Three-Card Monte (19 page)

“So: Professor Asahara's laptop could be used for counting. And it had one peculiarity: a brand-new kind of memory. A memory with a much larger capacity than those in common use. That was what Asahara was referring to, surely, when he said, more or less as a joke, that there was something in his computer that would destroy Watanabe. For some kinds of calculation like those that Watanabe makes, that memory would have a revolutionary impact. Everything clear so far?”

“No,” Pilade said. “I don't understand why the memory is so important.”

“It's a matter of time,” Massimo explained. “The calculations we're talking about can take weeks, or even months. If you could do the same calculation in one day, you could do a lot more things. You'd have an advantage. That's why lots of people are doing research into how to speed up these calculations. There are two ways: the first is to make the algorithm quicker, the procedure you use to do things. The second is to try to build a faster machine. Watanabe belonged to the first school. I'm no expert, but from what I've been able to understand, this memory would speed up calculations to such an extent as to make Watanabe's work practically useless. All clear now?”

The old-timers' heads waved up and down. Massimo, who had continued to walk around the bar, stopped.

“In any case, the computers were involved, but Watanabe wasn't. And while we were trying to figure out what role the computers played in the case, we made a massive error. We took something for granted. Do you know the difference between a man of letters, a physicist, and a mathematician?”

“Is it that when mathematicians tell a story they're boring as hell?” Aldo ventured.

“So are physicists. Quite a few men of letters too, for that matter. No, it's an old joke. A man of letters, a physicist, and a mathematician are traveling through Scotland by train, and at a certain point they see a red sheep in a meadow. The man of letters looks at it and says, ‘Interesting. In Scotland the sheep are red.' The physicist shakes his head and replies, ‘No. In Scotland some of the sheep are red.' The mathematician gives them a pitying look and concludes, ‘There's at least one meadow in Scotland, and there's a sheep at least one side of which is red.' It's a joke, but the idea is that, from a mathematician's point of view it's wrong to take anything for granted that you don't know for certain, just because it seems perfectly plausible and in line with what you've seen before. In this case, that sheep are all of one color. It's plausible, I don't have any evidence, but it's the likeliest thing, and so it's true. In life, we often reason like that. In mathematics, or generally in an investigation of any kind, that type of argument should be avoided.”

Massimo stopped for a moment to catch his breath. God, I'm really in bad shape. I get out of breath just walking around the bar. From tomorrow I'm going to the swimming pool every day, and no buts about it. I'm thirty-seven years old, I look more like forty-five, and there are days when I feel like eighty-six.

He took a deep breath and continued:

“But that's exactly the mistake we made. We took it for granted that what was in the computer was something written, a document, whatever, and not something that was physically inside the computer. It's a bit like three-card monte: we were looking in the right direction, but we were concentrating on the detail we assumed was important, that is, the information content of the computer, and in doing that we neglected the context. The thing that allowed everything to work. In this case, the computer itself.”

Massimo went to the far end of the bar, stood in front of the glass door, and looked outside.

“The computer itself,” he repeated, “even though it didn't work and was completely unusable. But why didn't it work? And above all, had it ever worked? This is where I was an idiot. I knew perfectly well that, when Asahara arrived in Italy, the computer was still working. I knew it because, when Carlo opened the first file, at the University, he read aloud when it had been opened and modified the last time. Sunday, May 20, at 11
P.M.
In other words, when Asahara was in his room at the Santa Bona, presumably busy giving a last polish to his beloved poems before going to bed and falling asleep in a horizontal position for a change.”

Massimo turned, took his hands out of his pockets, and walked behind the counter.

“To sum up, we have a computer that can presumably be used for counting, that works on Sunday night, and doesn't work anymore on Tuesday morning. What changed between Sunday night and Tuesday morning? One simple thing, which could easily be taken out and put back in again. In other words, the memory.”

Massimo came out from behind the counter and stood in front, leaning his hands on it.

“Basically,” he continued, “the company that developed that memory gave it to Asahara so that he could test its performance on calculations of molecular dynamics. That was what the simple program on the laptop, simple but with a huge memory, was for. And thinking about it, here too I was an idiot not to understand immediately. Simple programs are generally used as tests, to see if everything is working. Kubo had been contacted by another company, which wanted to get its hands on that memory, to see if they were able to figure out its technology. That was why they promised him they'd hire him and give him a fabulous position if he could find a way to get that memory to them.”

“You mean, instead of giving him money, they bribed this guy by telling him they'd give him a job?” Ampelio said. “Strange people, the Japanese.”

“That depends on how you look at it. But forget about that for now. At this point, Kubo had the idea of giving Asahara the Tavor to make him feel a little sick. Nothing serious, just a little queasiness, enough to persuade him to go and lie down and have himself seen to by a doctor, or at any rate to distract him for half an hour. When Asahara was taken to Emergency, Kubo grabbed the opportunity to get his hands on the computer. But taking the whole computer was a risk. Apart from anything else, a laptop had been stolen that same day, and Kubo didn't want to be seen walking around with a laptop that wasn't his. But in a computer, even in a laptop, there are some parts that can very easily be taken out and put back again. And the memory is one of them. That's why Kubo had the brilliant idea of taking the memory from Asahara's computer and swapping it for the one in his own. In that way, though, neither of the two computers were able to work, because he'd put in a type of memory incompatible with the machine.”

Pause. Massimo went and poured a little iced tea from the carafe, and took a hurried sip.

“And that's what screwed things up for him. The other day, when I went to the Internet café, I saw Kubo using one of the computers. That struck me as strange, because I knew Kubo had a laptop of his own. He said that in the course of his first interview. And I knew there was an Internet connection at the Santa Bona. So if you have a computer and the place where you're staying has a network, why go to an Internet café to read your mail? There can only be one answer: because your computer doesn't work. And the strange thing is, this is the second computer that doesn't work. Both computers belong to two Japanese, what's more, two Japanese who know each other. The first computer was still working on Sunday, when its owner arrived in Italy. And so was the second one, by its owner's own admission.”

Pause, another sip.

“At this point, I had no idea what it all meant, but it struck me as a bit unlikely as a coincidence. That's why I started to think and something came into my mind. What came into my mind was that Kubo had said he'd never seen Asahara's laptop, whereas his other colleagues had recognized it. That also struck me as unlikely, thinking about it. This was where Kubo tried to play three-card monte: saying this wasn't Asahara's computer, and knowing what was inside, he was trying to make us think that there was another computer in circulation. Among other things, when Snijders phoned the secretary to find out what computer Asahara had done his presentation on, we were told that he had used a computer with Windows. In other words, a different computer than the one we'd found. It never occurred to us that Asahara might have gotten Kubo to prepare the presentation, as professors often do, on Kubo's own laptop, which used Windows.”

Pause. Thinking again about the fact that he had stopped in the middle of the road, while the cars were passing, Massimo had a kind of shudder. He dismissed it and went on.

“Anyway, as I was thinking, Grandpa phoned me, because I'd forgotten to take him to the post office.”

“That's not the only thing you forgot,” Ampelio muttered.

“We'll talk about that later. As I was speaking on the phone, Grandpa used the word ‘memory.' That was what made me think that Kubo's computer couldn't work because someone had changed the memory, and that the whole business of the computers might revolve around memory.”

Pause, to make sure they were all following him. Apparently they were, so he went on.

“In addition, there was a simple program in Asahara's computer, and a simple program usually has two purposes: it can be used for educational purposes, that's true, but as I said before it can also be used as a test to check the computer's performance. So I phoned Carlo and asked him to do a test. What I was hoping was that the program wouldn't work, and that it wouldn't work for a particular reason. That he would tell me what was so special about Asahara's computer that would make the program work. When Carlo told me that the program wasn't working because it required too much memory, I realized I was right.”

Pause, sip. And now I'm going to light a cigarette. The first one this morning, as it happens. Since everyone and his mother smokes in here these days, for once I'm going to smoke too. Massimo picked up the lighter and after lighting the cigarette continued:

“Changing a memory is simple, it takes ten seconds. Even a child could do it. At this point I took a chance. I went to Fusco, and told him what I thought had happened. The rest you know. When Fusco brought in Kubo, and asked him a specific question about the memory, Kubo realized he'd lost, and gave himself up. Without protesting, and without making a drama out of it.”

And that really impressed me, Massimo thought. You have no idea how much.

No point in denying it, Massimo had felt a kind of admiration for Kubo, who, clearly with his back to the wall, had obeyed his sense of discipline and admitted his guilt. Massimo, like all of us, lived in a world that had long accustomed him to guilty people invariably professing their innocence. They used every tactic, from justifying their act as not being criminal to obstinately denying the evidence. Behavior like Kubo's, a person giving himself up and assuming full responsibility, even when what he had done went well beyond his intentions, was something he had not expected. He was almost certain that the image of Kubo, who had showed more dignity and self-confidence in confessing than in waiting, would not abandon him for quite a while.

“Anyway, that's it. Culprit found, crime admitted, all over. Now I don't want to hear any more about this business.”

“All right, but from tomorrow,” Del Tacca said, looking outside. “Because today, it seems to me you're going to have to tell the story all over again.”

Following the direction of Pilade's gaze, Massimo turned. Outside the glass door, A. C. J. Snijders had just parked his bicycle, and, with a smile on his face, was heading calmly toward the bar.

 

Pisa, April 9, 2008

 

This book would have stayed in limbo if it hadn't been for the help of a number of people.

I thank Walter and Francesca Forli for their help with medical matters (purely theoretically, that is: Walter is a neurosurgeon and, thank God, I haven't yet needed to be treated by him). For the same reason, I thank Laura Caponi, who complemented the Forlis' suggestions and read the manuscript with enormous care, correcting several errors and suggesting a few improvements.

I thank Virgilio, Serena, Mimmo, Letizia, Christian, my father and mother, and all those who read this book when it was still just a draft.

Above all, I thank Samantha. Firstly, for giving me the main idea for the story and helping me to refine it. Secondly, for reading and rereading these pages ad nauseam, and improving them considerably. Last but not least, for putting up with me while I was writing it, which I think was by far the hardest task.

 

Finally, I should like to give credit to two people who gave me the initial idea for two of the characters. Ampelio is a fairly faithful portrait of my grandfather Varisello, who spent ninety-three years commenting on everything he didn't like about the world (and that included a lot). Last but not least, in 1992 I met a barman who isn't totally ignorant of mathematics, and who shares with Massimo not only a name but also a particular way of treating his customers. If you go to Pineta and have a coffee in one of the bars in the center of town, you're quite likely to run into him.

Marco Malvaldi was born in Pisa in 1974.
Three-Card Monte
is the second in the Bar Lume series, featuring Massimo the Barman and the four elderly sleuths. He is the win- ner of both the Isola d'Elba Award and the Castiglioncello Prize for his crime novels.