authorization from his superiors. The lead had in fact been false – an address on the fifth floor of a building which only had four – but when he reached the top of the stairs he had noticed the water seeping along the corridor. Having traced the source to the shower, he attempted to communicate with the occupant, and when that failed he had kicked the door down.
It was this homely gesture which had finally won the Carabinieri over. They glanced at each other, nodding sympathetically. Confronted by an obstinately locked door and a stubborn silence on the other side of it, that was what you did, wasn’t it? You kicked the fucking thing down. It might not do the door any good, but it would sure as hell make the next one think twice about messing you around. The maresciallo thanked Zen for his cooperation and told him he could go. Marco Duranti on the other hand, was detained for a further forty minutes. Zen spent the time in a café across the road making a number of phone calls. The first was to the contact number he had been given in the Vatican. This was engaged, so he phoned Tania.
‘Hello?’
It was a man’s voice, with a reedy timbre and clipped intonation.
‘Sorry, I must have a wrong number.’
He dialled again, but now this number was engaged as well, so he fed the two-hundred lire piece back into the slot and called Paragon Security Consultants. A secretary made him hold the line for some time before putting him through to the managing director.
‘Gilberto Nieddu.’
‘This is the Ministry of Finance, dottore. Following a raid by our officers on a leading firm of accountants, we have uncovered evidence which suggests that for the last five years your company has consistently failed to declare twenty-five per cent of its profits.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘However, we have no time to concern ourselves with such small-time offenders,’ Zen continued, ‘so we’d be prepared to overlook the matter in return for the services of a discreet, qualified electrician.’
This was greeted by a sharp intake of breath.
‘Is that you, Aurelio?’
Zen chuckled.
‘You sounded worried, Gilberto.’
‘You bastard! You really had me going there!’
‘Oh come on, Gilberto! You don’t expect me to believe that you’re fiddling a quarter of your taxes, do you?
‘Of course not, but …’
‘It must be a hell of a lot more than that.’
Nieddu made a spluttering sound.
‘Now about this electrician,’ Zen went on.
‘Look, Aurelio, it may have escaped your attention, but I’m not running a community information service. You need an electrician, look in the pagine gialle. ’
‘I’m not talking about changing a plug, Gilberto.’
‘So what are you talking about?’
Zen told him. Nieddu gave a long sigh.
‘Why do I let you drag me into these things, Aurelio? What’s it got to do with me? What’s it got to do with you , for that matter?’
He sighed again.
‘Give me the address.’
When they’d agreed a rendezvous, Zen called Tania again. The same male voice answered.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded Zen.
There was a brief interval of silence, then the receiver was replaced. Zen immediately redialled, but the phone rang and rang without any answer. He hung up, went to the bar and ordered a double espresso which he gulped down, searing his throat. He got out the red plastic-bound diary which he had removed from Giovanni Grimaldi’s room. It turned out to be dated the following year, a freebie given away with a recent issue of L’Espresso . He riffled through it, but the pages were blank except for a few numbers and letters scribbled in the Personal Data section. Replacing the diary in his pocket, Zen touched his packet of Nazionali cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, then returned to the phone. There was still no reply from Tania’s number, so he tried the Vatican again. This time the number answered almost immediately.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Signor
It was this homely gesture which had finally won the Carabinieri over. They glanced at each other, nodding sympathetically. Confronted by an obstinately locked door and a stubborn silence on the other side of it, that was what you did, wasn’t it? You kicked the fucking thing down. It might not do the door any good, but it would sure as hell make the next one think twice about messing you around. The maresciallo thanked Zen for his cooperation and told him he could go. Marco Duranti on the other hand, was detained for a further forty minutes. Zen spent the time in a café across the road making a number of phone calls. The first was to the contact number he had been given in the Vatican. This was engaged, so he phoned Tania.
‘Hello?’
It was a man’s voice, with a reedy timbre and clipped intonation.
‘Sorry, I must have a wrong number.’
He dialled again, but now this number was engaged as well, so he fed the two-hundred lire piece back into the slot and called Paragon Security Consultants. A secretary made him hold the line for some time before putting him through to the managing director.
‘Gilberto Nieddu.’
‘This is the Ministry of Finance, dottore. Following a raid by our officers on a leading firm of accountants, we have uncovered evidence which suggests that for the last five years your company has consistently failed to declare twenty-five per cent of its profits.’
There was silence at the other end.
‘However, we have no time to concern ourselves with such small-time offenders,’ Zen continued, ‘so we’d be prepared to overlook the matter in return for the services of a discreet, qualified electrician.’
This was greeted by a sharp intake of breath.
‘Is that you, Aurelio?’
Zen chuckled.
‘You sounded worried, Gilberto.’
‘You bastard! You really had me going there!’
‘Oh come on, Gilberto! You don’t expect me to believe that you’re fiddling a quarter of your taxes, do you?
‘Of course not, but …’
‘It must be a hell of a lot more than that.’
Nieddu made a spluttering sound.
‘Now about this electrician,’ Zen went on.
‘Look, Aurelio, it may have escaped your attention, but I’m not running a community information service. You need an electrician, look in the pagine gialle. ’
‘I’m not talking about changing a plug, Gilberto.’
‘So what are you talking about?’
Zen told him. Nieddu gave a long sigh.
‘Why do I let you drag me into these things, Aurelio? What’s it got to do with me? What’s it got to do with you , for that matter?’
He sighed again.
‘Give me the address.’
When they’d agreed a rendezvous, Zen called Tania again. The same male voice answered.
‘Who’s that?’ demanded Zen.
There was a brief interval of silence, then the receiver was replaced. Zen immediately redialled, but the phone rang and rang without any answer. He hung up, went to the bar and ordered a double espresso which he gulped down, searing his throat. He got out the red plastic-bound diary which he had removed from Giovanni Grimaldi’s room. It turned out to be dated the following year, a freebie given away with a recent issue of L’Espresso . He riffled through it, but the pages were blank except for a few numbers and letters scribbled in the Personal Data section. Replacing the diary in his pocket, Zen touched his packet of Nazionali cigarettes. He took one out and lit it, then returned to the phone. There was still no reply from Tania’s number, so he tried the Vatican again. This time the number answered almost immediately.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Signor
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