Death in a Strange Country (12 page)

‘Not this time,’ Brunetti
said simply.

‘No, not this time. Since
he was killed in Venice, he’s yours, it’s all yours. But they’ll want to keep
their hand in.’

‘Why?’

‘Public relations,’
Ambrogiani said, using the English words. ‘And things are changing. They
probably suspect they aren’t going to be here much longer, not here, and not
anywhere in Europe, so they don’t want anything to happen
that might
make their stay even shorter. They
don’t want any bad publicity.’
     
                     
         

‘It looks like a mugging,’
Brunetti said.

Ambrogiani gave Brunetti
a long, level stare. ‘When was the last time someone was killed in a mugging in
Venice?’
 
                     
                     
     

If Ambrogiani could ask
the question like that, he knew the answer.
         
                     
                   

‘Honour?’ Brunetti
suggested as a motive.
 
             

Ambrogiani smiled again. ‘If
you kill someone for honour, you don’t do it a hundred kilometres from home.
You do it in the bedroom, or the bar, but you don’t go to Venice to do it. If
it had happened here, it could have been sex or money. But it didn’t happen
here, so it seems that the reason has to be something else.’

‘A murder out of place?’
Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, out of place,’
Ambrogiani repeated, obviously liking the phrase. ‘And therefore more
interesting.’

* *
* *

7             
                     
 

The Maggiore pushed the slim file towards Brunetti with
the tip of his blunt finger and poured himself another glass of mineral water. ‘Here’s
what they gave us. There’s a translation if you
need it.’

Brunetti shook his head
and opened the file. On the front cover, in red letters, was printed, ‘Foster,
Michael b. 09/28/64, SSN 651341054’. He opened it and saw, clipped to the
inside of the front cover, a Xerox copy of a photograph. The dead man was
unrecognizable. These sharp contours of black and white had nothing to do with
the yellowing face of death that Brunetti had seen on the bank of the canal
yesterday. Inside the folder were two typewritten pages stating that Sergeant
Foster worked for the Office of Public Health, that he had once been given a
ticket for going through a STOP sign on the base, that he had been promoted to
the rank of Sergeant one year ago, and that his family lived in Biddeford Pool,
Maine.

The second page contained
the summary of an interview conducted with an Italian civilian who worked in
the Office of Public Health and who attested that Foster got on well with his
colleagues, worked very hard at his job, and was polite and friendly with the
Italian civilians who worked in the office.

‘Not very much, is there?’
Brunetti asked, closing the file and pushing it back towards the Maggiore. ‘The
perfect soldier. Hardworking. Obedient. Friendly.’

‘But someone put a knife
in his ribs.’

Brunetti remembered
Doctor Peters and asked, ‘No woman?’

‘Not that we know of,’
Ambrogiani answered. ‘But that doesn’t mean there wasn’t. He was young,
spoke
passable Italian, so It’s possible.’ Ambrogiani paused for a moment and added, ‘Unless
he used
what’s for sale in front of the train station.’
     
               

‘Is that where they are?’
     
                     
                 

Ambrogiani nodded. ‘What
about Venice?’
 
             

Brunetti shook his head. ‘Not
since the government closed the brothels. There are a few, but they work the
hotels and don’t cause us any trouble.’
         
 

‘Here we have them in
front of the station, but I think times are bad for some of them. There are too
many women today who are willing to give it away,’ Ambrogiani volunteered, then
added, ‘for love.’
 
           

Brunetti’s daughter had
just turned thirteen, so he didn’t want to think about what young women would
give away for love. ‘Can I talk to the Americans?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I think so,’
Ambrogiani answered then reached for the phone. ‘We’ll tell them you’re the
Chief of Police for Venice. They’ll like that rank, so they’ll talk to you.’ He
dialled a number with easy familiarity and, while he waited for a response,
pulled the file back towards him. Rather fussily, he lined up the few papers in
the file and placed it squarely in front of him.

He spoke into the
telephone in heavily-accented, but correct, English. ‘Good afternoon, Tiffany.
This is Major Ambrogiani. Is the Major there? What? Yes, I’ll wait.’ He put his
hand over the mouthpiece and held the phone away from his ear. ‘He’s in
conference. Americans seem to live in conference.’

‘Could it be . . .’
Brunetti began but stopped when Ambrogiani pulled his hand away.

‘Yes, thank you. Good
morning, Major Butterworth.’ The name had been in the file, but when Ambrogiani
said it, it sounded like ‘Budderword’.

‘Yes, Major. I have the
Chief of the Venice police here with me now. Yes, we brought him out by
helicopter for the day.’ A long pause followed. ‘No, he can spare us only
today.’ He looked down at his watch. ‘In twenty minutes? Yes, he’ll be there.
No, I’m sorry, but I can’t, Major. I have to be in conference. Yes, thank you.’
He set the phone down, placed his pencil in a neat diagonal across the cover of
the file, and said, ‘He’ll see you in twenty minutes.’

‘And your conference?’
Brunetti asked.

Ambrogiani dismissed the
idea with a wave of the hand. ‘It’ll just be a waste of time. If they do know
anything, they won’t tell you, and if they don’t know anything, then they can’t.
So there’s no reason I should waste my time by going.’ Changing the topic, he
asked, ‘How’s your English?’

‘All right.’

‘Good, that’ll make it
much easier.’

‘Who is he, this major?’

Ambrogiani repeated the
name, again gliding over all of the sharper consonants. ‘He’s their liaison
officer. Or, as they say, he “liaises”‘ - he used the English word - ‘between
them and us.’ Both grinned at the ease with which English allowed its speakers
to turn a noun into a verb, a familiarity which Italian would certainly not
permit.

‘Of what does this “liaising”
consist?’

‘Oh, if we have problems,
he comes to us, or he goes the other way, if they have problems.’

‘What sort of problems?’

‘If anyone tries to get
in at the gate without the proper identification. Or if we break their traffic
rules. Or if they ask a Carabiniere why he’s buying ten kilos of beef at their
supermarket. Things like that.’

‘Supermarket?’ Brunetti
asked with real surprise.

‘Yes, supermarket. And
bowling alley’ - he used the English word - ‘and cinema, and even a Burger King’
- the name was said without a trace of an accent.

Fascinated, Brunetti
repeated the words ‘Burger King’ with the same tone with which a child might
say ‘pony’ if promised one.

Hearing him, Ambrogiani
laughed. ‘It’s remarkable, isn’t it? There’s a whole little world here, one that
has nothing to do with Italy.’ He gestured out of his window. ‘Out there lies
America, Commissario. It’s what we’re all going to become, I think.’ After a
short pause, he repeated, ‘America.’

That was precisely what
awaited Brunetti a quarter of an hour later, when he opened the doors of the
NATO command headquarters and walked up the three steps to the lobby. The walls
held posters of unnamed cities which, because of the height and homogeneity of
their skyscrapers, had to be American. That nation was loudly proclaimed, too,
in the many signs which forbade smoking and in the notices which covered the
bulletin boards along the walls. The marble floor was the only Italianate
touch. As he had been directed, Brunetti climbed the steps in front of him,
turned right at the top, and went into the second office on the left. The room
into which he walked was divided by head-high partitions, and the walls, like
those on the floor below, were covered with bulletin boards and printed
notices. Backed up against one of them were two armchairs covered in what
appeared to be thick grey plastic. At a desk just inside the door, to the
right, sat a young woman who could only be American. She had blonde hair which
was cut off in a short fringe above her blue eyes but hung down almost to her
waist at the back. A rash of freckles ran across her nose, and her teeth had
that perfection common to most Americans and to the wealthiest Italians. She
turned to him with a bright smile; her mouth turned up at the corners, but her
eyes remained curiously expressionless and flat.

‘Good morning,’ he said,
smiling back. ‘My name’s Brunetti. I think the Major is expecting me.’

She came out from behind
the desk, revealing a body as perfect as her teeth, and walked through an
opening in the partition, though she could just as easily have phoned or called
over the top. From the other side of the partition, he heard her voice answered
by a deeper one. After a few seconds, she appeared at the opening and signalled
to Brunetti, ‘In here, please, sir.’

Behind the desk sat a
blond young man who appeared to be barely into his twenties. Brunetti looked at
him and as quickly away, for the man seemed to glow, glisten. When he looked
back, Brunetti saw that it was not radiance but only youth, health, and someone
else to care for his uniforms.

‘Chief Brunetti?’ he said
and rose to his feet behind his desk. To Brunetti, he looked like he had just
come from a shower or bath: his skin was taut, shining, as though he had set
down his razor in order to take Brunetti’s hand. While they shook hands,
Brunetti noticed his eyes, a clear, translucent blue, the colour the
laguna
had
been twenty years ago.