The Puppeteer (8 page)

“You look a bit battered, Commissario.”

Trotti picked up the phone. “Last call, Gino. This time the Carabinieri. Here, in the city. See if you can get me Spadano at Caserma Bixio.” In the same breath he said to Pisanelli, “You needn’t worry about my health. Get some coffee—and worry about your prospects with the Pubblica Sicurezza.”

“Spadano called this morning, Commissario.”

“What?”

“Spadano called this morning,” Pisanelli repeated.

“Called who?”

“He wanted to speak to you.” Pisanelli smiled foolishly. “I was here so I took the message.”

Trotti put the receiver down slowly.

Pisanelli looked at his nails. “It was about the money.”

“For Christ’s sake, Pisanelli—what did Spadano say?”

“Look—I took the call down.” He pointed to a scrawled note that had got partially hidden beneath the blotter on Trotti’s cluttered table. “Maltese.”

“What about it?”

“The numbers correspond with the stolen money—the money taken at the time of the hold-up.”

“Hold-up? What hold-up?”

“Here.” Pisanelli nodded his domed head. “In the city. At the Banca San Matteo.”

The light was blinking.

Trotti picked up the phone. “Yes.”

“Capitano Spadano.”

“N
OTHING ON THE
girl?”

Magagna had been smoking and over the telephone line his voice rasped in Trotti’s ear. “Sentenced and then reprieved. But for the moment, I’ve got nothing on her. I’ve put out a trace. Let’s hope the Carabinieri don’t associate Lia Guerra with the Maltese killing.” He paused. “What happened to the photograph?”

“I took it.”

Magagna clicked his tongue in mock disapproval. “Where is it now?”

“No idea.”

“What d’you mean, no idea?”

“It was a photograph that we had on file here and it was a chance in a million that I should recognize her—you know, that photo where half her face is covered with a handkerchief and she’s about to hurl something—probably at the Celere or at the fascist forces of repression. I recognized it—and I took it.”

“Then where is it, Commissario?”

“In the glove box of my car.”

“And where’s your car?”

“I wish I knew.”

Magagna gave him an unsympathetic laugh that crackled over the line. Trotti took a sweet from the packet that Pisanelli had brought him. “Let me know when you get something on her, Magagna.”

“I should be working on Ragusa.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do that.”

There was a moment’s hesitation, then Magagna said, “I’ve had better luck with Maltese.”

“He was Ramoverde’s son?”

“He was in Argentina—after the Villa Laura affair, the entire family emigrated to South America.”

“The Ramoverde family?”

“Of course.” A slight pause. “After a short return to Italy, he got a job with
Popolo d’Italia
. He was their correspondent for Latin America. And apparently he was pretty good stuff. He wrote articles on the Dirty War, Videla and all the rest. He even managed to make the front page of the
Popolo
.”

“Where did you get this information from?”

“Then he got the sack. 1980, just about the time the
Popolo d’Italia
changed owners. The paper was bought up by a big consortium called Stampital. This same consortium is supposed to have certain interests in South America, particularly Chile and Argentina. Which would explain why Maltese suddenly found himself without a job.”

“What’s your source of information on this, Magagna?”

“Look, you ask me to do you a favor.” Magagna sounded peeved. “And I’ve done it. This isn’t my field; you know that Ragusa is in Monza and that’s where I should be, instead of doing all this running around for you.” He paused, caught his breath. “This isn’t classified information. You could have got it from Finanza.”

Trotti sucked at his sweet while at the same time he folded and refolded the cellophane wrapping. The telephone was propped between his head and shoulder. “Go on, Magagna.”

“Maltese left Argentina, spent some time in the States and then returned to Milan.”

“When did he get back?”

“Have you heard of Novara?” Magagna asked.

“A journalist?”

“You’ve heard of the Banco Milanese?”

“Of course.”

“Banco Milanese Holding is a conglomerate. BMH has interests in Liechtenstein, in the Bahamas and in South America. In Peru alone, there are six Banco Milanese agencies. And through Stampital, it is also supposed to have a ruling interest in the
Popolo d’Italia
.”

“Go on.”

“The Banco Milanese is a highly respected Catholic bank—and now it’s under inspection from the Banca d’Italia for irregularities. There have even been rumors that the Banco Milanese is on the verge of collapse. The Director, Bastia, is expected to resign at any moment. A lot of wealthy families—people who for generations have trusted in the Banco Milanese as a reliable and respectable bank—are suddenly going to find themselves a lot less wealthy.”

“What’s all this got to do with the journalist Novara?”

“Novara used to be a partisan and a communist during the war. Now he’s an agent provocateur. They used him at Fiat in Turin to set up bogus trade unions—to undermine the real trade unions that were getting too pushy for the management’s liking. That and then a series of smear campaigns.”

“Smear campaigns?”

“There are always good people who get left by the wayside—and who understandably feel bitter. Novara has developed a way of cashing in on their bitterness. He gets them to supply him with information—perhaps even with compromising documents—and then he publishes a broadsheet. Distributed free of charge—he sends it to bank managers and judges and lawyers and anybody else who might be interested in the facts that he’s revealing. Highly unnerving. And sometimes very damaging. The final stage of blackmail.”

“And Maltese?”

“Don’t rush me.”

“I don’t see the connection with Maltese.”

“He was furious with his newspaper, the
Popolo d’Italia
—or at least with the new, subservient management. He wanted revenge. More important, from Novara’s point of view, Maltese possessed the kind of information that could be very damaging.”

“What did he know? He’d been living in Argentina?”

“Precisely.”

“Well?”

“Banco Milanese de l’América del Sur.”

Trotti asked irritably, “What?”

“As a journalist—when the
Popolo d’Italia
was still a respected newspaper—he had done some work on the holdings in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“Where?”

“In Argentina, Chile and Peru—and even in Nicaragua where the bank was selling arms to the Sandinista rebels.”

“So what? Italy sells arms to everybody.”

“But not every bank—not every national and highly respected bank, particularly with a strong Catholic foundation—is now threatened with bankruptcy.”

Trotti could imagine Magagna smiling.

“There are a lot of people who have reason to regret that Maltese was ever fired. He was a good journalist, from what I gather. But with a change in management of the
Popolo d’Italia
and with considerable financial interests at stake, the Banco Milanese could not afford be on bad terms with the military men in Buenos Aires and Santiago. And in Argentina, the Generals were hardly likely to do business with people who owned a newspaper unfavorable to their régimes. So Maltese was fired.”

“Buenos Aires could have expelled him.”

“Maltese, in fact, did a lot of his work out of Brazil, where he felt safer. Even so, several attempts were apparently made on his life.”

“In Italy he was safe.”

“Until he fell in with Novara—and Novara pulled off his coup.”

“You mean the Night of the Tazebao?”

“You heard about it, Commissario?” Surprise in his voice which Magagna did not try to hide. “And you know what Tazebao means?”

“Something to do with political posters.” Trotti shrugged modestly. “I sometimes glance at the papers.”

“Then there’s no need for me to explain what happened?”

“Remind me.”

“Overnight the posters went up all over Milan—plastered on every available wall. So that by the time Bastia, the director of the Banco Milanese, arrived for work—the offices are near the Scala—the damage had already been done. Of course, he tried to rip the posters down, but people had seen them and read them. One or two important people had even found copies in their morning post. They’d seen the accusations.”

“What accusations?”

“A Catholic bank selling arms to South America—to both communists and reactionaries; of illegally exporting currency to Switzerland, in the face of all exchange-control laws.” Magagna laughed. “There was even the secret number of Bastia’s private account in Switzerland. Bastia’s and his wife’s. The posters on the walls also accused Banco Milanese of subsidizing fascist regimes in Central America—and of investing in the cocaine trade. A highly respected Italian bank, with close Vatican ties, was accused of being involved in the production and sale of contraceptives. But perhaps most damaging of all was the simple question on the poster. Why had the prestigious
Popolo d’Italia
never mentioned, never made the slightest reference to the illegal traffickings of the effective owner?” Magagna paused. “Nobody was fooled about the source of information—just as nobody for a moment ever suspected anyone other than Novara as instigator. Maltese had helped him spill the beans. It was as if Maltese had signed his own death warrant.” Then Magagna added, “That was in January. From then until last Friday, nobody saw him—nobody, not even his old friends among the journalists. Maltese went into hiding. He was scared because he knew that his life was in danger.”

B
ANCA
S
AN
M
ATTEO
had once been a convent. The low ceiling of crossed arches was now white, but in places there were the remnants of a mural—cherubim and saints—forming irregular clouds of pastel color against the whitewash.

Trotti walked slowly, leaning on Pisanelli’s supportive arm.

They reached the Foreign Exchange desk—
SERVIZIO ESTERO
—and a tall man looked up from his typewriter. Pisanelli lifted the folding board in the counter.

The bank clerk had the hangdog look of a cartoon animal. His eyes quickly returned to the keyboard.

Trotti said, “Knock.”

Pisanelli did as he was told. He tapped on the walnut door then, without waiting for a reply, turned the handle. Trotti stepped past him.

It did not look like a bank manager’s office. It could have been a modern living room out of the pages of
Casa Italia
or
Vogue
. A low table, a rug, leather armchairs and tubular bookcases. Books that were leather-bound, neat and untouched. On the desk a telephone that appeared unhindered by wires.

A plain wooden crucifix was attached to the wall.

“A pleasant surprise.” Pergola was smoking. He stubbed out the cigarette and came towards Trotti. “Always a pleasure to see you, Commissario.” He held out his hand.

Pergola limped.

A well-dressed man, he wore a grey suit with a waistcoat that emphasized the narrowness of his body. The white shirt was new and spotless; the wine-dark tie had been knotted expertly. The bank manager was a small man with sloping shoulders and short hair. He wore discreet cologne. The grey eyes registered the bruising on Trotti’s face. “Please be seated.” He gestured to the armchairs. “But I thought you were on holiday, Commissario. I thought the Pubblica Sicurezza …”

On one wall there was a long mural photograph. It showed the city—the river, the old houses along the banks of the Po and, rising above the rooftops, the familiar dome of the cathedral.

The photograph must have been taken in Borgo Genovese.

Pisanelli helped Trotti to sit down.

Pergola smiled. “I see that I am not alone in being temporarily handicapped.” His smile was sympathetic.

Trotti said, “The result of a misunderstanding,” and shrugged.

“Can I offer you something to drink? Or perhaps, Commissario …” He turned to a walnut cabinet. He took small steps, hesitating to put his weight on his left leg. He opened the cabinet and took out a tin. “English boiled sweets.” He gave Trotti a large smile. “I think I know your vice, Commissario. Smith Kendon Travel Sweets.”

Trotti took one of the sweets. “One of my vices.”

Pergola carefully pulled at the crease of his trousers before sitting down on an armchair facing Trotti.

“How’s your knee, Signor Pergola?”

“I’m lucky still to have a knee. A few centimeters lower and I would have lost it.” The bland smile remained in place. “So what brings you here, Commissario? I really wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” He allowed just a hint of firmness into his voice. “Can I assume that there have been developments in your enquiries?”

“Signor Pergola, you know that I’m no longer involved. The dossier is now in the capable hands of the Guardia di Finanza.”

Pergola nodded. His face was small and calm but the eyes were restless, moving from Trotti to Pisanelli and back. A shy but intelligent man. “The Guardia di Finanza,” he repeated, as if he had never heard the words before.

“I think, Signor Pergola—despite the administrative reorganization—I think that we can help each other. There are some things that I should like to ask you.” Trotti allowed the boiled sweet to click against his teeth. “I’m not convinced that you’ve always been frank with me.”

The ground glass window let in the white morning light and the sound of traffic along the Corso. In the office there was silence. Then Pergola gave an awkward laugh. “I’m afraid I forgot to offer a drink to your friend.”

“Brigadiere Pisanelli is my assistant.”

Almost imperceptibly, Pisanelli shook his head. Although he was nearly bald, at the back of Pisanelli’s head the hair was long and it brushed against the collar of his suede jacket.

Another long silence while Pergola’s eyes moved from Trotti to Pisanelli and then back to Trotti. The fingers of one hand tapped against the crease of his trousers.