The Traitor (The Carnivia Trilogy) (30 page)

“In which case, do we assume they found what they were looking for?”

“Well, they didn’t come back. So either they got it, or they were satisfied it wasn’t here in the first place. I guess we’ll never know.”

I
AN
G
ILROY
SLIPPED
into the gloomy interior of Santi Apostoli in Cannaregio and looked around. The man he was meeting wasn’t there yet; but then Gilroy hadn’t expected he would be. Gilroy always turned up to a meeting thirty minutes before his asset.

While he waited, he put some coins in the meter that controlled the lights in the side chapel and Tiepolo’s
The Last Communion of St Lucy
jumped out of the darkness. He was still examining the painting when the church door opened briefly. A slight, stooped figure was silhouetted for a moment against the brightness of the day. Gilroy glanced at his watch. The other man was early too.

He waited at the altar rail. The newcomer nodded in greeting, then, by unspoken consent, they both turned to look at the painting.

“I imagine you know the story of St Lucy?” Gilroy said at last. “She was a wealthy young noblewoman who took a vow of celibacy and poverty. The man she had been promised to took exception to both, but particularly the latter, and had her committed to a brothel as punishment. When she still resisted, he had her eyes put out. Look, you can see them there, lying on that plate in the foreground.”

The other man only grunted.

“Second Lieutenant Boland is looking for her father’s records,” Gilroy added.

“Is that wise?”

“I judged it best to let her see what she can find out. If there is anything, she’ll bring it to me. Then we’ll take a view on what to do.” He paused. “My point is, Generale, that nothing should happen to her in the meantime. The very worst outcome would be for her to have an accident and leave a half-finished trail for a diligent prosecutor to follow. There was nearly such an accident in Sardinia, I understand. We must have no repeat of that.” He spoke quietly, but there was no doubting the anger in his voice.

The other man shrugged. “She was poking her nose in. She was lucky not to lose it.”

“No accidents,” Gilroy insisted.

“Very well,” the other man said languidly. “Not until she has either found the files or established that they don’t exist. But no longer. Speaking of prosecutors, I suppose you’ve heard that Flavio Li Fonti is now looking into the other matter… They’ll find nothing, I take it?”

“There’s always something. But I doubt it’ll be anything conclusive. Steps have been taken.”

“Then we have nothing to fear.” The man Gilroy had addressed as “Generale” turned away impatiently. It was a courtesy title: he had been retired for many years. Once, he had been one of the most powerful men within the Gladio network.

“There’s always something to fear, Generale,” Gilroy called after him silkily, his voice carrying in the reverberant air. “The Italian courts become both less forgiving and less susceptible to influence with each passing year. Those without a foreign passport or diplomatic immunity do well to remember that.”

The general stopped, then turned and came back to where Gilroy stood. “Are you
threatening
me?”

“Leave the Boland girl alone. Believe me, there are good reasons why we don’t want any unwelcome publicity just now.”

“She may be less reliable than you think. As well as less useful.”

Gilroy turned back to the painting of St Lucy. “Do you recall the last bit of the story? After her eyes were put out, they tried to carry her into the brothel by force. But somehow she became so strong that ten men couldn’t move her.” He paused. “Never underestimate the power of a determined woman, Generale.”

J
ABBAR
K
ARIMI
’
S
BROTHER
Aslam had an office near Taormina, further down the coast. Kat knew the town only by reputation: a photogenic tourist magnet, made affluent by visitors from all over the world. Russo had declined to come with her, but at least he’d loaned her a car. She took the
autostrada
from Palermo before turning off it and winding up smaller roads to a craggy plateau hundreds of feet above the sea. On either side lay peaceful orange and lemon groves, dotted with the ancient, gnarled trunks of well-pruned olive trees. Almost every lay-by held a farmer, seated in the shade, selling cantaloupes and watermelons out of the back of a rickety three-wheeled van. In the distance, the massive cone of Mount Etna was capped with white despite the summer heat.

She hadn’t been able to make contact with the brother: his phone was switched off and there was no answer from his office. When she reached the address, in a suburb of Giardini Naxos, she soon discovered why. His business consisted of no more than a single Portakabin, locked. The windows were barred; peering through, she saw two desks with computers on them, a wall-mounted air-conditioning unit and a large map of the world.

“So you’ve come at last.”

She turned. A dark-skinned man in his thirties was walking towards her. “Signor Karimi?” she asked.

He stopped and frowned. “He’s the one that’s dead.”

“I know.” She gestured. “I’m sorry for your loss. I just came from Palermo, from your brother’s apartment. I’m working with the local Polizia—”

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Are you saying
Jabbar
Karimi is dead as well?”

“Yes,” she said. “As well as who? Jabbar was your brother, correct?”

He shook his head. “I’m not Aslam Karimi. I’m his business partner. Aslam died in a car accident two days ago. Until you told me, I didn’t even know his brother was dead too.”

“Their business is IT recruitment,” she told Flavio on the phone that evening. “Specifically, they place qualified IT people on ships – Giardini Naxos is a stopping-off point for big cruise liners visiting Taormina. Most of their recruiting isn’t even done face to face. They look at a person’s qualifications, check their references, then forward their CV to the shipping companies.”

“Any idea what name our suspect’s travelling under now?”

“None whatsoever. Aslam Karimi dealt with all the recommendations passed on by his brother, and guess what? It turns out his computer’s been wiped too. His business partner is contacting all their clients to see if he placed anyone in the last few days, but it’ll take a while to get a response.”

“So…?”

“So it looks as if Colonel Grimaldo was right, and our man has slipped out of the country.”

“What will you do now?”

“Come back to Venice. The Polizia here can follow up the remaining leads. Besides, I miss you.”

He laughed softly. “I was wondering if you’d say that.”

“Well, it’s true,” she protested. But she knew that a part of her had been resisting admitting, to herself as well as to him, just how much she needed his presence. She’d got on and done the job, but there had been a dull ache in her heart the whole time she’d been in Sicily. “What about you?”

“Unlike you, I have no problem admitting that I’m in love,” he said, amused. He grew more sombre. “You know, I’m beginning to think there might have been something in your friend’s wild fantasies after all.”

It took her a moment to work out that he meant Holly. “Oh?”

“Tignelli’s death – it wasn’t just some lone gunman, Kat. It was a
raid
. They found marks left by two rigid inflatables, deep footprints in the mud from boots with identical treads, and explosive charges were used to knock out the house’s surveillance systems. There’s a partial image from one of the security cameras just before the explosion. It shows four men in black balaclavas running towards the house.”

“A military-style operation, in other words?”

“It certainly looks that way.”

“By who?”

“There are no indications yet. In the meantime, we’re rounding up all the names on Cassandre’s list, and guess what? Not one of them will admit to being part of Tignelli’s lodge, even though we found cards on some of them with that
carità
symbol. But compared with what happened to Cassandre and Tignelli, a tough interview with a prosecutor looks like a walk in the park. I’m not saying your friend is right and it’s all part of some massive fifty-year conspiracy. But it does seem like there are plenty of people who think they can just close ranks and refuse to talk to us.”

“Be careful,” she said, anxiety thickening her voice.

“I’m always careful. But you know, Kat, we only have the law. In the face of corruption, organised crime, interfering foreign powers, politicians who line their own pockets, bureaucrats who only care about preserving their pensions, and governments that are worse than all the rest put together… The law may not be perfect. But it’s all we’ve got.”

“Only if people like us fight to keep it that way.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m not changing my mind about leaving, Kat. This will be my last investigation. But I won’t duck it. And then… Amsterdam. I promise.”

“Amsterdam,” she whispered. It was starting to sound more and more like a talisman, a mythical place of peace and protection. Or, perhaps, a safe word, to be invoked in times of danger.

B
ACK
IN
V
ICENZA
, Holly poured herself a glass of wine and considered her options. On the coffee table was a note she’d found in her mailbox.

I’ve bought you some time. How much, I don’t know.

Gilroy. But time to do what? The leads she’d had led nowhere.

It suddenly struck her that she’d neglected to speak to the most obvious person of all about this. She checked the time. It would be still be early evening in Florida.

“Hi, Mom,” she said when her mother answered. They chatted for a few minutes before Holly moved on to the reason for her call.

“You know that document I found in Dad’s old footlocker? I’m not sure I’ve told you this, but I think it related to the death of Mr Boccardo. Did Dad ever mention working with him – with Mr Boccardo, that is? Some kind of investigation or plan they were doing together?”

“Oh, Holly,” her mother said heavily. “You haven’t got mixed up in all that, have you?”

Her ears pricked up. “All what?”

“Your father said something very bad had happened to Mr Boccardo, that maybe it hadn’t been a car crash like they were saying. I don’t know the details, but after that he spent all his time at work. He said he was trying to find out how it had happened – ‘going through the tapes’ was how he put it.”

“Tapes? What tapes?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t really talk about his work at home. None of the men in his unit did. Even when they got together, it was all acronyms and codewords – Autodin and OL9, and something called the tropo that was always breaking down.”

“And that was when he started drinking?”

“I guess. He couldn’t sleep. Drinking was the only thing that helped him relax.”

“Did he ever bring anything home? Any notebooks or records?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Could there be anything like that stored with his old army stuff?”

“The trunks? I gave everything that was left to the recycling service. They came by a couple of weeks ago – knocked on the door and said they had a special rate. And when I told them he was a veteran, they brought it down even more. You said you’d taken everything that mattered, so…”

“Don’t worry, Mom.” She didn’t think her father would have kept a second document at home in any case, let alone a box of tapes or other records. “Tell me, though: was there anything special about the days immediately before his stroke? Anything out of the ordinary?”

“Well, I don’t recall exactly – it’s so long ago now. But I do remember that he stopped going into work so much. He said…” Her mother’s voice was thoughtful, as if she was only just remembering this. “He said he had to decide.”

“Decide what?”

“I don’t know. But whatever it was, it involved a bottle of whisky. After his stroke, I forgot all about it.”

“You think maybe he could have found out who killed Mr Boccardo?”

“Maybe.” Her mother sounded doubtful. “But I don’t see that would have been such a big deal, would it? He would just have told the police. That wouldn’t have called for a bottle.”

“Of course,” Holly said. “He’d have reported it. That was the kind of person he was.”

There was only one kind of crime her father would need to agonise about, she thought: a crime that had been committed by his own countrymen.

As if reading her thoughts, her mother said, “Promise me, Holly…”

“What, Mom?”

“If there was something he did – something disloyal – promise me you won’t make the same mistake.”

“I’m not sure he
did
make a mistake, though,” she said. “I think maybe he was the only one who found out the truth. And that’s why they were so frightened of him.”

“
A
S
BEFORE
,
D
ANIELE
,” Father Uriel instructed. “When you hear a click in your left ear and a pulse in your left hand, look to the left. When the click and the pulse come from the right, look right. Ready?”

“Ready,” Daniele said. His voice seemed to come from very far away.

Father Uriel guided Daniele’s eyes with the tip of his pen for a few moments. It puzzled him that Daniele was such an easy subject to hypnotise. All the literature suggested that those with Asperger’s syndrome – that is, high-functioning autism – were almost immune to hypnosis, possibly because their minds were so analytical. The fact that Daniele didn’t easily fit into that category made him wonder if there was anything in the theory that Daniele’s condition could be something more complex.

“Where are you now?” he asked quietly.

“In the room. The same room. The one I’m always in.” Daniele’s voice had taken on the truculent inflections of a child.

“What’s happening?”

“They’re shouting. Paolo and Claudio. Not
at
me this time. But about me. Paolo’s saying they’ve got to do something. Move locations. Ask for less money. Anything to resolve it. ‘If we stay here, we’ll die,’ he says. And then—”