monarchists – and the biggest grouping of all, the Garibaldini.”
“Who were communists.”
“Indeed. To say that the different groups didn’t always get along is something of an understatement. But in the case of the communists, there was another problem too. Long before the end of the war, the Americans started turning their attention to the new threat posed by Russia. Officially, of course, the two countries were allies. But in practice, both were trying to grab as much territory and influence as they could before hostilities came to an end. Some historians even believe the reason the Americans invaded Italy in the first place wasn’t just to drive the Germans out, but to deny it to the communists. After all, communist partisans under Tito already dominated Yugoslavia; if they’d got Italy too, the whole strategic balance in the Mediterranean could have shifted in Russia’s favour. If the Americans saw an opportunity to weaken a communist brigade’s influence, they might well have taken it.”
“Interesting.” Piola stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Professor. I’ll see if we can trace one of Ghimenti’s descendants and get their DNA compared with the remains. Doubtless they’ll be pleased to give him a proper burial after so long.”
Trevisano put out a hand to stop him. “Wait, Colonel… I just want to be sure you’ve understood the implications of what you’ve told me. According to your forensic examiner, Ghimenti couldn’t have died in a firefight. That means the original version of his death can’t be correct.”
“That may or may not be the case, Professor,” Piola said, doing up his jacket. “But it’s a matter for historians like yourself now, not for the Carabinieri.”
“Ah,” Trevisano said quietly. “That’s where you may be wrong, Colonel. Tell me, how much do you know about the Hague Convention?”
Delayed by his conversation with Trevisano, Piola was late getting back to Campo San Zaccaria, where he was meant to be in a meeting with Internal Affairs.
“There you are, Colonel. Shall we make up for lost time by beginning immediately?” Colonel Lettiere said without looking up as Piola took a seat, muttering apologies. He gestured to his sidekick, Endrizzi, who took one of the half a dozen files in front of him and opened it at a page marked with a yellow Post-it note, placing it reverently in front of his master.
Piola knew his lateness would look like arrogance and, arrogantly, found he hardly cared. Colonel Lettiere’s investigation into the allegations of sexual misconduct made by Piola’s former subordinate, Kat Tapo, seemed to have been going on for ever now, an endless labyrinth of questions and insinuations. “I suggest to you, Colonel…” “Do you see how it looks when…” “Are you really claiming that…” Lettiere insisted on harvesting every detail, no matter how intimate – how often Piola and Kat had slept together, the dates and times, whether Piola had stayed the night; even whether the complainant had exhibited, as Lettiere prissily put it, “signs of sexual fulfilment”. When he’d asked that one, Piola had simply stared at him, in mute fury and outrage, until Lettiere, unabashed, had moved on to his next question.
“Today I intend to focus on a particular discrepancy between your statements and those of Captain Tapo,” Lettiere continued. “The captain says here that on one occasion, the night of January 21st, she resolved to break off the relationship. Yet your own recollection of that evening…” Here he turned to another page, also marked with a Post-it. “Is that you went to her apartment and had intimate relations as usual.” He peered at the page. “Along with bigoli con ragù , cooked by Captain Tapo herself. How charming.”
“If you say so,” Piola said, trying to suppress a sigh.
“What I’m wondering, Colonel, is how you persuaded her to change her mind. What inducements or pressure you might have
“Who were communists.”
“Indeed. To say that the different groups didn’t always get along is something of an understatement. But in the case of the communists, there was another problem too. Long before the end of the war, the Americans started turning their attention to the new threat posed by Russia. Officially, of course, the two countries were allies. But in practice, both were trying to grab as much territory and influence as they could before hostilities came to an end. Some historians even believe the reason the Americans invaded Italy in the first place wasn’t just to drive the Germans out, but to deny it to the communists. After all, communist partisans under Tito already dominated Yugoslavia; if they’d got Italy too, the whole strategic balance in the Mediterranean could have shifted in Russia’s favour. If the Americans saw an opportunity to weaken a communist brigade’s influence, they might well have taken it.”
“Interesting.” Piola stood up. “Well, thank you for your time, Professor. I’ll see if we can trace one of Ghimenti’s descendants and get their DNA compared with the remains. Doubtless they’ll be pleased to give him a proper burial after so long.”
Trevisano put out a hand to stop him. “Wait, Colonel… I just want to be sure you’ve understood the implications of what you’ve told me. According to your forensic examiner, Ghimenti couldn’t have died in a firefight. That means the original version of his death can’t be correct.”
“That may or may not be the case, Professor,” Piola said, doing up his jacket. “But it’s a matter for historians like yourself now, not for the Carabinieri.”
“Ah,” Trevisano said quietly. “That’s where you may be wrong, Colonel. Tell me, how much do you know about the Hague Convention?”
Delayed by his conversation with Trevisano, Piola was late getting back to Campo San Zaccaria, where he was meant to be in a meeting with Internal Affairs.
“There you are, Colonel. Shall we make up for lost time by beginning immediately?” Colonel Lettiere said without looking up as Piola took a seat, muttering apologies. He gestured to his sidekick, Endrizzi, who took one of the half a dozen files in front of him and opened it at a page marked with a yellow Post-it note, placing it reverently in front of his master.
Piola knew his lateness would look like arrogance and, arrogantly, found he hardly cared. Colonel Lettiere’s investigation into the allegations of sexual misconduct made by Piola’s former subordinate, Kat Tapo, seemed to have been going on for ever now, an endless labyrinth of questions and insinuations. “I suggest to you, Colonel…” “Do you see how it looks when…” “Are you really claiming that…” Lettiere insisted on harvesting every detail, no matter how intimate – how often Piola and Kat had slept together, the dates and times, whether Piola had stayed the night; even whether the complainant had exhibited, as Lettiere prissily put it, “signs of sexual fulfilment”. When he’d asked that one, Piola had simply stared at him, in mute fury and outrage, until Lettiere, unabashed, had moved on to his next question.
“Today I intend to focus on a particular discrepancy between your statements and those of Captain Tapo,” Lettiere continued. “The captain says here that on one occasion, the night of January 21st, she resolved to break off the relationship. Yet your own recollection of that evening…” Here he turned to another page, also marked with a Post-it. “Is that you went to her apartment and had intimate relations as usual.” He peered at the page. “Along with bigoli con ragù , cooked by Captain Tapo herself. How charming.”
“If you say so,” Piola said, trying to suppress a sigh.
“What I’m wondering, Colonel, is how you persuaded her to change her mind. What inducements or pressure you might have
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