seek could be anyone, Nic. A man, a woman, a modest, anonymous individual”—Sordi shrugged—“running some little cafe in the city, perhaps, or delivering the mail.” His eyes gleamed. “One of you. Or a cabal of several. In the Carabinieri. The secret services. Among those of us who pretend we are your masters. It demands courage and intelligence to devote one’s entire life to appearing to be someone else. With that comes a very ruthless ambition. Be wary. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone beyond those you trust.”
“Of course.”
The president hesitated. A note of uncertainty, perhaps regret, entered his voice. “I have selfish reasons to say this. You’re the second person to whom I have confided my thoughts.”
Dario Sordi grasped the bottle of Brunello, poured himself a dash more, took an urgent, desperate sip. He stared at Costa, an expression approaching guilt on his tired, pale face.
“The first was Giovanni Batisti a week ago, when the intelligence reports first began to find their way to my desk. It was idiotic of me to tell him, but …” His arms spread wide in a gesture of despair.
“Make no mistake, Nic. This is a lonely job. Mostly I pin medals on decent men and women, attend funerals and civic events. There are few people to whom I may turn in confidence. Giovanni Batisti was an honest man. I asked him merely to consider my concerns and keep them to himself. Whether he did … You understand what I’m saying? You must not discount the possibility that he was indiscreet. It’s possible the Blue Demon is rather closer to us than we might suspect.”
Nic Costa tried to find the right words. Dario Sordi was a kindly figure from his childhood, one who had always seemed so confident, so self-assured. At that moment he appeared lost and in need of comfort.
“Leo Falcone is the best police officer I have ever worked with. If anyone can find this individual—”
“Yes, yes,” Sordi interrupted, smiling. “What I was trying to say was more personal. I have one death on my conscience already. I do not wish anyone to add to that burden, least of all you.”
PART TWO
False Flags
I am vero Italia novis cladibus vel post longam saeculorum seriem repetitis adflicta.… Corrupti in dominos servi, in patronos liberti; et quibus deerat inimicus per amicos oppressi
.
Now too Italy was beset by new disasters, or those which it had not witnessed for many years.… Slaves were bribed to turn against their masters, freedmen to betray their patrons; and, if a man had no enemies, he was destroyed by his friends.
—Tacitus,
The Histories
, Book I
13
THE VILLA OVERLOOKED THE DRAB, FLAT COAST RUNNING to the Tyrrhenian Sea, an untidy sprawl of industrial units and abandoned farmland not far from the main highway to Tuscany. It was a rich man’s rental, eight bedrooms, an extortionate five thousand dollars a week paid to a property agency in Tarquinia set on the bluff above. The name was a lie, resurrected in the 1920s to boast of the sleepy medieval town’s roots. Nothing hereabouts was quite what it seemed. The true home of the Etruscans was lost altogether, mere fragments, pot shards and fractured stones in a shallow valley in the hills. There, a disappeared race had turned to dust, leaving nothing but mausoleums, deep beneath the ochre earth, halls for feasting and revelry, physical joy, the life eternal, many pillaged to fill museums with vivid ceramics and statues depicting a culture built on strength and art and a stark carnal sensuality.
Andrea Petrakis could map each precious tomb in his head. The public site on the outskirts of Tarquinia where the tourists turned up in their buses to gaze in awe and a little fear at burial halls showing men and women dancing, singing, hunting, fighting, making love, two and a half millennia before. The secret places too, graves that were whispered about in order to keep out the curious and the greedy. From Cerveteri in the south to Grosseto, Orvieto,
“Of course.”
The president hesitated. A note of uncertainty, perhaps regret, entered his voice. “I have selfish reasons to say this. You’re the second person to whom I have confided my thoughts.”
Dario Sordi grasped the bottle of Brunello, poured himself a dash more, took an urgent, desperate sip. He stared at Costa, an expression approaching guilt on his tired, pale face.
“The first was Giovanni Batisti a week ago, when the intelligence reports first began to find their way to my desk. It was idiotic of me to tell him, but …” His arms spread wide in a gesture of despair.
“Make no mistake, Nic. This is a lonely job. Mostly I pin medals on decent men and women, attend funerals and civic events. There are few people to whom I may turn in confidence. Giovanni Batisti was an honest man. I asked him merely to consider my concerns and keep them to himself. Whether he did … You understand what I’m saying? You must not discount the possibility that he was indiscreet. It’s possible the Blue Demon is rather closer to us than we might suspect.”
Nic Costa tried to find the right words. Dario Sordi was a kindly figure from his childhood, one who had always seemed so confident, so self-assured. At that moment he appeared lost and in need of comfort.
“Leo Falcone is the best police officer I have ever worked with. If anyone can find this individual—”
“Yes, yes,” Sordi interrupted, smiling. “What I was trying to say was more personal. I have one death on my conscience already. I do not wish anyone to add to that burden, least of all you.”
PART TWO
False Flags
I am vero Italia novis cladibus vel post longam saeculorum seriem repetitis adflicta.… Corrupti in dominos servi, in patronos liberti; et quibus deerat inimicus per amicos oppressi
.
Now too Italy was beset by new disasters, or those which it had not witnessed for many years.… Slaves were bribed to turn against their masters, freedmen to betray their patrons; and, if a man had no enemies, he was destroyed by his friends.
—Tacitus,
The Histories
, Book I
13
THE VILLA OVERLOOKED THE DRAB, FLAT COAST RUNNING to the Tyrrhenian Sea, an untidy sprawl of industrial units and abandoned farmland not far from the main highway to Tuscany. It was a rich man’s rental, eight bedrooms, an extortionate five thousand dollars a week paid to a property agency in Tarquinia set on the bluff above. The name was a lie, resurrected in the 1920s to boast of the sleepy medieval town’s roots. Nothing hereabouts was quite what it seemed. The true home of the Etruscans was lost altogether, mere fragments, pot shards and fractured stones in a shallow valley in the hills. There, a disappeared race had turned to dust, leaving nothing but mausoleums, deep beneath the ochre earth, halls for feasting and revelry, physical joy, the life eternal, many pillaged to fill museums with vivid ceramics and statues depicting a culture built on strength and art and a stark carnal sensuality.
Andrea Petrakis could map each precious tomb in his head. The public site on the outskirts of Tarquinia where the tourists turned up in their buses to gaze in awe and a little fear at burial halls showing men and women dancing, singing, hunting, fighting, making love, two and a half millennia before. The secret places too, graves that were whispered about in order to keep out the curious and the greedy. From Cerveteri in the south to Grosseto, Orvieto,
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