Escape

CHAPTER SEVEN

27 June

Lisa stays up late every night, working at home, at her desk. She files the documents she has gathered on what is now the Filippo Zuliani affair, formerly the Carlo Fedeli affair. She discards articles that dwell on the two adorable Barbieri kids, children of the carabiniere shot during the hold-up on 3 March 1987, not to mention the little Gasparini girl, the security guard’s daughter killed in the same tragic circumstances — a sweet six-year-old child with golden curls. She retains everything on Daniele Luciani, the providential witness who belatedly came forward and accused Filippo. She keeps any articles or information she can glean from here and there, and through consulting numerous directories. In short, not much. This Daniele Luciani leaves no traces beyond an address in Milan that seems to be just a PO box and a telephone number that no one answers, no identifiable occupation, no photos, no direct contact with the press. She feels she has reached the same impasse as last year when she was trying to find out about Brigadier Renzi. It is an impenetrable ball of interwoven lies, from which she is unable to disentangle a single thread. For Lisa, there is absolutely no doubt — this morass is the hallmark of the Italian secret service, the most efficient institution in the entire country. It is now twenty years since it set itself the goal of smashing the communists’ influence. Something that back then was a matter of urgency, for the Communist Party was on the brink of being democratically elected to power, an intolerable prospect both for the Italian establishment and for America. And now they are achieving that goal through bomb attacks, massacres, and a whole array of dirty tricks. Faced with that, we on the far left, including prisoners, exiles, those turned informers, others who have dissociated themselves, or the desperate and the confused who carry on killing without knowing why: we’re incapable of coming to terms with our defeat and of salvaging our past.

She stands up, exhausted, tempted to give up. Leaning on the sill of the open window, she drinks a good, strong coffee in tiny sips to allow the flavour to explode in her mouth. I mustn’t let them crush me. What I need is method. First of all, one thing’s clear, I’m not the only person responsible for that entire history. And that’s something I need to tell myself over and over again, as often as necessary. Right now, my sole aim is to shed light on Carlo’s death. For myself first of all. With the publication of that novel, it’s become a personal matter. The weight of the past is already so heavy with recurrent nightmares, exile, suffering and defeat, I need at least to hang on to the conviction that the struggle was worth waging and that I went through it at the side of the man I loved. If my soulmate of nearly twenty years of impassioned and devastating political battles is to be deemed no better than a bandit, I’ll have nothing left of my past life or my personal history. But I’m not just fighting for myself and for Carlo. Nor was I fighting for abstract ideas. Life, each person’s memory, is a valuable treasure. Our collective destiny is woven from all our individual lives, and each one of us must be defended by all. Stay strong.

She returns to her desk. Go back to square one. Initially, the chain of events is clear. January ’87, open letter from the Red Brigades saying, ‘We are defeated, we are laying down our arms, we need to take stock of the past collectively and accept ourselves for who we are, the protagonists of this history.’ Unacceptable in an Italy fragmenting amid the scandal of the P2 Masonic Lodge, the wholesale corruption of politicians, the mafia, the decline of the Communist Party. The entire edifice was so shaky that the Red Brigades, together with the entire far left of the ’60s and ’70s, had to remain the unifying scapegoat, or better, the external enemy. So something had to be done: the invention of the concept of ‘dissociation’ with the introduction of a special law, Carlo’s escape, and the entire sting operation that would result in Carlo being labelled a criminal and executed. During this sequence of events, the Red Brigades’ splinter group, the Union of Combative Communists — manipulated or not, it amounts to the same thing — kill Lando Conti, the former mayor of Florence shortly after the aborted robbery and Carlo’s death, both possible triggers. Any political debate about the Red Brigades’ declaration is well and truly nipped in the bud. Mission accomplished, according to police procedure.

Then this crackpot Filippo turns up. He tells a story that plays right into the hands of the Italian secret service, because it not only turns Carlo into a bank robber but into the leader of a Milanese gang caught up in a turf war with a Roman gang to boot. A story that legitimises the police version of events. So why are they hounding him? Suddenly, a new question occurs: are they hounding him or are they stirring things up, raising his profile? Is Filippo a secret service mole? Obviously the question has to be asked. Why is she asking it now? At a complete loss, Lisa gets up, goes back over to the window and stares at the dark silhouettes of the trees against the purple Parisian night sky. Claustrophobia, paranoia, need a breather. Phone Roberto? Not at this hour, it’s too late.

Three discreet taps at the door. She goes over to open it.

‘Pier-Luigi…’

She is surprised. A young Italian refugee whom she has frequently seen at Sunday meetings, but they have never spoken.

‘What are you doing here? Who gave you my address?’

‘Roberto. May I come in?’

She hesitates for a moment. Then, ‘Why not? Good timing, I’ve just made some coffee. But not too long, it’s late and I’m tired.’ He settles himself into the big armchair by the coffee table and she brings over two cups of coffee and a few biscuits. Then he blurts out: ‘I knew nothing about Brigadier Renzi last year. I would have liked to help you, but I couldn’t. Now, it’s different. I know who Daniele Luciani is. Does that interest you?’

‘Obviously.’

Pier-Luigi speaks as if leading a commando operation. Precise and concise.

‘An extreme right-wing activist. A member of the terrorist wing of Ordine Nuovo. He was implicated in the Brescia massacre.’

Shocked, Lisa sits down in the armchair facing him and closes her eyes. Calm down, breathe. Don’t forget, you don’t know this guy. Anything’s possible.

‘OK, let’s take this slowly. How do you know this?

‘I used to know Luciani well. I’m from Brescia, from a banking family with fascist leanings. Before the war my father was a staunch supporter of Mussolini whom he considered as the only possible bulwark against the reds and the mafia. He didn’t change his mind after the war either. My elder brother, Andrea, was one of the founders of the terrorist organisation Ordine Nuovo. The Brescia group used to meet in the shed at the bottom of our garden. My brother was in charge of liaising with the Padua Ordine Nuovo group. Delfo Zorzi, who was later accused of being involved in the Brescia bombing, often used to come to the house. And so did others.’

‘Including Daniele Luciani?’

‘Yes, including Daniele Luciani, who was called Bonamico in those days.’

Lisa feels dizzy, in need of something to hold on to.

‘Let’s start again, from the beginning.’

‘For me, the beginning was the Brescia anti-fascist demonstration of 28 May 1974.’

Lisa nods, she knows about it.

‘I had just turned eighteen.’ He stops abruptly, a happy memory, a guilty little smile: ‘Like in the song.’ He sees that Lisa is baffled and goes on: ‘I was finding it harder and harder to bear the atmosphere at home, my father’s harsh authoritarianism, my mother’s frivolity and submissiveness. I loved, or I thought I loved, a woman much older than me and I couldn’t tell anyone about her. I dreamt of a different world, and I believed we Italians were in the process of building it. I went to the anti-fascist demo in Brescia. My first demo.’ Another pause. ‘It’s funny how life can change dramatically, without you really having decided…’

‘Keep going.’

‘I was on the other side of the square when the bomb went off under the arcades. I was looking elsewhere, I didn’t see anything, but I heard the explosion. Massive. Afterwards, for one or two seconds, an eternity of total silence, I thought I’d gone deaf, and then all I could hear were screams of panic, and I was swept along by the crowd surging down the side streets, trying to get away from the site of the explosion. After a while, I managed to calm down and make my way back to the square. I wanted to see and take in what had just happened. There were ambulances everywhere. The dead and the gravely wounded were being evacuated. On one side of the square an emergency medical team was tending to the less seriously injured. The fire brigade was hosing down the site of the explosion with powerful jets, removing all the rubble and with it all traces of the bomb, helped by a group of young men — my brother and his friends. Including Daniele Bonamico. I watched them from a distance. Afterwards, they left, laughing and clapping each other on the back. Happy. When the forensic team arrived, an hour later, there was nothing left to analyse. No one ever found out who gave the fire brigade the order to clean up the debris. Suspects among neo-fascist groups were arrested, including my brother, but they weren’t held for long. All the trials ended up being dismissed for lack of evidence. The final one was last year.’

Lisa, irritated, stop wasting time.

‘I know all that.’

‘I became obsessed with the sight of the dead and wounded. I was convinced that my brother and his friends had planted the bomb. That summer I left my family and Brescia for good, without saying anything — the act of a coward. I went to Milan to study. As soon as I got there, I joined Lotta Continua, which dissolved itself shortly afterwards. I felt as though I was losing my family a second time. I was very young, with no political training, and I did a lot of stupid things. I looted shops, attacked police stations, perhaps worse, and then I ended up here…’

‘What about Daniele Bonamico?’

‘I never saw him again. And I’ve never resumed any contact with any member of my family. I was very fond of my two sisters, and really missed them. That’s the way things are where I come from. If you stray, you’re dead to your family. I found out later from a classmate I met up with in Milan that Daniele had kept in touch with Andrea for a while, and then he and my brother had a falling out, apparently a violent one. I don’t know why. Daniele reportedly had to leave Brescia. Then he changed his name. When my friend ran into him in Milan, he was called Luciani, and he pretended not to recognise him. I discovered all that some time ago, by chance, and I didn’t think anything of it until I saw Daniele Luciani’s name in the papers.’

‘So, in your view, he could be playing the agent provocateur?’

‘I didn’t say that, and I have no idea. I’ve told you what I know for certain. And what I’ve heard trusted friends say. No more.’

‘Let’s suppose that this Daniele is working with the cops. If Filippo has a genuine alibi for the time of the bank robbery, people will say that the cops mistook a novel for real life and they’ll look ridiculous.’

‘But they know he hasn’t got an alibi.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said so yourself at the Sunday meeting just after the book came out, over a month ago, don’t you remember? What do you imagine? That everything said in those meetings remains confidential?’

Lisa sinks deeper into her chair, hands pressed together, her face burning, and says very quietly: ‘It’s true. You’re right.’

After a long silence: ‘Do you have any proof of what you’re saying?’

‘No. I’ve told you what I know, and I don’t intend to start again. I came to see you because I admire your courage and your obstinacy. You never give up. There’s something classy about that. I’m different. I’ve found a real job I like at last, in Brittany. I’m going to move there, and it’s goodbye to Italy and the Italians. I don’t want to be accountable to anyone, do you understand? I just want to forget. It’s been nothing but calamity. As for the proof, you’ll have to sort that out yourself.’

It is long past midnight, Lisa and Roberto are still at their usual table in their favourite Chinese restaurant on the corner of the Rue de Belleville. Even at this late hour, the service is discreet and fast.

‘There, Roberto. I’ve told you everything. What do you think?’

‘Pier-Luigi may be genuine, but he might also be working for the Italian secret service. His departure for a job in Brittany, right after telling you this story … in either case, it means that you’re spot on and that Carlo didn’t die in a simple bank robbery.’

‘Now what?’

‘Do you want to drop it?’

‘No. Especially not now that I finally have something resembling a lead.’

‘Well that sounds obvious. You’ll have to dig deeper, until you find something that either confirms or demolishes Pier-Luigi’s story. You’re our expert in this sort of work, and of course, I’m here if you need a hand with anything specific. Do you know Pier-Luigi’s surname?’

‘Of course. Tomasino. I didn’t need to ask him.’

‘Have you memorised the list of all the refugees?’

‘More or less.’

‘I think you should start with his family. It shouldn’t be too hard to find information about a prominent Brescia banking family, if they do exist.’

‘Supposing I manage to confirm Pier-Luigi’s story?’

‘If the cops’ surprise witness turns out to be a highly dubious character who was in jail with Carlo and then subsequently changed his name, you’ve won — the entire hold-up business stinks.’

‘So what do we do with that information?’

‘We talk to our lawyers first. They’ve asked us to be cautious and to go through them. The League of Human Rights, the journalists we know, and perhaps the publisher too. We go public, making as much noise as possible. Filippo is now famous enough for the story to make the news. But you have to tell him all this now, discuss it with him, tell him what we know, what we’re looking for, and try to get him to agree on the way to conduct this whole thing.’

‘I really have no wish to see him. I loathe the guy and I don’t understand him. He writes a novel, as of course he’s entitled to. What’s more, it’s a bestseller. Why doesn’t he state, once and for all, that he made up the whole story based on a newspaper article and that he has nothing to do with Carlo?’

‘Because he does have something to do with Carlo, whether you like it or not. They were cellmates, and clearly, from what I’ve heard and read, there was a strong bond between them that has nothing to do with politics, and they escaped together. We don’t know what happened afterwards. He gives one version of events, which isn’t the same as yours. The relationship between reality and fiction is always very complex. But one thing is certain: he shared a cell with Carlo for six months. What happened afterwards, what he felt, what he made up, it’s impossible to know. Thousands of people are moved by his story — he himself has ended up believing it. And he’s stuck. Not to mention that it might be true … I sometimes think that he feels guilty towards Carlo, perhaps because he helped him escape, and it ended in tragedy.’

Lisa lets this sink in. She recalls very clearly what she said to Filippo, the one time she met him, a lost kid: You’re to blame for that assassination. Devastating. No question of sharing this memory with Roberto. She smiles at him and reaches across the table to brush his cheek with her hand.

‘I’ve never understood a thing about men. Too unpredictable and too irrational for me…’

‘You’re so stubborn. It’s all very well changing the subject, but you’re going to have to cooperate with Filippo.’

28 June

Things are slow at the occupational health centre as June draws to a close. Cristina, one of the two doctors, has already gone on holiday and appointments are few and far between. Lisa takes advantage of the lull to bring her address book into the office — the precious address book in which she keeps every contact in media and cultural circles that she’s gathered over the years and scrupulously kept up to date. Names of all those who have severed communications are crossed out, others are annotated with details of their habits, tastes, weaknesses, favours granted or, more rarely, sought. It is her secret weapon, which she has never shown anyone, not even Roberto. Perhaps a feeling of shame at keeping tabs on her contacts. Armed with her little book she sets out with a sense of excitement, to find contacts who might be able to talk to her about Daniele Bonamico/Luciani. At least when she has a clear and precise task to occupy her, she forgets the heartache of exile, and feels alive, energetic.

Find a journo in Brescia. The best would be to try the local press to start with, without directly mentioning Daniele Luciani’s name, or that of Filippo Zuliani. After twenty or so phone calls, she comes across an ‘old friend’ in the Socialist Party and a reporter for Canale 5, the television channel owned by Berlusconi, now well on his way up the career ladder. Not yet too proud of being there, and very happy to redeem himself in his own eyes and do a little favour for a reprobate, keeping it quiet of course. He gives her the phone number of his niece, a young journalist who has just been hired as an intern at the Corriere di Brescia and is working on the news-in-brief section. ‘A real go-getter,’ he adds, with a hint of disapproval in his voice. Just what I need, thinks Lisa.

Stefania Cavalli has a shrill, almost childlike voice. She listens attentively to Lisa, who mentions her uncle’s name and asks if the paper has an archive on the Tomasino banking family that she could pass on to her. Stefania has her repeat the name, and then, without a second’s hesitation: ‘I’ll be straight with you. If I find this information, what do I get in return?’

Lisa smiles. The niece is very different from her uncle. So much the better. What if, as a bonus, she gives Stefania the chance to publicise the affair in Italy? That will save her from having to submit to the lawyers’ scrutiny and going to the League of Human Rights in France, as well as avoiding any discussion with Filippo. Tempting.

‘I’ll be equally straight with you. I’m not going to mix you up in this. I’m not sure of the veracity of my information. But if it is confirmed, which depends on what you dig up, I’ll have a scoop. A big one. I’m in France, and have no way of leaving. You’ll have an exclusive on the story for Italy, on condition we both agree not to disclose that this conversation took place.’

‘Give me an idea what this story’s about.’

‘The fallout from the Brescia massacre of 28 May 1974.’

‘There was a lot of talk about it here last year and a fresh trial, which once again ended up with the case being dismissed.’

‘I know.’

‘Protecting the sources on both sides?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘OK, I’m up for it. What exactly do you need to know?’

‘Some background on the Tomasino family, without going back to the year dot, just to have an idea of the circles they move in. I’m particularly interested in 1974. Who was arrested in the immediate aftermath of the massacre? Does the name of the eldest Tomasino boy, Andrea, figure on the lists? And a certain Daniele Bonamico? What can we find out about this Bonamico? Does he still live in Brescia, and what is known about his family? You might not find all that in the paper’s archives…’

‘Probably not, don’t worry about me. If this Daniele exists, I’ll find him. Is that all?’

‘Yes.’

‘Give me two days. I’ll call you tomorrow evening.’

‘After eight, at home. I’ll give you my number.’

30 June

Stefania calls at 8.15. Punctual, or almost. Lisa is grateful to her for sparing her the ordeal of waiting.

‘Oh, you’re there?’ There’s a hint of laughter in her voice.

‘Of course I’m here.’

‘Nothing in the paper. It has never published anything on the Tomasino family.’ She gives Lisa a moment to digest her disappointment. ‘But a whole lot in the archives, particularly unpublished articles. One hell of a family. I’m a newcomer to Brescia, so this gets me into the swing of things. Hold on, let me go back to my notes…’

Lisa grits her teeth. The kid’s got a sense of theatre. She says nothing.

‘…Here we are. A prosperous family-owned bank until the war. The grandfather, a notorious fascist, goes off and dies a violent death in the Republic of Salò saga, which denotes either profound stupidity or profound despair. The bank came in for strong criticism after the war, because of its fascist past, and the son’s only solution was to allow it to be taken over by the Piemonte-Sardegna bank.’ Lisa shudders at the name; could there be a connection? ‘He’s appointed regional director of the new bank, thus securing a very lucrative position for himself. Married into a prominent Venetian family, four children, two boys, two girls. As for the eldest son, Andrea — named after his grandfather, by the way — he becomes very active in neo-fascist circles. To be precise, Ordine Nuovo, in its clandestine period, is repeatedly hinted at in a number of half-concealed allusions. He’s alleged to have been involved in the Padua group, which may explain why he was arrested during the investigation into the massacre of the 28th of May, 1974. He was released a month later, for lack of evidence. A certain Daniele Bonamico was arrested and released at the same time as him.’ Lisa’s heart is racing, I’m there, I’m almost there. ‘And in that connection I’ve got a very funny story (I don’t give a damn about your funny story. Get on with it), even if it is a bit late in the day. In 1976, Andrea and Daniele have a fight in public, in the main square. A very violent, bare-knuckled brawl. The police break it up and cart them both off to the police station.

According to statements made to the police, Andrea accuses Daniele of having slept with his sister Anna-Maria, without going into further detail, but I bet she ended up pregnant. Daniele offers to make amends by marrying the young lady, but Andrea replies that it’s impossible for a Tomasino to marry a hired hand and that’s what sets off the fight. Afterwards, the family saga continues, but there’s nothing further about Anna-Maria — vanished, swallowed up. But maybe that’s not of any interest to you.’

Lisa hears Pier-Luigi, If you stray, you’re dead to your family. And what if, in Anna-Maria’s case, they had taken it literally? Pier-Luigi, a shy, deeply wounded man. I should have paid more attention to the guy from the start. A missed opportunity to get to know him. The curse of exile. I’m becoming hardened. No time to lose. Her attention reverts to Stefania.

‘No, it’s not. Did you find out anything else about Daniele Bonamico?’

‘A few bits and pieces. Only one photo, from 1974, where he’s in the background, hiding behind Andrea Tomasino who is showing off in the front row. Scary-looking, with eyebrows that join in the middle, a sinister air, a scar on his cheek that pulls his whole face downwards. Anna-Maria couldn’t have had much choice, or else she had strange taste. Girls from good families who have been a bit too sheltered sometimes rebel by falling for a bit of rough. I’m pretty certain that he was no longer in Brescia after 1976. I also dug up some information on his family.’

‘Keep going.’

‘The grandparents on both sides were farming families from the Po valley. His parents met and married in their village before coming to Brescia.’

‘Have you got the names of these families?’

‘Hold on a sec.’ Lisa hears her flipping through the pages. ‘Yes. Grandfather Bonamico married a Farione on one side, and on the other, an Ercoli married a Luciani.’

There is a long silence. Lisa feels a mixture of excitement and incredulity. The young woman grows impatient.

‘So, have I got my scoop?’

‘Maybe. I think so. Daniele Luciani is the name of the surprise witness who popped up a few days ago in the case of the bank robbery of the 3rd of March 1987 at the Piemonte-Sardegna bank in Milan. He’s accusing an Italian writer, a certain Filippo Zuliani, a refugee in France.’

‘I know about it, I followed the news. He’s not exactly accusing him — he states he was present at the scene.’

‘According to a credible source, an eyewitness who knew the Brescia protagonists personally, Daniele Luciani is in fact Daniele Bonamico. In other words, Ordine Nuovo’s henchman implicated in the Brescia massacre. This suggests he could have left Brescia and changed his name, adopting that of his grandparents, with dates yet to be established, but it’s possible that he chose to remain in contact with the secret service.’

‘Yes, with a lot more delving, this could make a good story. I’ll take it.’

‘I can already see the headline: “Mystery witness turns out to be a Brescia man with a past”.’

‘No, that’s not a good headline. Leave me to do my job. I’ll call you back.’ And Stefania hangs up.

Night of 2 July

Stefania calls Lisa who is sound asleep. She gropes blindly for the phone and picks it up in the dark.

‘The Corriere di Brescia refuses to publish anything.’ A silence. Lisa is sitting up now, wide awake. ‘That’s not all. My editor hauled me into the office this morning, even though it’s Saturday and we were almost the only people there. The offices were deserted. He grilled me on my sudden interest in Daniele Luciani. I kept it very vague, and he ended up dropping your name, and asked me if I’d been in touch with you. Surprising, isn’t it?’

Lisa groans.

‘More than surprising. I’d say worrying.’

‘I said no, no contact with you, and since he kept pressing me, I ended up giving my uncle’s name as the source of my information. After all, he acted as go-between, he can take the blame for it. I wasn’t sacked, but almost. In any case, the boss made it very clear that there was no question of the Corriere di Brescia getting involved in this story. Back to dogs being run over. So your rather far-fetched story is true, and it’s put the cat among the pigeons.’ Another silence. ‘I wanted to let you know and ask you not to call me again.’

‘OK. Thank you.’

Lisa lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, fully awake now. What should she make of the reaction at the Corriere di Brescia? First of all, obviously, success. Pier-Luigi’s story is pretty much confirmed. I haven’t got the evidence yet, but I know it exists and where to look for it. And a failure too. With this aborted attempt to get the Corriere di Brescia to run the story, I’ve alerted our enemies, whoever they are, and they now know that we’re on to them and we’re getting closer. They’re going to be able to take precautions. And that’s not going to be good for us. Most likely they’ll eliminate Luciani. Serious? No, not very serious, the guy has already testified. All the papers are talking about it, impossible to erase, that’s all we need. More importantly, no point now trying to publish our story directly in Italy, the media have been muzzled. We’ll have to go via the lawyers and the League of Human Rights, here in France. And therefore through Filippo. Shit.

Lisa gets out of bed and goes into the kitchenette to make a coffee. She paces up and down, half promises herself that she’ll do everything she can to put off the moment when she has to meet him. Roberto will say to her: Because you don’t want to share Carlo. Maybe. So what? I’m entitled to feel that way.

She sits down at her desk. A shadow, a vague memory lurks in her mind, perturbs her, prevents her from considering the job done and closing the file. She goes back over her notes and begins to reread them. Very quickly lights on that little phrase of Stefania’s: the takeover of the Tomasino family bank by the Piemonte-Sardegna bank after the war. She recalls how the name Piemonte-Sardegna had struck her when the young journalist mentioned it. Then they had changed the subject. Was its appearance in a different chapter of the history of the bank involved in the hold-up and Carlo’s death pure coincidence? Maybe, maybe not. Best to start from the principle that there’s no such thing as chance.

3 July

It is Sunday. Lisa is moping around at home, unable to find a new avenue to explore in her investigation. If she were in Milan … the prospects probably wouldn’t be any better.

The Piemonte-Sardegna bank has a Paris address. Rather than staying there doing nothing, why not use the time to go and check out the bank’s Paris headquarters. Imagination works better when it can draw on images, actual places, real people. And besides, a walk through Paris is always enjoyable, it’s a lovely day and at least she’ll have the feeling she’s doing something. She finds herself in the Opéra district, standing in front of a magnificent Haussmann building. A discreet copper plate in the entrance porch indicates that the bank’s offices are on the second floor. Lisa looks up, the piano nobile, a balcony running its length, high ceilings that she imagines covered in frescos. A fine example of nineteenth-century architecture. Of course. The kingdom of Piedmont-Sardinia, Napoleon III, Italian unity, the annexation of Savoy to France — she recalls a whole string of school essays. These offices testify to many strong links that must exist between French and Italian banks. And so … French historians might have taken an interest in this bank, one way or another.

Lisa hurries back home to Rue de Belleville, grabs her address book and seeks out a contact in the academic world.

It doesn’t take her long. She comes across the name of Vicenzo Rivola, very recently arrived in France, close to the Autonomia Operaria movement from which Lisa, as a good ex-Red Brigades member, keeps her distance. But French intellectuals have great respect for this movement, whose manifestos, journals, books and talks are of a reliably high standard. Vicenzo swiftly succeeded in finding some hours’ teaching in the sociology department of a major Paris university. Lisa picks up the phone and easily gets through to him. She explains what she is looking for: any available information on the links between the Piemonte-Sardegna banks and Tomasino after 1945.

‘It’s a bit vague, but I can’t be any more specific. I’m groping in the dark and I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

‘That’s the best way of coming across something new. At my university we have an excellent historian of modern-day banks. A former communist, not too sectarian, an encyclopaedic mind. I don’t know him personally, but I can put you in touch. On the other hand, I warn you, it might take him a while to respond. Academics aren’t journalists — they’re in no hurry.’

Early July

For the last few days, each morning just before six, a man has come and planted himself beneath an awning around fifty metres from the rear façade of the Tour Albassur. He’s a sporty type in his mid-thirties, wearing a grey hoodie with no loud logos on it, jeans and trainers. He stands chain-smoking in the shelter of a low concrete wall, his hood pulled down over his face. He carefully stubs out each cigarette on the sole of his shoe, takes a matchbox out of his pocket, crams the cigarette butt in the box and puts it back in his pocket before lighting another one. He perks up when the Albassur security guards on night shift come out, between 6.05 and 6.10, two men in their fifties, chatting. They head for the Métro entrance, walking placidly, bags slung over their shoulders. He watches them until they disappear, then waits another couple of minutes, checks that there is no one near the approach to the tower before departing in the opposite direction, shoulders hunched, hood pulled well down over his eyes.

On the fifth morning, when the two security guards come out of the building, the man peels himself away from the wall, hurries over and speaks to them.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen…’ The guards stop, wary.

‘…I’m sorry to bother you, and I don’t want to delay you. I’m a friend of Filippo Zuliani’s. I work at La Défense and I was told he works here too. I’m trying to find him…’

‘Too late, mate, he handed in his notice at least a week ago.’

‘And you don’t know…’ The two men have begun to move off, quickening their pace.

‘No, we don’t know anything. Sorry, mate.’

One of them mutters, ‘Dodgy-looking guy!’ as they vanish into the Métro. Next morning the lookout is no longer there.

Filippo has begun writing again, feverishly. In order to replay the aborted date at the Café Pouchkine, obliterate the disaster, conquer Cristina. Her magnificent copper hair is like that of the girl Carlo kissed in the mountains, and Filippo loves this game of mirrors and echoes. He wants her, he convinces himself that he needs her because she’s rich, beautiful and cultured. He still feels like an imposter in the world he has now entered, constantly playing a part, afraid of betraying a lack of taste or of suffering a memory lapse, liable to be thrown out at any moment. With her on his arm, he would be adopted as a member of the family, and so become truly legitimate. Today, because he has grown up since the Café Pouchkine, he has the strength to conquer — he is no longer the same man. Back then, he was still a petty crook, capable of little more than arousing in her a formidable and mortifying protective instinct. Now he is viewed as the accomplice of an almost legendary criminal, Carlo Fedeli. A much more fascinating character. That makes anything possible. Cristina is attainable.

The best way to set about winning her back is to begin writing again. It is the only pretext he can think of for getting in touch. He works from home, at the kitchen table in his studio flat in Neuilly, barely going out. In front of him is a bottle of Mitsouko, which he caresses from time to time, occasionally removing the stopper and inhaling the fragrance until he feels nauseous. He has tacked Cristina’s note saying she’ll be away on to the wall, the reverse side facing him, but the message is still clear. When he is stuck, demoralised, can’t think of the right words, he contemplates it, and pictures himself in the empty apartment on the other side of the wall, ensconced in an armchair in the sitting room, a notepad on his knees and a glass of brandy close at hand, writing. Sometimes, that is enough to set the dream machine in motion again.

Filippo spends hours wandering disconsolately around Paris, haunting the smartest and most expensive neighbourhoods. He strolls around, nostrils quivering, sniffing out sensations and chance encounters. He likes telling himself he is free to invent his life.

Place Vendôme. He walks around the square, lingering before each shop window. This is the home of Paris’s most famous jewellers. He’s never been particularly interested in jewellery — he prefers perfume. He stops outside Guerlain. On the other side of the glass, a tall woman has her back to him. A customer. He’s mesmerised by her mass of coppery hair, pulled back into a precariously perched chignon, artificially casual, held in place by two big wooden hair slides. He stares at her intricate curls, dreams of caressing the wisps of hair on the back of her neck, of removing the slides one at a time, then burying his face in the cascade of flaming hair finally set free. The woman turns towards him. She has sprinkled a drop of perfume on the back of her hand and inhales it deeply. She hesitates, appears to be considering, takes a few steps, her eyes half-closed, then returns to the counter. She is Italian, he’s certain from the way she holds herself, walks and smiles. She picks up a bottle and holds it out to the sales assistant behind the counter. Mitsouko — he recognises the shape. In Rome, he had once furtively peddled dozens of cut-price bottles on the streets around Termini station. He loves little details that resemble echoes, or like signposts mapping out his path. Luciana’s coppery hair in the mountains and that of the stranger in Place Vendôme; the bottle of Mitsouko on the Rome streets and at Guerlain.

The woman finishes paying and emerges from the shop. An Italian with coppery hair, that perfume. Don’t stop to think, go for it.

He walks over to meet her, bows to her, grasps her hand and gives it a ceremonious kiss, without being over-insistent. He says to her in Italian: ‘Mitsouko, unless I’m mistaken. An excellent choice.’

She laughs, surprised and amused. Her eyes are amber like her hair. She replies in Italian: ‘Yes, of course, Mitsouko. How clever! And how do you know that I’m Italian?’

‘Your entire body speaks Italian.’

She cocks her head to one side, with a half-smile. She likes the expression. Filippo continues talking slowly, moving on a few steps.

‘Actually, to be completely honest, I’ve been looking for you in Paris for days…’ She follows close behind. Encouraging. ‘…I needed you, your elegance, your warmth. I’ve written a book, I wrote it for you, to make you look at me, listen to me, walk beside me, as you are doing now…’

By now they have crossed the entire Place Vendôme. It’s in the bag. He stops. ‘…and so that you’d agree to have a drink with me.’

She stops too, and laughs.

‘Around here? Out of the question. The Ritz is full of the wrong kind of people. Rue de Rivoli? Swarming with tourists.’

She hesitates for a moment, torn between curiosity and prudence.

‘Why don’t we go to my place instead? I live around the corner — just above the Tuileries gardens. I’ve had a busy day. When you tried to pick me up…’

‘I’m not trying to pick you up…’

‘Oh really! When you tried to pick me up, I was on my way home. I’d love to go home. It’ll be peaceful, I’ll make you a tea, and you can tell me about your books.’

When they reach the fifth floor she rummages in her bag. He waits while she finds her keys, opens the door and goes inside. He follows. It is a precious moment; he savours the invitation to enter her private world. Before him is a large, sparsely furnished room, airy and spacious; opposite, three French windows that must open on to a south-facing balcony. The sun filters through the closed louvered shutters, which she does not open. A magnificent, dark, highly polished wood floor, white walls, a few items of glass-and-steel furniture around a dining table. A sitting area with squat leather armchairs on steel frames, and a coffee table at the base of a vast bookcase that covers an entire wall.

‘Sit down and I’ll make the tea.’

She vanishes through the left-hand door into the kitchen. So the bedroom must be off to the right. He sits down, tense, on the alert for the slightest sound, the slightest indication of her presence. She moves around in the kitchen, opens a cupboard, closes it. A sound of cups rattling, water running, then a silence. What is she doing? The water boils. She comes back carrying a tray with two cups and a china teapot on it. She has kicked off her shoes and is walking barefoot on the dark wood floor. He watches her, fascinated by her relaxed manner. He desires her, his throat tight, his muscles paralysed. She sits down facing him and pours black tea into the two cups. He takes a sip of the scalding brew, rises and goes to kneel beside her, removes a slide from her chignon and the edifice slowly collapses — the second slide and her hair cascades down her back. She does not resist, her eyes are closed. He bathes his hand in the silky, slightly damp mass, the scent of warm amber. Can a person die of desire? He stands up, and gathers her in his arms. She is light, and he walks towards the bedroom door, which yields at his touch. In the half-darkness, he makes out the shadowy shape of the bed in the centre of the room, covered in a voluminous white duvet. He lowers her into the hollow of this whiteness and with infinite tenderness leans over towards the face, the mouth, the hair that he has always desired.

He has the beginnings of a story.

18 July

Vicenzo had warned her that things might not move very fast and that academics had no sense of urgency. In July the notion of time is even more elastic. And the long weekend of the 14th of July slows communication down still further. After several phone conversations and a few long explanations, it is only on coming home from work on the evening of Monday 18th July that Lisa finds a package in her letter box. It contains a charming handwritten note from Jacques Chamrousse, professor of contemporary economic history at a Paris university.

Dear Ms Biaggi,

As I said to you over the telephone, I am not an expert on the history of Italian banking. While trying to find the answers to your questions, I came across this book, a history of the Piemonte-Sardegna bank, published to celebrate its centenary, so naturally it has all the drawbacks of this type of publication. But I was able to verify that it is a fairly reliable study, based on numerous established facts, and I hope it contains the information you are looking for. If it doesn’t, don’t hesitate to contact me again and I’ll see if I can find any other more ‘orthodox’ works. It is an Italian publication, there is no French edition, but of course that won’t be a problem for you.

Yours sincerely,

Jacques Chamrousse

Lisa climbs the stairs to her apartment, the book under her arm, and settles down comfortably to skim through it. A beautiful edition with photos of starchy bankers, luxurious offices, lavish, formal commemorations. In 1949, a takeover of the Tomasino family bank, the biggest bank in Brescia and the region. Not a word about its fascist past, but that was only to be expected. The most interesting contribution of the Tomasino bank is its property portfolio, the jewel of which is the building housing the Milan branch of the bank, at number 10, Via Del Battifolle, Milan. What a shock … That address … The very one where Carlo was assassinated. And opposite the article, a full-page photo of a magnificent art deco building, in which the bank only occupies part of the ground floor. It was there, on that pavement … Shock makes Lisa burst into tears. She places a trembling hand on the photo, closes her eyes and waits, without moving, until she feels calm again. There is no such thing as chance: this is proof.

A phone call to Roberto: ‘SOS, I need your company this evening. I can’t be on my own. Haven’t got the strength. And no questions.’

Her voice is uncertain and Roberto recognises the signs. They meet at the Chinese restaurant, which always stays open very late. Lisa swings between exhilaration and despondence, underpinned by profound anguish. She grazes rather than eats and downs large amounts of iced tea. Roberto remains calm and waits for her to speak. It is the only thing to be done, he is used to it. After a very long silence: ‘Roberto, I need you.’

He smiles.

‘Our conversations often begin like this. Can you be more precise?’

‘When I told you about Pier-Luigi, you said you could help. You said, “help with anything specific”. That’s exactly what I need. Help with something specific.’

‘So you haven’t dropped this Pier-Luigi business?’

Lisa smiles.

‘Of course not. Did you really think I’d let it go?’

‘I don’t know. You haven’t mentioned it to me for the last two or three weeks.’

‘I’m missing a central piece of the puzzle. Until I have it, I don’t want to talk to you about it. You’ll say I’m crazy and paranoid.’

‘I’ve never said you’re crazy or paranoid.’

‘No. But you’ve certainly thought it. And I don’t blame you.’

‘So what do you need me to do?’

‘I want to know if Carlo ran into a certain Daniele Bonamico or a Daniele Luciani when he was in prison.’

Surprised, Roberto raises his eyebrows.

‘I don’t know when exactly he changed his name. I didn’t ask Pier-Luigi the right question, and it’s too late now, he didn’t leave me a forwarding address.’

‘It’s impossible to ask the right questions when you don’t know the answers. I didn’t know that Luciani was supposed to have met Carlo.’

A silence. Lisa offers no further details.

‘Right, tell me what you want me to do.’

‘I want you to ask our lawyers to obtain that information. They can easily find out from Carlo’s solicitor in Italy. And they promised to help me.’

‘Why don’t you ask them yourself?’

‘Because I don’t want to have to answer their questions. I can just picture their faces. “And why do you need this information? What are you up to?” I don’t want to say anything until I’ve got all the information I need. It will be easier for you to say nothing because you don’t know anything.’

‘Do you badly need to protect yourself, Lisa?’

‘Yes, you know I do, and I’m relying on you to help me fend off trouble, as usual.’

‘OK. I’ll do it tomorrow. Let’s go back to your place and have a coffee, it’s better than here, and then you can make up a bed for me on the couch — it’s much too late for me to go home.’

‘Thank you.’

25 July (Monday)

Sitting in the big armchair, his back to the window, Roberto sips an iced coffee.

‘There you go. It took a little while, but I finally managed to get the information you want. Daniele Bonamico was in jail at the same time as Carlo in 1986, in the high-security prison. He had the benefit of a reduction in his sentence and was released a month after Carlo’s transfer to the second prison.’

Roberto stops speaking. Lisa is ashen, her features hard, set, she is no longer listening. Exactly the answer I was expecting and I was preparing myself for. Even so, it’s a hell of a shock. Carlo, ten years of underground struggle. As a rule the group’s logistics ran without a hitch, everything except a bolt from the blue. In prison, the love of my life became the friend of a right-wing extremist, a killer, thinking it was OK to associate with him, that he was apolitical and reliable. What ravages prison can wreak. Worse than exile. When he escaped, Carlo was already dead inside. He fell apart in prison, and I knew nothing about it. My love for him, a huge chapter of our lives in shreds. Will I survive? What for?

Roberto is growing impatient.

‘Enough beating about the bush, Lisa. Now you have to tell me everything you know, what it was that made you ask the right question.’

Lisa starts, then picks up the thread.

‘Listen carefully, I’m going to tell you the whole story. Daniele Bonamico is a working-class man from Brescia, on the far right (you’re aware that there is such a thing, aren’t you?), the sort who get used as goons. He’s well in with the Tomasino family, doing dirty deeds with the eldest brother Andrea and involved to some extent in the 1974 massacre — we’ve already talked about that — but he doesn’t know his place and, even though he looks like a low-life thug, he gets one of the Tomasino girls pregnant. He’s run out of Brescia by the family. Then he hangs out with the secret service, lends a hand here and there, and ends up in jail with Carlo, before getting himself transferred. I don’t know whether Bonamico is already receiving orders, or whether he jumps at the opportunity and negotiates afterwards. I’m inclined to think the latter, but it doesn’t matter, the fact is that he becomes close to Carlo. You can imagine how he embroiders the tragic story of his love affair, thwarted by the rich bastards, omitting his political activities, of course. You know Carlo as well as I do. A sentimental romantic and an incorrigible womaniser…’

‘And prison is unlikely to have helped, seven years of going without…’

‘Once he’s understood what makes Carlo tick, Daniele’s sitting pretty. He tells Carlo he has a plan for getting his own back on the Tomasinos, obtaining some money and eloping with his beloved. A robbery on one of their old banks, he knows the layout of the premises well from having more or less worked there, and he says he’s got contacts inside the bank, people who are prepared to help him, so there’s absolutely no risk. It’ll go like clockwork, and win them a packet of money to boot. It is even possible that he passed off the girl who was with them as the Tomasino girl. She was in Zuliani’s first version of the breakout, the only one I accept as true. All he needs is an accomplice. Carlo’s up for it. Just think: an operation to recover loot from the rich to avenge an impoverished lover, involving no violence and no risks, offering him the chance of a new life … Oh, and the former Tomasino bank is located at number 10, Via Del Battifolle in Milan.’

Roberto winces.

‘Are you making this up?’

‘No, I’m not making it up. The bank is a former Tomasino establishment, and could be, if I’ve understood correctly, the Milan head office. To continue. Carlo begins to dream. Then he’s transferred, because there’s no escape from high-security jails, and Daniele is released a little later. The Red Brigades’ open letter gives Carlo the green light. After that, things move very fast. I’ve always been intrigued by the apparent ease of their escape. From what we know, Carlo had accomplices among the truck drivers, but how did he find them? A mystery. Filippo himself, in his initial account, has no idea. Has anyone investigated? Apparently not. The trucks’ pick-up schedule is changed and they’re half an hour late. None of the security guards seems concerned, nobody keeps an eye on the rubbish collectors while they load the skip. In my view, I think the only thing that hadn’t been planned by the prison management, or by Carlo, is that Filippo gets mixed up in the whole thing. Daniele and the girl are waiting for Carlo at the dump, and drive him to the mountains, carefully concealing themselves from that parasite Filippo. Once they’re rid of Filippo, Daniele drives Carlo to the Milan bank. There, once again, it’s a cinch, Carlo and his accomplices know the security guards’ timetable down to the minute, even though it changes daily. They are anticipated and Carlo is shot down by Brigadier Renzi. Bonamico then takes off and disappears, having fulfilled his contract.’

‘I don’t believe your story. What about the other two dead, the carabiniere and the security guard?’

‘I’m not sure about them. They might have been shot to bump up the death toll.’

‘I still don’t believe it.’

‘Why not? Don’t you believe our secret service is capable of such murders? How many victims were there in the massacres they organised in league with the far right? Do you think that bothered them in the least?’

‘Setting off a bomb and massacring unknown civilians isn’t quite the same thing as murdering its own men on an official assignment in cold blood. The political consequences can be much more serious.’

‘Really? Wake up, Roberto. Two senior carabinieri have just stood trial for the Peteano attack. You remember the Peteano attack? A car bomb blew up a carabinieri bus, three carabinieri dead. That was in 1972, the carabinieri know who planted the bomb as they have concrete evidence. And they cover it up. Until the bomber, an Ordine Nuovo activist, gives himself up, just over three years ago. Well? Isn’t that somewhat similar to what I’m saying here?’

‘That’s the point. Exactly. If they’re embroiled in this business, it’s highly unlikely that they’d risk the same tactic just when the trial’s taking place.’

‘So let’s assume that Carlo shot in self-defence when he realised he’d fallen into a trap.’

‘Remember, you’re always saying that Carlo never used guns, which, by the way, I don’t necessarily agree with. More seriously still: how do you explain Bonamico’s reappearance as prosecution witness against Filippo? In your scenario, he absolutely has to disappear. He changes his name and he disappears.’

‘On that point you’re right, it’s the fly in the ointment, and I’ve asked myself the same question. I’d like to know when exactly he changed his name. That would be helpful. To explain his comeback, I wondered whether it might be poor coordination on the part of rival departments. But that’s not entirely convincing. And I have a better suggestion. Bonamico was at the scene of the robbery because he was with Carlo, he planned the job with him. Do you follow me? He was seen in the Tazza d’Oro by a witness, who recognised him. You don’t forget a mug like that. For example someone who knew him in Brescia at the time of the 1974 bombing, and who knew of his past as a stooge of the neo-fascists. Brescia isn’t that far from Milan so it’s not out of the question. As I speak, I’m wondering whether this witness too might have a connection with the bank in Via Del Battifolle? A former employee of the Tomasino family, or something. At the time, he’s not particularly surprised, but next day after the hold-up, with photos all over the papers, the witness realises that the man he saw with Bonamico in La Tazza d’Oro is the former Red Brigadist. The time of the robbery also fits, and our man does his duty as a citizen and rushes off to tell all to the cops. The cops do nothing, but hush up his testimony. Then comes Filippo’s book and the press campaign around him sparked off by Prosecutor Sebastiani, who is definitely not aware of the full picture. Maybe the witness wakes up or something else happens that we don’t know about. In any case, by coming forward to testify, Daniele explains his presence in La Tazza d’Oro during the hour prior to the hold-up. He does so without anyone being able to establish a link between him and Carlo, and reinforces the credibility of Filippo’s novel, something which suits the police very well.’

‘Too complicated.’

‘I can’t come up with anything better. And if I were Bonamico, complicated or not, I’d be trying to save my skin.’

‘When you speak to the League of Human Rights, the lawyers and Filippo, I advise you to stick to the proven facts. The surprise witness is a former fellow inmate of Carlo’s under an alias. That’s already enough to demolish the official version. As for the rest, I suggest you store it up for the day when you decide to write a novel. In my opinion, you’re talented and you’ve got a subject. When are you seeing Filippo? We need to move fast now.’

‘Cristina will be back at work tomorrow. I’ll ask her to set up a meeting. She has a better chance of persuading him to come than I do.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’