When the Dead Awaken (12 page)

The sense of being watched was lifting, and Sabrina was just congratulating herself when a man sat down next to her.

‘Signor Raspallo,' she said with a sigh.

‘Call me Nestore,' he said.

He leaned forwards and studied his elegant suede shoes. She noted to her satisfaction that he had taken off the bow tie.

‘Nestore … damn you.'

‘An excellent disguise,' he said. ‘The emo.'

‘Not good enough, it would appear. I assume you're not here by chance?'

‘Not entirely. But I come here often. I never tire of the cathedral. Do you know what I love about it the most?'

‘Tell me.'

‘That it was created by anonymous and forgotten masons. They toiled for years, producing some of the greatest art the world has ever seen. Not for themselves, not for any recognition in their lifetime, but for something higher.'

‘Perhaps they weren't anonymous in their lifetime?' she suggested.

Sabrina, too, looked at the miraculous cathedral, which she had always felt lacked something. A unifying thought, possibly. It had borrowed freely from every European style from Gothic to late Romantic and, yes, the result was unique, but you had to look carefully to spot the original concept. On the other hand, there was something deeply Italian and life-affirming about the architectural clash.

Raspallo placed an envelope between them.

‘Here are a couple of things which I think will interest you.'

‘What things?'

‘You'll know when you see them. There's also a number on which you can reach me at any time.'

‘In case anything happens?'

‘In case of anything.'

‘Is that official, Nestore?'

‘Yes and no.'

‘Yes and no?'

‘I think it depends on whether you succeed. If you do, it'll be official, obviously; if not they don't want anyone to know they were involved.'

‘I see. So who are you?'

‘A friend, I think.'

A friend under orders, she thought.

He described the two Camorra tails Sabrina had managed to lose at the entrance to Coin. After a brief deliberation the two men had wandered back in the direction of Via Durini and her hotel.

He stood up and looked at her gravely.

‘It means that you're of interest to the Camorra. They would appear not to be indifferent to the identity of the bodies in the container. Perhaps they still retain an interest in Lucia and Salvatore Forlani. Did you drive here directly from Naples?'

‘Yes,' she lied.

‘Although it might look like it, the Camorra haven't promised not to liquidate public prosecutors, though it has been a long time since the last one,' he said. ‘Watch yourself.'

‘Thank you, Nestore. But I think they're waiting to see where I go and whom I visit.'

‘Possibly.'

It was as if the young man wanted to add something. He looked at her with some doubts. Then he went inside the cathedral.

She hoped he might consider lighting a candle for her.

It had grown dark when she turned into Via Durini. In the distance she saw the neon sign of Albergo Merlin flash out the guest house's position to the rest of the world. She had long since selected her candidates: the green Fiat van, obviously, the other white van with reflective foil covering the rear window, a new beige Ford Mondeo whose owner had been leaning against the door studying a map for a remarkable period of time, and a minibus that appeared to be empty. Behind the dark windows of the minibus she thought she saw a tiny movement, but it wasn't repeated. She couldn't see either the tourist or the businessman.

She walked along the pavement to the beat of Katie Melua. She let one of the cigarette packets with the wristwatch slip from her hand just behind the rear wheel of the green van. Sabrina entered a kiosk and bought a packet of chewing gum and a magazine with a latex-clad Lady Gaga on the cover.

She unwrapped a piece of chewing gum near the white van and let the paper and the other cigarette packet fall down behind its left rear wheel. Sabrina repeated the procedure by the minibus and the Mondeo. The man in
the driver's seat had swapped the map with
Il Golfo
, a Neapolitan newspaper, and Sabrina frowned at this display of poor professional standards. She turned left at the corner of Via Borgogna and walked up the road which ran parallel with Via Durini.

In a quiet corner in one of the courtyards connecting Corso Europa and Albergo Merlin she quickly changed her clothing, pulled her hair back in a ponytail and stuffed the shopping bags from Coin into her shoulder bag. She removed the make-up with a cleansing wipe – and the emo was no more.

The receptionist managed to muster a feeble smile when she appeared at the counter.

Sabrina beamed back at him.

She nodded to the back room where she could see a flickering computer screen.

‘Good evening, signore. I've a favour to ask you.'

‘Yes?'

‘Tomorrow my husband and children arrive at Milan Linate. The airport, you know.'

‘I have heard of it,' the man said.

‘Of course you have. I'm sorry. But, please, could I ask you to check on your computer if there are any delays in flight traffic tomorrow at 12.05? Meridiana flight 2306. It would be a great help.'

She folded her hands demurely on the counter.

The receptionist sighed and got up.

‘All right.'

‘Thank you so much, signore.'

The man closed the folding door behind him and Sabrina slipped silently behind the counter and swapped one of her room keys with one from a room on the third floor. Earlier she had noticed that room number 307 – like practically all rooms at Albergo Merlin – was vacant.

She resumed her original position in front of the counter.

‘There would appear to be no delays, signora,' the receptionist said when he returned.

‘That's great. Are you married?'

He looked at her. He was evidently trying to remember.

‘Yes.'

She nodded as if the two of them had now bonded and requested her keys. The receptionist handed them to her without looking at them.

‘Good night, signore.'

‘Night.'

‘Sleep well.'

‘I'll try, signora.'

Castellarano

The door to Enzo's rooms opened when Antonia had finished in the bathroom. She counted eight steps as he crossed the landing to the stairs and knew that the front door would slam shut nine seconds later. She opened her bedroom window to the song of a blackbird on the roof across the road. The evening sky was dark blue. She tightened the cord of her dressing gown, gathered her hair at the nape of her neck and leaned forwards, resting on her elbows on the windowsill. Opposite, at their usual table near the garden and bowling alley of La Stazione, three regulars reclined in wicker chairs, elegant and colourful as only middle-aged Italian men can be.

The men spotted Enzo the moment he stepped outside her front door. They called out greetings that could easily be heard across the road. One got up and waved him over, but tonight her strange lodger ignored his friends. At times, without warning, Enzo could become as distant as
a sleepwalker. Stiff and dark he would march down the road and disappear in the shadows.

A few minutes later a bottle-green English car, which Gianni had identified as a Bentley Brooklands, would drive past the restaurant in grandiose silence and vanish in the darkness behind Enzo Canavaro. No one knew who owned it, but every now and then it would appear like a ghost on the road. Usually on evenings when Enzo was at his most twitchy and unapproachable. Speculations about the strange car had spread across the town for the last two years, but no one had yet come up with a plausible explanation.

Enzo's unfathomable behaviour angered Antonia. Any rejection of intimacy, of any opportunity for happiness and enjoyment of life, outraged her. She felt the same indignation every night as she watched old Signora Pantoni's rituals: the dinner, the cutlery laid out for breakfast the following morning, a glass of water before bedtime, fifteen minutes of reading before the lights were switched off behind the blinds.

A strange wait for death, without offering any resistance.

Antonia stacked up the pillows against the headboard. A bowl of sweets and a pile of almost new fashion magazines were within sinful reach.

Later, she registered Enzo's footsteps walking up the stairs.

The American edition of
Vogue
featured an article on the Milanese fashion designer Massimiliano Di Luca's rise and … fall? American insiders were united in expressing doubt whether the master could survive the departure of his young chief designer, who had left to set up his own house.

Antonia pushed her reading glasses up her nose and studied Massimiliano Di Luca, who was locked in an embrace with an ecstatic Madonna and Scarlett Johansson on a glittering Paris runway. Signature black suit, open-necked white shirt, a virile and handsome face, a ponytail. His gaze was aimed at something that was not clear to anyone but Massimiliano Di Luca. He had designed several collections that had all been original and unique, giving the public the impression that he had arrived on earth in a rescue capsule from a dying star. For three decades Di Luca had left even his severest critics euphoric and his rivals in despair. At the same time his furious energy had enabled him to serve as president and director of the powerful fashion industry body, the Camera Nazionale della Moda Italiana.

Antonia switched off her reading light, tossed some of the pillows on the floor and fell asleep to the sound of Enzo moving around in his self-imposed solitude.

In her room Sabrina opened the envelope from Nestore Raspallo while she contemplated his motives. He had undoubtedly spoken to Federico Renda, who was of the opinion that she needed help – something that infuriated her. Renda's influence extended far beyond Naples, and his condescending remarks about the North were pure affectation. He often entertained top politicians and important business people from northern Italy. The President had visited him several times and Renda had a seat on countless national councils and committees.

The envelope contained a log of calls to and from her father's mobile phone in the last five days of his life. The final call was to a GIS captain, a Primo Alba, three hours before her father was killed in the cabin in Alto Adige. The list had been printed out on perforated printer paper from a well-known telecommunications company. It took up three sheets and was dated today.

She let her eyes skim over the dates, times, call duration and the names of subscribers. In a few instances the name of the subscriber had been replaced with a line of x's. There was a dramatic accumulation of calls to and from her father's mobile after the attack on Nanometric on 5 September 2007: from the local Polizia Municipale in San Siro, the ambulance service, the Carabinieri and the Polizia
Stradale. A few hours later calls from the traffic police in Città Studi south of Milan had come in when the rescue crew started cutting Giulio Forlani free from his wrecked car. She traced the list with her finger: Palazzo di Giustizia, Ospedale Maggiore, etc. Nothing jumped out at her. Sabrina frowned when she saw that no calls had been logged to or from the mobile phone between 11.15 a.m. and 12.15 p.m. Half an hour before and after the time Lucia and Salvatore Forlani were abducted, her father had switched off his mobile. In the eye of the storm.

At 12.15 p.m. the general had turned on his mobile again. The first call was an outgoing one and according to the telecommunications company the number belonged to
Emp. Massimiliano Di Luca, s.a
.

Her father
and
Massimiliano Di Luca?

On one hand, it was only natural that her father would contact Di Luca about the disaster if they were financing Forlani's and Nanometric's research. On the other hand it seemed strange that he would risk exposing his involvement with Nanometric, instead of making use of a front-man and a fictitious EU Commission office as he usually did. She had no recollection of him ever mentioning copyright protection, Nanometric or Massimiliano Di Luca at home. The latter would undoubtedly have caught the attention of his fashion-conscious daughter who would have pestered him for tickets to Di Luca's shows.

*

Sabrina got up, put the plug in the sink, turned on the cold tap, and immersed her face in the water. She could feel bubbles trickle from her nostrils and tickle her cheeks. She stayed there until she could no longer hold her breath, dried her face and massaged her temples while she thought about her father, who would appear to be helplessly entangled in the Forlani tragedy.

Nestore Raspallo's business card was the colour of ivory. It listed only his name and a mobile telephone number. The young man was apparently always available.

Questions without answers buzzed around her brain. For a long time she sat on the toilet seat with her head in her hands. On the back of her eyelids images from the endless day flickered by. The park at the top of the hill in Castellarano and the tall woman with the grapes, the green van in her rear-view and wing mirrors, the changing room in the department store. The dark, soaring cathedral, her father's face, which ambushed her and stayed with her like the final credit in an emptied cinema.

She thought about young Nestore Raspallo with the light brown hair and his bow tie, and became aware of a reluctant smile on her lips. She wondered briefly what it would be like to be in love. Exhausting weightlessness? Euphoria and distraction? A foreboding of catastrophe?

She put the log in her shoulder bag and Raspallo's business card in her pocket.

The guest house was as quiet as the grave. She tiptoed
up the stairs and stopped outside room number 307. Sabrina switched on her torch, removed the solitary light bulb in the corridor and put it in a cupboard with a fire hose and a powder extinguisher. She let herself into the room, placed the bedside table and a lamp in front of the door, loaded the Walther, dragged the mattress and the bed linen from the bed to the furthest corner of the room and put her pistol under the flat, hard pillow. She slipped under the cold, thin blankets and crossed her fingers that no travelling salesman would wake the receptionist in the middle of the night and specifically request this room.