The Absolution (4 page)

SECOND LIEUTENANT HOLLY BOLAND
flipped the catches on her father's old footlocker trunk and pushed open the lid.

Inside, under a layer of lining paper, was her childhood.

The first thing she saw was a drawing she'd done of her favourite
piazza
in Pisa – not the overcrowded Campo dei Miracoli where tourists congregated round the Leaning Tower, but the much smaller square at the end of the street where her own family had lived, where their Italian neighbours chatted over purchases in the grocery store, drank espressos propped against the zinc counter of the bar, or sat on the backs of parked Vespas eating ice creams and flirting, depending on their age and gender. The drawing was signed “
BUON COMPLEANNO PAPÀ!!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LOVE HOLLY!!!”

She noticed that she'd mixed Italian and English. It must have been done when she was eleven or twelve, the two languages still overlapping in her head.

Beneath the card was a class assignment in a clear folder, titled, “What it's like to be an American officer's daughter in Italy.” It was illustrated with a photograph of her and her brothers at a barbecue at Camp Darby, all three of them in swimwear. She'd been as lean and wiry as her brothers even then, her hair even blonder than theirs after weeks in the
Italian summer sun. Behind them, a group of Marines jogged along the beach in PTs and fatigue caps.

“Hi!” the caption read. “
Io amo la mia vita in Italia!
I love my life in Italy!”

Smiling, she put it down and moved on. A
Certificato di Eccellenza
from the Scuola Secondaria di Madonna Dell'Acqua attested that student Signorina Holly Boland had swum eight hundred metres. Another card, also handmade, bore the words, “
Per il miglior papà del mondo!
For the Best Daddy in the World!” It was dated
marzo 19
, the Feast of St Joseph, when Italian children wore green clothes and baked
frittelle
in honour of their fathers.

She wondered when she'd stopped giving him cards on the third Sunday in June, Father's Day in the US. Had she even noticed that she'd ditched the customs of her homeland for those of the country she was being raised in? Had he? And if he had, had he been proud, or concerned? Or a little bit of both?

Fascinated and nostalgic in equal measure, she continued digging through the layers. Every card she'd ever made him, every homework assignment she'd ever proudly passed on, every certificate she'd earned and postcard she'd sent home – he'd kept them all. Like most military personnel, always ready to move at short notice, his most precious possessions were stored in trunks rather than cupboards or drawers. That he'd devoted most of this one to mementoes of her childhood moved her almost to tears.

Further down, she found a photograph he'd taken of her. She was sitting on the back of a Vespa, grinning like a cat who'd got the cream, about to be driven somewhere by a handsome youth in sunglasses, his teeth gleaming in his olive-brown face. She must have been about fifteen. Her long, adolescent legs ended in the briefest pair of denim shorts she'd ever seen.

“How are you doing?”

Holly turned round. Her mother had come into the garage. “Hey, Mom. Look what I found.” Holly showed her the picture. “Did I
really
go out dressed like that? And did you really think it was OK?”

Her mother smiled ruefully. “I don't recall us having much choice – you were always so determined. And the Italian boys were always very respectful.”

“They may have seemed that way round you and Dad. I remember some very persistent wandering hands. It's a wonder I wasn't—” She stopped abruptly.

Her mother said nothing. Holly had told her a little of the events that had led to her taking extended leave from her posting at Camp Ederle, near Vicenza. A US colonel had incarcerated her in an underground military facility and tortured her, that much she knew. But she had also learnt that it was best not to press her daughter for details unless she was in the mood to talk about it.

Turning back to the trunk, Holly took the upper tray out. Underneath was her father's “formal”, his dress uniform – a four-pocket green jacket, complete with insignia and shoulder braid; tan trousers with a black stripe down the seams; a peaked, braided hat – and, alongside, a small case of medals. Medals for achievement and diligence rather than combat. Her father had been a conscientious officer who loved and believed in his country and his job, but he was no bloodthirsty warrior.

Beneath the medals was a sash. She lifted it out. It was designed to fasten around the neck like a waistcoat and bore a series of embroidered symbols: a compass, a set square and an eye inside a triangle. “I didn't know Dad was a Mason,” she exclaimed.

Her mother took the sash from her, nodding. “Oh, yes. He'd been in the Oddfellows before we moved to Europe, and when we settled at Camp Darby he got himself elected to a lodge near there. He always said it was for your sake – you and your brothers.”

“For our sake? How come?”

“He claimed it was a good way of getting to know the locals. But actually I think he just liked being around men and uniforms. As if he didn't get enough of that on base. It was his friend Signor Boccardo who proposed him, I think.”

“Boccardo . . .” Holly remembered a neighbour by that name, a pharmacist whose daughter had been in the same class as her. “Wasn't he the one who was killed in a car accident?”

“He was, yes.” Her mother handed the sash back. “Do you want to shave your dad? Dr Hammond will be here soon.”

“Sure. I'll just finish up in here.”

At the door of the garage her mother paused, looking back at the crates and trunks stacked around the walls. “Thanks for doing this, Holly. I haven't touched any of this since we came home – I just can't tell which of his old army things are important and what can be thrown away.” She was silent a moment. “Not that any of it's really important now, I guess.”

When she was gone, Holly turned her attention back to the trunk. Under the uniform were more cards and photographs, some dating back to pre-Pisa days when the family had hopped around Europe, moving from base to base every few years. She pulled out a picture of her parents at a dance. They looked young and carefree. Germany, she guessed. That was where they'd met.

Reaching down again, her fingers encountered a small
bump in the trunk's cotton lining. The cloth was old and fragile, and when she prodded it a second time it ripped. Her fingers closed around the ends of a few sheets of paper, pushed down inside the lining. She pulled them out.

The first thing she saw was a copy of a poem – she thought she recognised the typeface of her father's clattering old electric IBM.

Cities and Thrones and Powers

Stand in Time's eye,

Almost as long as flowers,

Which daily die:

But, as new buds put forth

To glad new men,

Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth,

The Cities rise again.

This season's Daffodil,

She never hears,

What change, what chance, what chill,

Cut down last year's;

But with bold countenance,

And knowledge small,

Esteems her seven days' continuance

To be perpetual.

It was Kipling, one of his favourites. The family used to roll their eyes whenever he recited it, but that had never stopped him.

The next sheet bore a few short paragraphs, typed on the same machine.

Re: The Attached Memorandum

This memorandum details concerns reported to me by an Italian civilian, a fellow brother of the Aristarchus Lodge in Pisa, regarding remnants of the NATO clandestine network codenamed “Gladio”.

The command structure of Gladio having been abruptly terminated along with the rest of the network in 1990, I was unsure who to report these concerns to. I have therefore passed the memorandum to a US intelligence officer of my acquaintance who, I knew, had previously been involved in the neutralisation of terrorist organisations such as the Red Brigades, in the hope that he will be able to distribute it to those best placed to take action.

This copy I am placing here, for safekeeping.

Major Edward R. Boland

March 12, 1991

The memo itself consisted of three pages, stapled together. It was stamped “COPY” in red ink and titled:

Highly Confidential.

She turned to the first page.

Since the public exposure of Operation Gladio in October of last year, those of us involved on the NATO side have been working at speed to roll up the network and transfer operational resources back to Allied hands. However, I have recently been made
aware that some former Gladio agents may not only be resisting this process but may be actively regrouping, using Masonic fraternities as their cover.

“Holly?” It was her mother, calling from the house.

“On my way,” she called back. She flicked to the next page, skimming the text, then put the document down. So her father had been connected to the infamous Operation Gladio, one of the strangest and most controversial episodes in Italy's post-war history. She'd been aware, growing up, that he couldn't talk about some of his work, but she hadn't realised he'd actually dealt with intelligence matters.

Going into the house, she went into what had once been the dining room. “Hi, Dad,” she said. “Guess what? I've just been reading that memorandum you wrote, back in the day. And I found all those certificates of mine from Pisa High School.”

From his bed by the window, her father gazed up at her with eyes that were dark and troubled. She moved into the centre of his field of vision so he could see her better.

“And that drawing of Piazza Martraverso brought back so many memories. Remember the
gelateria
on the corner? They did a mandarin flavour I still swear was the best thing I've ever tasted.”

He continued to gaze at her soundlessly.

“OK if I shave you now?” She waited for him to respond, and when he didn't, went on, “I'll just run the water to get it warm.”

She scraped the white bristles from his cheek with the razor. It reminded her of all the times as a child she'd kissed his rough end-of-day stubble after he'd come home late from work. “If you want to move a little to the right . . .” She reached around and did the far side of his face. “No problem. We managed, didn't we?”

“It's good that you talk with him,” a quiet voice said behind her.

She looked up. Dr Hammond was standing in the doorway. He was young and good-looking, which always took her by surprise – since when were doctors barely older than her, let alone handsome? – but he'd been her father's physician for almost five years now.

“It feels disrespectful if I don't. Besides, you said yourself there's a chance he understands more than he can show.”

“A small chance,” he reminded her. “While there
are
stroke victims with locked-in syndrome, your father's scans show vascular damage to his right hemisphere. Even if he could follow some of what was said to him after his first episode, it's unlikely he can now.”

“Even so,” she said. Turning back to her father, she wiped his face carefully with a towel. “There, all done. Dr Hammond's going to look you over, then I'll come back and we'll chat some more. OK?”

His expression didn't change. Standing up, she said, “All yours.”

While Dr Hammond got to work, she washed the razor under a tap. As she did so, something occurred to her.

She went and found her mother in the kitchen. “That neighbour you were talking about – Signor Boccardo, the one who died in a car crash. When was that, exactly? Was it round about the same time Dad got sick?”

“Oh.” Her mother made a face. “That horrible business. Yes, it was a little before your father took ill. He was very upset, as I recall – he liked Mr Boccardo.”

Going back to the garage, Holly pulled out her father's memorandum and went through it, more slowly this time, searching for the name she'd glanced at earlier and only half-registered.

There it was.

It was Gianluca Boccardo, a neighbour and good friend of mine, who first spoke to me about an influx of new members at our lodge. He asked whether I, as an American officer, could tell him if there was any truth in what some of them were claiming . . .

Another thought, an even bigger one, hit her suddenly like a blow to the head. Through the open door of the garage she saw Dr Hammond walking to his car. “Doctor?” she called. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course, Holly.” His smile was friendly. For the first time, she realised that he probably fancied her a little.

“Answer me a hypothetical question, would you? Is it possible – in theory, at least – to
make
someone have a stroke?”

“Well, if a person drinks, or smokes, or has high blood pressure—”

“I don't mean their lifestyle,” she interrupted. “But say there was someone who already had those risk factors. Is there any substance or medication that would make a stroke more likely?”

He considered. “Warfarin, I guess. It's used to kill rats, and it's sometimes prescribed for people with blood-clotting problems. But no doctor would ever prescribe Warfarin to a patient who might already be at risk of an intracerebral haemorrhage.”

“Because those risk factors would show up on their medical records, right? You'd know to avoid that class of medications.”

He nodded. “Exactly.”

Or not
, she thought.

Or someone would know from that person's medical records exactly what was most likely to kill him.

The possibility was unthinkable, yet having been thought, there was no dismissing it. Her father and his friend had stumbled on something, something her father had considered serious enough to pass on to his superiors. Within a short time Boccardo was dead, and her father had suffered a stroke.