where Romans went to the beach. His parents had taken him there every summer since he was little. It was there that he had met Elisa Sordi in 1981, when she was seventeen and he was eighteen, a recent high school graduate who had just enrolled in computer science at the university. He wore his hair long that summer, down to his shoulders, and they frequently took long walks by the sea together. Then autumn arrived. Elisa started her last year of high school, and he was starting his first year at the university. Things changed. For him, the friendship had turned to love, but not for her.
Balistreri called him at eight Saturday morning. Valerio was preparing his dinghy for a solo outing, just himself and the sea. It was a moment of peace, when memory mingled with the lapping of the waves on the hull and the whistle of the wind. But Balistreri wanted to see him right away, and Valerio felt obliged to wait for him.
The weekend traffic was very heavy. Balistreri preferred to take the Metro line. He stepped out onto the seafront surrounded by bathers off to the beaches. Valerio was waiting for him on his moped. “I’ve got a helmet for you as well. Let’s go to the harbor—we can talk in the boat.”
Ever since the summer of 1970 Balistreri had avoided going out in boats as much as possible. He realized, however, that this would be the best place to talk to Valerio Bona. Valerio hoisted mainsail and jib and chose a close-reach course that allowed a little coolness and a seat in the shade of the sails. In ten minutes they were out on the open sea and the sounds from the crowded beach had become faint.
The cockpit was plastered with photos of Valerio at different ages at the helm of various boats. The two odd ones were one of Pope John Paul II and one of Italy’s 2006 World Cup-winning team.
Valerio was relaxed at the helm. The gold crucifix hanging from a chain around his neck gleamed against his sunburned skin. He was completely at ease on the boat, as if he were inside a shell that still allowed him to control his surroundings. The insecure, awkward kid had been left on the shore.
Balistreri tried to relax, but the silence was broken by his worst memory. “So, here we are,” he said. He was lighting a new cigarette every five minutes. The iron-clad rules he had set for himself were starting to rust and crumble.
“When you came to San Valente the other day, Paul and I were sure it was about Elisa’s mother’s suicide,” Valerio said, looking out at the sea. “Instead it was about Alina Hagi. We were stunned.”
Valerio Bona was incapable of forgetting. Inventing a new life is a justifiable defense after a great tragedy, and he had tried: his degree, IBM, and a career. But something had pushed him back; something stopped him from going too far away.
While Paul had been a kid back then and in time had matured into an adult, in 1982 Valerio Bona was already an adult, so he could only grow old.
“Do you both think I don’t care about Elisa Sordi and her mother?” Balistreri asked.
Valerio seemed put off by Balistreri’s directness.
“No, no,” he murmured. “We were just surprised. But you’re here about Alina Hagi, I imagine.”
“And about her friend Anna Rossi and her boyfriend at the time.”
A long silence.
“We’re going to come about—watch out for the boom,” Valerio said at last.
After the maneuver, Balistreri found himself with the sun in his eyes.
“You introduced Francesco Ajello to the count, right?” he asked, shading his eyes from the sun.
“Yes, I introduced him to the count, who offered him a position as an intern with the law firm that looked after his properties, the same one where I worked on the first PCs.”
“Where did you meet him?”
“Right here in Ostia, during a series of regattas for two-man crews in 420s. He came from a wealthy family, had the nicest boat, and was looking for a good helmsman. The sailing club put us in touch and we tried several outings. It turned out we made a good team. We won eight of the ten regattas and the title in the summer of 1981.”
“Why did you introduce him to the count?”
“Francesco was very smart and was studying for a law degree. He knew that the law firm that took care of the count’s business was looking for an intern, and he wanted the experience.”
“And after several months the Count introduced him to Cardinal Alessandrini?”
“Yes, the cardinal wanted a legal assistant to work for free on the orphanage’s paperwork. The count introduced him to Francesco, who was more than happy to lend a hand.”
“Generous of him.”
“A lot of people, including Paul, said he was just a social climber. The fact is, he was very smart.”
“And he had a girlfriend, Anna Rossi.”
Valerio thought for a moment. “Francesco was pretty casual with women. Yes, Anna Rossi was his steady girlfriend, but probably not the only one. He was a certain type.”
“Someone who tried to get every woman he met into bed? That type?”
“Only the attractive ones,” Valerio said, almost admiringly.
“Was Elisa Sordi one of the women he tried to get into bed?”
Valerio lost control of the boat for a second. The sails lost wind and began to flap. The boat turned and the sun was no longer in his eyes, and when he looked at Valerio Bona he saw the deeply lined face of an old man.
Valerio got control of the boat and himself. “Elisa was off-limits. And I don’t think she liked Francesco much.”
Returning to Rome on the train, surrounded again by beachgoers, Balistreri fell asleep. The sun, the wind, the sea, and too many cigarettes had taken their toll. In his dreams, he met Linda Nardi in a place where there were families all around them. He looked at her breasts, and the vertical crease appeared in the middle of her brow, and then Linda Nardi’s face was replaced by the sweet and childlike face of Elisa Sordi.
Afternoon
Balistreri was surprised that Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno agreed to see him right away. Either he didn’t bear a grudge or he was simply curious. Most likely the latter. For his part, Balistreri would happily have skipped the meeting altogether, but it was unavoidable. He remembered the incompatible feelings of respect and repulsion the count stirred in him. Moreover, the man was the living memory of his most egregious investigative failure.
When it became clear the investigation had become a shameful mess, the count had taken his leave of him, along with his boss Teodori, with the same icy contempt he had shown for them from the start. It was a contempt mixed with the commiseration that superior beings absentmindedly display to imbeciles. The humiliation that accompanied that contempt had haunted him for years.
The residential complex on Via della Camilluccia was even nicer than he remembered. The trees had grown taller; the two buildings had recently been repainted.
The wide green gate through which Elisa Sordi had exited for the last time a little before the 1982 World Cup final was covered in ivy, as were the concierge’s house and the gatehouse next to it.
Naturally, Gina Giansanti was no longer the concierge. Instead, the gate was manned by a young immigrant in uniform. It was hard to believe that this complex was located in the same city where Casilino 900 existed, the same city where Nadia’s broken body had been hauled up from the bottom of a well.
Before entering, Balistreri smoked a cigarette. He remembered the strict ban on smoking inside that gate.
“The count is waiting for you, Captain Balistreri. You can park by the fountain,” the young concierge informed him pleasantly.
Democracy has made its way inside. The count must have softened in his old age.
The sun illuminated the twin penthouses: the count’s and the cardinal’s. Balistreri drove across the grounds, circled the fountain, and parked his old Fiat in a shady corner beside an Aston Martin—a later model than the one he remembered. Behind the swimming pool and tennis courts sat Building B. The blinds on all its windows were closed. Balistreri’s gaze fell on Elisa Sordi’s window, and he quickly looked away.
He entered the small elevator in the lobby of Building A and pressed the button for the penthouse. On the landing, the gloomy prints of ancient Rome had been replaced by fine photographs: bright-green highlands, a lake that looked as broad as a sea, a river that was almost white.
The count’s personal secretary, a young man wearing jeans and a Lacoste shirt, welcomed him. The residence that had always been dark, with its curtains drawn and the blinds pulled down, was now completely open to the sun. The heavy curtains were gone.
They crossed through two rooms. There was no trace of the black leather sofas and the disturbing tapestries—they had been replaced with modern furniture and mirrors.
The young man ushered him into a small air-conditioned sitting room furnished with two armchairs. The blinds were open.
“The count will be with you in a moment. May I offer you something to drink?”
Balistreri asked for coffee and sat down. He was breaking rules left and right, but decaffeinated coffee was no longer enough for him. The French doors looked onto a large terrace. A table shaded by a large umbrella sat outside with a computer on it.
“Captain Balistreri.”
He hadn’t heard the count come in. Count Tommaso dei Banchi di Aglieno stood straight as a ramrod. His smooth hair, combed straight back, was only slightly thinner and sparser than it had been. A few gray streaks broke up the black. A short, well-trimmed gray beard had replaced his goatee. His double-breasted blue suit was impeccable. The surroundings might have changed, but the man himself looked the same.
“Count.” Balistreri held out his hand, which the other man shook with the strong grip he remembered well.
“We’ll be undisturbed here. Do sit down.”
The count displayed not a bit of surprise, annoyance, or hostility. In front of him sat the man who, twenty-four years earlier, had unjustly accused his son of murder, causing his wife to kill herself. But nothing in his calm manner indicated that he was still chewing over the past. He was probably sick of thinking about it, though surely he was curious to know the reason for this visit.
“Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”
“I’m not as busy these days as I was back then, Captain Balistreri. Also, I hope the circumstances will be less unpleasant.”
“I won’t take up too much of your time.”
“Please, it’s not a problem. I’m a retired landowner. I keep a hand in things, but I’m officially retired. Also, I admit, I have something to ask you. The events of recent months interest me a great deal, although they don’t come as a total surprise.”
Balistreri decided to let that insinuation lie there, untouched.
“A war was about to break out between Romania and Italy,” the count said, seemingly amused by the thought.
“And all it took to avert it was a soccer victory,” Balistreri said.
The count nodded. “We live in a superficial world. This country’s values lie buried under the garbage the sanitation workers leave in the middle of the street when they go on strike.”
Things change around us, but not inside us.
“I know you haven’t been involved in politics for many years.”
The count smiled. He commanded the same respect as he always had, but not the same fear. He really did have the air of the retired landowner he claimed to be.
“After everything that happened in 1982, I gave up trying to bring back the monarchy to a country where no one would dream of being king. I was destined to fail, Balistreri.”
“I can’t believe you’re afraid of a fight, Count.”
“It was an unequal fight. The Christians were already democrats, the Communists have become democrats, and with the Vatican willing to turn a blind eye, everyone is democratically becoming wealthy. Too many challengers for an old aristocratic idealist.”
Balistreri began to feel uneasy. It was annoying to share even a part of this man’s ideas. Finding them in some way similar to his mother’s was unacceptable and revolting. It was on these occasions that Alberto, always the respectful one, was the rebel.
Don’t trust the Catholics. Theirs is a religion founded on resentment, bad conscience, and repentance. Don’t trust the morality of the weak. It only distances you from life’s joy.
The count was completely relaxed. He spoke as if they were old friends.
“I imagine you’re not here to discuss politics with me, Captain Balistreri. The suicide of that girl’s mother must have reopened a wound for you.”
Here he was after twenty-four years, a few days after Giovanna Sordi’s suicide. Father Paul, Valerio Bona, and now the count—how could they think he wanted talk about anything else?
“Actually, I’m here about another matter.”
The Count politely raised an eyebrow. “Something to do with your recent adventures?”
“To tell the truth, at this point I don’t know. Maybe.”
The man smiled. “I see that time has given you the wisdom to accept doubt. That’s one of the few advantages of growing older.”
“I have to reconstruct several links from the past that partly concern you.”
“Before you do that, Captain Balistreri, I’d like to understand how I can help you.”
“I’m a policeman, Count. I’m conducting a very confidential investigation.”
“But you know that I am a most confidential person. And I could help you better if I know what we are speaking about.”
Balistreri decided that, leaving aside ENT and the incised letters, he could risk it.
“I’m trying to track down a ghost,” he said.
“Interesting,” the count said. He pressed the button on a remote control. “This room has a smoke extractor. Smoke if it will help you think.”
The count enjoyed his astonishment. A little hesitantly, Balistreri lit a cigarette, nervously awaiting a reaction.
Instead, the count listened in silence to the summary of Nadia’s kidnapping and murder. Balistreri carefully avoided any mention of ENT and Colajacono’s possible involvement.
“It was Alina, the deceased wife of Marius Hagi, who led me back to the church of San Valente,” Balistreri explained.
