Cabal

3

If Zen had spent the night at home instead of at Tania’s, he could have walked to his first appointment next morning. As it was he ended up on foot anyway, the taxi he summoned having ground to a halt outside the Liceo Terenzio Mamiani, just round the corner from Zen’s apartment. Wednesday mornings were always bad, as the usual rush-hour jam was supplemented by the influx of pilgrims heading for the weekly papal audience. Zen paid the driver and strode off past lines of honking, bleating vehicles, including coaches whose utilitarian styling and robust construction exuded a graceless charm which awakened nostalgic memories of the far-off, innocent 1950s. From portholes wiped in their misted-up windows, the Polish pope’s compatriots peered out at the Eternal City, perhaps wondering if the last kilometre of their pilgrimage was going to take as long as the previous two thousand.

Zen crossed Piazza del Risorgimento and followed the towering ramparts of the Vatican City State up the hill, passing women carrying wicker baskets and plastic bags of fruit and vegetables home from the Trionfale market. The bells of the local churches were in some disagreement about the exact moment when nine o’clock arrived, but the Vatican itself opened its doors dead on time, as though to emphasize that although in Rome, it was by no means of Rome. The handful of tourists waiting for the museums to open began to file inside. Zen followed them up the curving ramp to the cash desk, where he plonked down his ten-thousand-lire note with the rest. Then, like someone doing Rome in two days, he hurried through the collections of classical antiquities, following the arrows marked ‘Raphael Stanze and Sistine Chapel Only’.

A marble staircase brought him to a gallery receding as far as the eye could see. The walls were hung with tapestries and painted maps alternating with windows overlooking a large courtyard. Dust swarmed like a school of fish in the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Zen had already left the other early visitors far behind, and this part of the museums was deserted. At the end of the gallery, he turned left into a chamber hung with enormous battle scenes, then down a staircase to a suite of rooms on the lower floor overlooking a courtyard patrolled by a Swiss Guard. Zen smiled wryly, thinking of the night before. Following their hasty exit from the house where Giovanni Grimaldi had been murdered, he and Gilberto Nieddu had climbed down a fire escape into the internal courtyard of a building in the next street and then sneaked past the lodge where the portiere was watching television.

‘Never again, Aurelio!’ Gilberto told him as they parted in the street. ‘Don’t even bother phoning.’

Back at Tania’s, Zen had called his mother to tell her that his duties in Florence unfortunately required him to stay another night but he would be back for sure the following day.

‘That’s all right,’ his mother replied. ‘At least you ring up and let me know what’s happening, not like some.’

‘What do you mean, mamma?’

‘Oh, that Gilberto! It makes me furious, it really does! Rosella phoned here only half an hour ago, to ask if I knew where you were. Apparently Gilberto called her this afternoon and said he might be a bit late home this evening because he was meeting you, if you please! Can you believe the cheek of it? Poor Rosella! Come nine o’clock there’s no sign of him and the dinner’s ruined, so she phones me to try and find out what’s going on. Of course I didn’t know any of this at first, so I just told her the truth, that you were in Florence. It’s the old story. I told her. Just look the other way. There’s no point in making a fuss. You’re not the first and you won’t be the…’

‘Listen, mamma, I’m running out of tokens. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Wait, Aurelio! There’s a message for you. This gentleman called, he wouldn’t leave his name, but he said it was about a Signor Giallo. He asked you to phone him immediately.’

Zen dialled the number he had been given by Lamboglia. It was answered by a different voice, this time with a foreign intonation. But why not? The Vatican was the headquarters of an international organization.

‘Your presence is required tomorrow morning,’ the man told him. ‘Come to the main entrance to the Vatican Museums, pay in the normal way, then follow these directions.’

Zen noted them down.

‘Now there’s something I want you to do,’ he told the anonymous voice. ‘Contact whoever is responsible for the maintenance of the building where Signor Giallo lived and find out whether a workman was sent there yesterday to investigate the sewers.’

He had hung up just as Tania walked in naked from the shower, looking rather like the gracefully etiolated females in the frescos which covered the chamber where he now found himself. The subjects were nominally biblical, but the action had been transferred from the harsh realities of historical Palestine to a lush Italian landscape peopled by figures of an ideal renaissance beauty. On one wall, ships navigated under full sail and armies manoeuvred for battle. Another showed a large chamber where men were disputing and orators pronouncing. The painted room was about the same size and shape as the one on whose wall it was depicted, and the artist had cleverly included a painted door at floor level, creating the illusion that one could simply turn the handle and step into that alternative reality. Zen was just admiring this amusing detail when the handle in fact turned and the door opened to reveal the stooping figure of Monsignor Lamboglia.

‘Come!’ he said, beckoning.

Inside, a spiral stone staircase burrowed upwards through the masonry of the ancient palace. They climbed in silence. After some time, Lamboglia opened another door which led into a magnificent enclosed loggia. The lofty ceiling was sumptuously carved and gilded, the rear wall adorned with antique painted maps representing a world in which North America figured only as a blank space marked Terra Incognita. The large windows opposite offered an extensive view over St Peter’s Square, now reduced to serving as a parking lot for those pilgrim coaches which had managed to fight their way through the traffic.

Zen followed his guide through a door at the end of the loggia, beneath a stained-glass light marked ‘Secretariat of State’ and into a vaulted antechamber. The walls and ceiling were covered in fantastic tracery, fake marble reliefs and painted niches containing trompe l’oeil classical statues. Lamboglia pointed to one of the armless chairs upholstered in grey velvet which stood against the painted dado, alternating with carved wooden chests and semi-circular tables supporting bronze angels.

‘Wait here.’

He disappeared through a door at the end of the corridor. Zen sat down in the designated chair, which proved to be as uncomfortable as it was no doubt intended to make the occupant feel. The windows on the opposite wall were covered in lace curtaining which strained the sunlight like honey through muslin. Zen closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on what he was going to say. Try as he would, though, his thoughts kept drifting away to the night before. Tania had lied to him, there was no doubt about that. Not just filtered the truth, as he would shortly do for the benefit of the Vatican authorities. No, Tania had lied.

‘Were you out this afternoon?’ he had asked casually as they lay in bed together.

‘Out?’

He ran his fingertips lightly over her ribs and belly.

‘Mmm. About six o’clock.’

She pretended to think.

‘Oh yes, that’s right. I stepped out for a moment to do some shopping. Why?’

‘I tried to phone. To tell you I’d be late.’

He rolled up on his side, gazing down at her.

‘A man answered.’

A distant look entered her eyes, and he knew she was going to lie. The rest was routine, a matter of how hard he wanted to press, how much he could bully her into revealing.

‘You must have got a wrong number,’ she said.

He looked away, embarrassed for her, regretting that he’d brought it up. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help adding. ‘It happened twice. I dialled again.’

She laughed lightly.

‘Probably a crossed wire at the exchange. It’s a pity the Vatican doesn’t run a phone system as well as a postal service. They fly their mail out to Switzerland to be sorted, you know, yet it still arrives in half the time it takes the post office.’

He accepted the diversion gratefully.

‘That’s because the post office sends it to Palermo for sorting. By boat.’

She laughed again, with amusement and relief. Thinks she’s got away with it, Zen thought to himself. Already he was getting used to the idea of her treachery. To be honest, once he’d recovered from the initial shock it was almost a relief to find that she was indeed deceiving him. The immense and unconditional gift which Tania had made of her love still amazed him. Being worthy of it had been a bit of a responsibility. This discovery evened things up considerably. All in all, he told himself, it was probably the best thing that could have happened.

The door at the end of the corridor opened and Lamboglia reappeared. He extended his right hand, palm down, and waggled the fingers beckoningly. Zen rose and followed him into the office where he had been received by the Cardinal Secretary of State’s deputy the previous Friday. On this occasion, Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes was in his full episcopal regalia, an ankle-length soutane with a magenta sash, piping and buttons. The crown of his head was covered by a skullcap of the same colour. The rim of an ecclesiastical collar was just visible beneath the soutane, while a plain silver cross hung from its chain at the base of the archbishop’s chest.

As before, Zen was placed on the long red sofa while the archbishop sat in the high-backed armchair by the table. At his elbow, beside the white telephone, lay a single sheet of paper with some lines of typing. Lamboglia took up his earlier position, just behind the archbishop’s shoulder, but Sanchez-Valdes waved him away.

‘Sit down, Enrico! You make me nervous, hovering there like a waiter.’

Flinching as though he’d been struck, poor Lamboglia trotted off across the elaborately patterned rug with the quick fluttering gait of a woman, all stiff knees and loose ankles, and subsided into a chair on the end wall.

‘Enrico is from Genoa,’ Sanchez-Valdes remarked to Zen. ‘On the other hand I seem to recall that you, dottore, are from Venice. The two cities were of course fierce trading rivals, and vied with each other to supply us with transportation for the Crusades. I came across rather a good comment on the subject just the other day, in a dispatch from our nuncio in Venice at the turn of the century — the thirteenth century, that is. He advises the Holy Father to treat with the Doge, exorbitant though his terms might seem, explaining that while both the Genoese and the Venetians will gladly offer to sell you their mothers, the crucial difference is that the Venetians will deliver.’

Although he was aware of being manipulated by a skilled operator, Zen could not help smiling.

‘I gather it was you who found poor Grimaldi’s body,’ the archbishop went on without a pause.

Zen’s smile faded.

‘What a terrible tragedy!’ sighed Sanchez-Valdes. ‘Those poor children! First they lose their mother to illness, and now…’

He broke off, seemingly overcome by emotion. Lamboglia was rubbing his hands together furiously, as though to warm or wash them.

‘I believe Enrico informed you that we had strong reason to suppose that Grimaldi was the author of that anonymous letter to the press,’ Sanchez-Valdes continued. ‘Needless to say that fact has now become one more of the many embarrassments which this case threatens to cause us. If it became known, one can easily imagine the sort of vicious insinuations and calumnies which would inevitably follow. No sooner is the identity of the “Vatican mole” discovered than he is found dead in the shower. How very convenient for those who wish to conceal the truth about the Ruspanti affair, etcetera, etcetera.

‘That’s why we’ve summoned you here this morning, dottore. Enrico has explained to me your unfortunate misunderstanding of our intentions with regard to the death of Ludovico Ruspanti. On this occasion I want to leave you in no doubt as to our position. Fortunately it is very simple. With Grimaldi’s death, this tragic sequence of events has reached its conclusion. Any mistakes or miscalculations which may have occurred are now a matter for future historians of Vatican affairs. As far as the present is concerned, we shall instruct the Apostolic Nuncio to convey our thanks to the Italian government for your, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote.’

The archbishop lifted the sheet of paper from the table and scanned it briefly.

‘Enrico!’ he called.

Lamboglia sashayed back across the carpet to his master’s side. Sanchez-Valdes handed him the paper.

‘There is just one remaining formality,’ he told Zen, ‘which is for you to sign an undertaking not to disclose any of the information which you may have come by in the course of your work for us.’

Lamboglia carried the paper over to Zen, who read through the six lines of typing.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I can’t sign this.’

‘What do you mean?’ snapped Lamboglia, who was waiting to convey the signed document back to Sanchez-Valdes.

‘To do so would risk placing me in an untenable position with regard to my official duties.’

Sanchez-Valdes hitched up the hem of his soutane to reveal a pair of magenta socks.

‘You didn’t display such exaggerated scruples the last time we spoke,’ he said dryly.

‘That was altogether different, Your Excellency. Ruspanti’s death occurred in the Vatican City State, and was therefore not subject to investigation by the Italian authorities. When I acted for you in that affair, I did so as a free agent. If Grimaldi had also died within the walls of the Vatican, I would have been happy to sign this undertaking. But he didn’t, he died in Rome. If I sign this, and Grimaldi’s death is subsequently made the subject of a judicial investigation, I would be unable to avoid perjuring myself whether I spoke or remained silent.’

Archbishop Sanchez-Valdes laughed urbanely.

‘But there’s no possibility of that happening! Grimaldi’s death was an accident.’

Zen nodded.

‘Of course. Just like Ruspanti’s was suicide.’

The two clerics stared at him intently. The archbishop was the first to break the silence.

‘Are you suggesting that Grimaldi did not die accidentally?’ he asked quietly.

‘That’s absurd!’ cried Lamboglia. ‘We’ve seen the Carabinieri report! There’s no question that Grimaldi was electrocuted by a faulty shower.’

Zen shook his head.

‘He was electrocuted in the shower, not by the shower.’

Sanchez-Valdes looked up at the ceiling, as though invoking divine assistance.

‘There’s no doubt about that?’ he murmured.

‘None at all.’

The archbishop nodded.

‘A pity.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Zen. ‘Nevertheless, although I am unable to sign this undertaking, I can assure you that I will honour it in practice. Your secrets will go no further.’

He smiled shyly.

‘As I mentioned the first time Your Excellency honoured me with an audience, whatever the Church decides is good enough for me.’

Sanchez-Valdes looked at Zen with amusement.

‘You’re a great loss to the Curia, dottore,’ he remarked, shaking his head. ‘A very great loss indeed! But then of course they already accuse us of creaming off the best administrators in the country.’

He got to his feet, sighing.

‘Thank you, Enrico, that will be all.’

After a momentary hesitation, Lamboglia left sullenly. When the door had closed behind him, Sanchez-Valdes walked over to the window. He pulled aside the screen of the net curtaining, allowing a beam of raw sunlight to enter.

‘What a lovely morning.’

He turned to Zen.

‘I think we should take a walk, dottore.’

Zen stared at him blankly.

‘A walk?’

‘That’s right. A walk in the woods.’

‘Have you heard the one about the whore and the Swiss Guard?’ asked the archbishop.

Zen, who was lighting a cigarette, promptly choked on the smoke. When the fit of coughing had subsided somewhat, he shook his head.

‘I don’t think I have.’

Sanchez-Valdes’s face beamed with expectation.

‘This new recruit has just arrived in Rome, fresh from the mountains. On his first evening off duty he decides to explore the city a little. He wanders out through the Sant’Anna gate and down into the Borgo, where he is accosted by a lady of the night.’

He paused to inspect a flowering shrub in the rockery they were passing.

‘“It’s just like my friends told me,” thinks Hans. “These Roman women can’t resist a blond hunk of manhood like me.” When they reach Asphasia’s business premises, she says, “Before we go any further, let’s settle the little matter of the fee.” The Swiss smiles complacently. “Out of the question! I wouldn’t dream of accepting money from a woman.”’

Zen laughed politely.

‘I heard that one from Scarpia, the head of the Vigilanza. His real name is Scarpione, but Paul VI always called him Scarpia, like the police chief in Tosca. No one was sure whether it was a mistake or a joke, and Montini wasn’t the kind of person you could ask, but somehow the name stuck, perhaps precisely because anyone further removed from Puccini’s villain would be hard to imagine. Poor Luigi is all home and family, mild and jovial to a fault. But you’ll be able to judge for yourself.’

They passed an elaborate fountain in the form of an artificial grotto from which a stream issued to pour over a series of miniature falls while two stone cherubs watched admiringly from the pool below. The path they were following led straight uphill through a coppice of beech trees. Except for a faint background murmur of traffic, they might have been deep in the country.

‘Anyway,’ Sanchez-Valdes went on, ‘that joke sums up the way the Vigilanza regard their colleagues in the Cohors Helvetica, as Nordic yokels with a superiority complex, so stupid they think they’re smart. The Swiss, for their part, look down on the security men as jumped-up traffic wardens. This conceit is perhaps understandable in a corps which not only enjoys an unbroken tradition of service stretching back almost five hundred years, but is charged with responsibility for guarding the person of the Holy Father. As for the Vigilanza, their duties are indeed fairly mundane for the most part, but there is a small elite unit within the force which undertakes more specialized and sensitive tasks. The existence of this unit is officially denied, and we never discuss its operations. If I’ve decided to make an exception in your case, it’s because you already know too much. The Ruspanti affair has got completely out of control, and we must proceed as they do with forest fires, separating off the affected area and letting the flames burn themselves out.’

Perhaps affected by this metaphor, Zen ground his spent cigarette out with exaggerated caution, creating an unsightly smudge of soiled paper and tobacco shreds.

‘There’s no filter,’ he explained awkwardly. ‘It’ll wash away as soon as it rains.’

He felt constrained to apologize by the extreme tidiness of the gardens. There was something not quite real about the Vatican, he was beginning to feel. It was like Rome devoid of Romans, peopled instead by a quiet, orderly, industrious race. There was no litter, no graffiti, no traffic. Cars were parked strictly within the painted boxes allotted for the purpose, and the few people about walked briskly along, intent on their business. The grass was not only neatly trimmed and innocent of used condoms, spent syringes and the sheets of loose newspaper used as curtains by courting couples in their cars, it was also a richer, more vibrant shade of green, as though it were part of the divine dispensation that the Holy City received more rain than the secular one without the walls. Trees and shrubs, hedges and flower-beds, all appeared vibrant and vigorous, like illustrations from a theological textbook exemplifying the argument from design. In principle, this was all extremely pleasant. In practice it gave Zen the creeps, like a replica which everyone was conspiring to pass off as the real thing.

‘Among the responsibilities of this special Vigilanza department,’ Sanchez-Valdes was saying, ‘is the covert surveillance of individuals living or working within the Vatican City State whose activities have for one reason or another attracted the attention of my department. Until last Friday, one of these was Prince Ludovico Ruspanti.’

The archbishop broke off as they approached a team of gardeners at work resetting a rockery. He nodded at the men, who inclined their heads respectfully. Once they were out of earshot again, Sanchez-Valdes resumed.

‘As you are no doubt aware, Ruspanti was under investigation by the Italian judiciary for his part in the illegal export of currency. What you probably do not know, since the matter was sub judice, is that his part in this alleged fraud consisted of recycling large sums through his account at the Institute for the Works of Religion. In short, the Prince was accused of using the Vatican bank to break Italian law. After the scandals surrounding the collapse of the Banco Ambrosiano, we clearly could not be seen to be sheltering him from justice. But although we had our own reasons for allowing Ruspanti the temporary use of a grace-and-favour apartment while he sorted out his affairs, we weren’t naive enough simply to leave him to his own devices.’

Zen looked up at the crest of the hill above them, where the mighty bastion of the original fortifications was now crowned with the transmitting aerials of Vatican Radio.

‘In that case…’ he began, then broke off.

Sanchez-Valdes finished it for him.

‘In that case, we should know who killed him, just as the anonymous letter to the papers claimed. Yes, we should. The problem is that the official assigned to Ruspanti on the day he died was…’

‘Giovanni Grimaldi.’

The archbishop gestured as though to say ‘There you are!’ The alley they were following had reached a round-about from which five others led off in various directions, each with its name inscribed on a travertine slab mounted in a metal stand. Sanchez-Valdes turned left along a straight gravel path running along the foot of a section of the original Vatican walls, towering up thirty metres or more to their machicolated battlements.

‘Grimaldi was presumably debriefed before. I arrived that Friday,’ Zen commented.

Sanchez-Valdes nodded.

‘He said he had lost Ruspanti among the throng of tourists up on the dome of St Peter’s and was trying to find him again in the basilica when the body fell. At the time there seemed no reason not to believe this. The first thing which alerted our suspicions was the disappearance of the transcript which had been made of Ruspanti’s telephone conversations. Ah, there’s Luigi!’

A plump man with carefully permed silvery hair and a benign expression stood by a pine tree beside the path, watching them approach. Zen felt a surge of revulsion. He suddenly couldn’t wait to get out of this place where even the chief of police looked like a parody of a kindly, absent-minded village priest.

‘We made the inquiries you requested,’ Scarpione told Sanchez-Valdes once the introductions had been performed. ‘The supervisor responsible for the Carmelites’ holdings says that no repair work had been ordered in the house where Grimaldi lived.’

The archbishop looked at Zen.

‘Well, there’s the answer to the question you put to us last night. What is its significance?’

‘Grimaldi’s neighbour, Marco Duranti, said that someone was working there on Monday afternoon with an electric drill, supposedly repairing the drains.’

‘And someone was there again last night,’ Scarpione broke in, proud of his scoop. ‘I’ve just had a call about it from the Carabinieri. They were called out by this Duranti, but unfortunately the intruders managed to escape by using some sort of smoke bomb.’

Zen coughed loudly.

‘They probably came back to search Grimaldi’s room again.’

The archbishop frowned.

‘Again?’

‘They tried once before, after they killed him.’

Luigi Scarpione took a moment to react. Sanchez-Valdes turned to Zen, indicating the Vigilanza chief’s stunned and horrified expression as proof that the Vatican’s hands were clean of Grimaldi’s death. Zen held up his palms in token of the fact that he had never for a moment believed otherwise.

‘But the Carabinieri…’ Scarpione began.

‘The Carabinieri don’t know about Grimaldi’s involvement in the Ruspanti case,’ Zen broke in. ‘In fact they don’t even know that there is a Ruspanti case. If they did, they might have concluded that two such deaths in five days was a bit too much of a coincidence, and taken the trouble to investigate the circumstances of Grimaldi’s “accident” a little more thoroughly, as I did. In which case, they would no doubt have discovered that the workman who came to the house on Monday afternoon had drilled a hole through the wall between the bathroom and the passage outside, enabling him to connect an electric cable to the water pipes feeding the shower. A woman was round at the house on Monday morning, talking to Grimaldi, and I saw her leave on Tuesday, just after he died. She would have waited for him to go into the shower, as he did every day before starting work, and then thrown the switch. The moment Grimaldi stepped under the water he was effectively plugged into the mains. Afterwards the woman pulled the cable free and removed it, leaving an electrocuted body inside a bathroom bolted from the inside. Of course the Carabinieri thought it was an accident. What else were they supposed to think?’

Scarpione shuddered. Sanchez-Valdes patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and led the way past the helicopter landing pad from which the pope set off to his villa and swimming pool in the Alban hills, or on one of his frequent foreign trips.

‘And what about you, dottore?’ he asked Zen. ‘What do you think?’

Zen shrugged.

‘What had Grimaldi been working on this week, since Ruspanti’s death?’

‘A case involving the theft of documents from the Archives,’ said Scarpione. ‘Giovanni was patrolling the building, posing as a researcher.’

‘Not the sort of thing people would kill for?’

‘Good heavens, no! A minor trade in illegal antiquities, that’s all.’

‘In that case, my guess is that he tried to put the squeeze on the men who murdered Ruspanti. That transcript that’s gone missing probably contained some reference implicating them. Grimaldi put two and two together, stole the transcript, and offered to sell it for the right price. That would also explain why he sent the anonymous letter to the papers. He couldn’t blackmail the killers without casting enough doubt on the suicide verdict to get the case reopened.’

The three men passed through a gap in the battlemented walls, the truncated portion covered with a rich coat of ivy, and started downhill, through the formally landscaped gardens, the dome of St Peter’s rising before them in all its splendour.

‘Have you located the source of the keys which Ruspanti’s killers used?’ Zen asked casually.

Sanchez-Valdes nodded.

‘Yes indeed! Tell Dottor Zen about the progress we’ve been making this end, Luigi.’

Scarpione glanced at the archbishop.

‘All of it?’

‘All, all!’

The Vigilanza chief cleared his throat and began.

‘We thought at first it might be one of the sampietrini.’

He lowered his voice discreetly.

‘There have been complaints on several occasions from some of the younger workers about the behaviour of Antonio Cecchi, their boss.’

‘A little matter of attempted buggery, to be precise,’ Sanchez-Valdes explained cheerfully.

Scarpione coughed again.

‘Yes, well…’

‘Like many people,’ the archbishop went on, speaking to Zen, ‘Luigi makes the mistake of supposing that we priests are either ignorant of or embarrassed by the facts of life. If he had spent half as much time in a confessional as we have, he would realize that there is nothing likely to shock us very much. Carry on, Luigi!’

‘Well, anyway, in the end one of the uniformed custodians who patrol the dome during the hours of public access admitted that he had been responsible. He said he was approached by a man who represented himself as a monsignore attached to the Curia. This person claimed that a party of notables from his native town were visiting the Vatican, and said he wanted to give them a private tour of the basilica. He would be so obliged if it would be possible for him to borrow the keys for an hour or two.’

‘All such requests are supposed to be submitted in writing,’ Sanchez-Valdes explained, ‘but no lay worker in the Vatican is going to refuse a favour to a member of the Curia.’

Zen grunted.

‘Only in this case, he wasn’t.’

‘We have a description of the impostor,’ Scarpione assured him. ‘He was of average stature, quite young, with fair hair and fine features.’

‘Well, that rules out la Cicciolina.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Dottor Zen is being ironic,’ Sanchez-Valdes explained heavily. ‘His implication is that while the description you have given may effectively exclude the ex-porn queen and present Radical Party deputy from suspicion, it is imprecise enough to cover almost everyone else.’

‘I’m sure you did the best you could,’ Zen murmured, glancing at his watch.

They had reached a terrace overlooking a formal garden in the French style. In a cutting below, a diesel locomotive hooted and started to reverse around a freight train on the branch line linking the Vatican to the Italian state railway system.

‘We mustn’t detain you any longer, dottore,’ Sanchez-Valdes told Zen. He turned to Scarpione. ‘How can we get him out of here without attracting attention, Luigi? The last thing we want is a front-page photograph of the man from the Ministry of the Interior leaving the Vatican after high-level consultations at the Secretariat of State when he’s supposedly too ill to answer questions from the press.’

‘How did he get in?’ asked Scarpione.

‘Through the museum. But that’ll be too risky at this time of day.’

The Vigilanza man pondered for a moment.

‘I suppose I could get one of my men to smuggle him out in a delivery van or something…’

Sanchez-Valdes shook his head.

‘I don’t want to subject their loyalty to any further tests just at present,’ he remarked acidly.

He snapped his fingers.

‘I know! That train looks like it’s about to leave. Go and have a word with the crew, Luigi, and ask them to drop our visitor off at the main-line station. It’s only a short ride, and that way he’s sure to be unobserved.’

Scarpione hurried off, eager to prove that his loyalty, at any rate, was unimpeachable. As soon as he was out of earshot, Sanchez-Valdes turned to Zen.

‘Despite what our detractors say, dottore, I urge you to accept that the Vatican has no vested interest in obscurity or mystification, still less in such wickedness as these killings. Our only wish is to see the perpetrators brought to justice, and I can assure you that we will bend all our efforts to that end. On the basis of the information you have provided today, I shall make representations to the Carabinieri to reopen their investigation into Grimaldi’s death…’

‘Without mentioning my name,’ Zen insisted.

Sanchez-Valdes waved his beringed hand to indicate that this might be taken for granted. Outside the huge unused station building below, the diesel locomotive blew its horn. Luigi Scarpione stood on the platform near by, beckoning frantically.

‘It’s about to leave,’ said Sanchez-Valdes.

Zen turned to him suddenly.

‘What about the Cabal?’

A distant look entered the archbishop’s eyes.

‘What?’

‘Grimaldi’s letter to the newspapers claimed that on the day he died, Ruspanti had been going to meet the representatives of an organization called the Cabal. His other allegations have turned out to be true. What about that one?’

Sanchez-Valdes laughed lightly.

‘Oh, that! No, no, that was just some nonsense Ruspanti dreamed up.’

‘Ruspanti?’

‘Yes, he used it as bait, to tempt us into giving him sanctuary. It’s rather embarrassing, to tell you the truth! He took us in completely with this cock-and-bull tale about some secret inner group within the Knights of Malta which supposedly…’

Zen stared.

‘The Knights of Malta?’

‘Absurd, isn’t it? That bunch of old fogies and social climbers! Mind you, Ruspanti was one of them himself, which lent his claims a certain prima facie credibility. In return for our assistance, he promised to spill the beans on the various political conspiracies which this group was supposedly planning. As soon as we examined his claims, of course, it was evident that there was nothing in them.’

The diesel hooted again, longer this time.

‘Hurry, dottore, or they’ll leave without you!’ Sanchez-Valdes urged. ‘We don’t want to create an international incident by preventing the departure of an Italian train, do we? Incidentally, you’re probably the first person to leave the Vatican by train since Papa Roncalli went on a pilgrimage to Assisi back in the sixties. What about that, eh? Something to tell your grandchildren!’

‘Deuce!’

‘Thirty-forty, isn’t it?’

‘No, no, my friend. It was thirty-forty after you fluffed my last service return.’

‘All right, all right.’

Rackets were raised once more, the fluffy yellow ball sped to and fro, the players pranced about the pink asphalt. The server sported a racy Sergio Tacchini outfit whose top, shorts, socks, trainers and sweatbands were all elements in the same bold abstract pattern. His opponent had opted for a classic all-white image by Ellesse, but it was falling flat. Having just blown the opportunity to save the set, he looked plain rather than restrained, not timeless but out of date.

‘Advantage!’ called Sergio Tacchini confidently.

‘It was out!’ whined Ellesse.

‘Says who?’

‘I saw it cross the line! It was nowhere near!’

‘Oh! Oh! Gino, don’t try this stuff on with me!’

‘I tell you…’

‘All right, let’s get a neutral opinion.’

The server turned to the man who was looking on from the other side of the tall mesh netting which surrounded the court.

‘Hey, you! You saw that shot? It was in, wasn’t it?’

‘Come off it, Rodolfo!’ his opponent objected. ‘If they let the guy up here, he must work for you. Do you think he’s going to tell his own Minister that his shot was too long?’

‘On the contrary, everyone knows I’ll be on my way once this reshuffle finally hits. I can’t even get a cup of coffee sent up any more. In fact, he’s going to give it your way, Gino, if he’s got any sense. For all anyone knows, you could be his boss next week!’

He turned again to the onlooker, a gaunt, imposing figure with sharp, angular features and a gaze that hovered ambiguously between menace and mockery.

‘Listen, er — what’s your name?’

‘Zen, Minister. Vice-Questore, Criminalpol. I’m afraid I didn’t see the ball land.’

Rodolfo returned to the base-line shaking his head.

‘Fine, we’ll play a let. I don’t need flukes to beat you, Gino. I’ve got in-depth superiority.’

He skied the ball and whacked it across the net with a grunt suggestive of a reluctant bowel motion. Zen clasped his hands behind his back and pretended to take an interest in the progress of the game. Fortunately there were other distractions. Despite being located on the least illustrious of Rome’s seven hills, the roof of the Ministry of the Interior still afforded extensive views. To the right, Zen could admire the neighbouring Quirinal and its palace, once the seat of popes and kings, now the official residence of the President of the Italian Republic. To the left, the ruined hulks of ancient Rome’s most desirable residential quarter gave a rural appearance to the Palatine. In between, the densely populated sprawl of the city centre, covered by a veil of smog, resembled the treacherous marshland it had once been. In the hazy distance below the hills of the far bank of the Tiber, the dome of St Peter’s hovered, seemingly weightless, like a baroque hot-air balloon.

The sun was hidden behind a skin of cloud which diffused its light evenly across the flat roof. The Ministry’s complex system of transmitting and receiving aerials, towering above like ship’s rigging, increased Zen’s sense of detachment from the mundane realities of life in the invisible streets far below. The train which had carried him back to Italy that morning consisted of four empty wagons which had discharged their duty-free imports and one flat-bed laden with the mosaics which were the Vatican’s only material export. Zen had looked back from the cab of the superannuated green-and-brown diesel locomotive at the massive iron gates closing behind the train, just as all the Vatican gates still did at midnight, sealing off the one-hundred-acre City State from its encircling secular neighbour. The complexities of the relationship between the two were something that Zen was only beginning to appreciate now that he found himself trapped between them like a speck of grit caught in the bearings of power.

Despite his promise to Sanchez-Valdes, he had every intention of filing a full report on the Ruspanti affair. The first rule of survival in any organization is ‘Cover thyself.’ No matter that Moscati had told Zen that he was on his own, that it was between him and the Vatican, that the Ministry didn’t want to know. None of that would save Zen if — or, as now seemed almost inevitable, when — the tortuous and murky ramifications of the Ruspanti affair turned into a major political scandal. If Zen failed to keep the Ministry fully briefed, this would either be ascribed to devious personal motives or to twitchings on the strings by which one of the interested parties controlled him. Either way, his position would be untenable. A man as sophisticated as Sanchez-Valdes must have known this, so Zen assumed that the real purpose of that ‘walk in the woods’ had been to pass on information which the Curia could not release officially, to smuggle a message out of the Vatican in much the same way as Zen himself. It was now up to Zen to make sure that the message got through.

Under normal circumstances, his section chief would have been the person to go to, but after hearing Tania recount Moscati’s gloating remarks about their relationship Zen didn’t trust himself to handle the conversation with the necessary professional reserve. Then he recalled something that Moscati had said when they had spoken on the phone the previous morning. ‘Result, the Minister finds himself in the hot seat just as the entire government is about to go into the blender and he had his eye on some nice fat portfolio like Finance.’ So the Minister was not only aware of Zen’s gaffe, but had been politically embarrassed by criticism from the ‘blue-bloods at the Farnesina’, the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, who would have sustained the full wrath of the Apostolic Nuncio. By the time the Vatican goods train drew into the station of San Pietro F.S., Zen had decided that this was a case for going straight to the top. That way, when the lies and obfuscations started, he would at least know their source. He would speak to the Minister personally, tell him what had happened and what Archbishop Sanchez-Valdes had said. Then, later, he would write up a full report of the incident (with an editorial slant favourable to him, naturally) to be filed in the Ministerial database as permanent proof, dated and signed, that he had fulfilled his duties.

Until recently, San Pietro had been a little-used suburban halt on an antediluvian branch line to Viterbo. All that had changed with the decision to upgrade part of the route as a link between Stazione Termini and the new high speed direttissima line to Florence. As a result, the tunnel under the Gianicolo hill had been reconstructed and the station remodelled in the latest colour-coordinated Eurostyle. The local services hadn’t improved, however, so Zen walked out of the station and took the 62 bus across town, slipping into the Ministry through a side entrance to elude any reporters who might be around. Now, watching the tennis players swooping and reaching in the mild sunlight, that interlude seemed to him like a brief dip into the polluted and treacherous waters separating the verdant isle of the Vatican City State from this stately cruise liner where the Minister and his opponent were disporting themselves. Gino was an under-secretary in the Ministry of Health, which occupied the other half of the huge building on the Viminal hill. To satisfy the elaborate formulas of the manuale Cencelli, by which positions of power are distributed amongst the various political parties, this post had been allocated to a member of the moribund Liberal Party, while Rodolfo was a well-known figure on the Andreotti wing of the Christian Democrats. But although they were nominally political rivals, the contest that the two men were currently engaged in was infinitely more keenly fought than any which was ever allowed to disrupt the stifling calm in which the country’s nomenclatura basked and grew fat.

‘Game, set and match!’ called the Minister as the ball scudded off the asphalt out of reach of Gino’s racket.

‘Lucky bounce, Rodolfo.’

‘ Balle, my friend. You have just been outplayed physically and intellectually. My own surprise is that you still haven’t learned to lose with grace. After all, it’s all your party has been able to do for the last thirty years.’

He strode over to Zen, his skin gleaming with perspiration and flushed with victory. The Minister’s even, rounded features expressed an image of sensitivity and culture that was fatally undermined by the mouth, a cramped slot which might have been the result of plastic surgery.

‘You wanted to see me?’

Zen assumed his most respectful demeanour.

‘Yes, sir. I have a message for you.’

The Minister laughed shortly.

‘The problem of overmanning must be even more dire than I’d imagined if we’re using senior Criminalpol officials as messengers.’

He turned back to his opponent.

‘Consolation prize, Gino! You get to have first go in the shower while I see what this fellow wants.’

Rubbing his head vigorously with a towel, the Minister led the way down a short flight of stairs into his suite on the top floor of the building and threw himself down on a black leather sofa. Zen remained standing.

‘It’s about the Ruspanti case,’ he said hesitantly.

He expected some furious response, threats or insults, demands for apologies and explanations. The Minister merely stared up at him slightly more intently.

‘I’m sorry if… I mean, I understand that there were some… That’s to say…’

Zen broke off, disconcerted. He belatedly realized that he had allowed himself to be tricked into the elementary blunder of implying that what underlings like him did or failed to do could seriously affect anyone other than themselves. Moscati’s phrase about the Minister finding himself ‘in the hot seat’ as a result of Zen’s mishandling of the Ruspanti affair was pure hyperbole. Politicians could no more be brought down by such things than a ship could be capsized by the actions of fish on the ocean bed. It was the weather on the surface, in the political world itself, that would determine the Minister’s career prospects. Judging by his manner, the forecast was good.

‘I don’t want to rush you, er… what did you say your name was?’ he grunted, getting to his feet, ‘but if you have a message for me, perhaps you could deliver it without too much further delay. I have to see the Prefect of Bari in twenty minutes to discuss the Albanian refugee problem.’

He stretched out full length on the floor and started doing push-ups. Zen took a deep breath.

‘Yes, sir. The fact is, I’ve just returned from the Vatican, where I had an audience of His Excellency Juan Ramon Sanchez-Valdes, First Deputy to the Cardinal Secretary of State. His Excellency gave me to understand that he was entirely satisfied with my, quote, discreet and invaluable intervention, unquote. An official communique to this effect will be forwarded by the Papal Nuncio in due course.’

The Minister rolled over on to his back, hooked his toes under the base of the sofa and started doing sit-ups.

‘And you just wanted me to know that you’re happy as a pig in shit?’

‘No, sir. There’s more.’

‘And better, I hope.’

‘Yes, sir. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes confirmed that Prince Ludovico Ruspanti had been living in the Vatican City State for some weeks prior to his death. Not only that, but a special undercover unit of the Vigilanza Security Service was tapping Ruspanti’s phone and maintaining surveillance on his movements. The implication is that some people at least knew from the beginning that Ruspanti had not committed suicide, and perhaps even knew the identity of his killers.’

That made the Minister sit up, and not just for exercise.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘One of those people was Giovanni Grimaldi, the Vigilanza official who was assigned to Ruspanti on Friday afternoon. He also had access to the transcript of the Prince’s phone calls, which subsequently disappeared. The Curia also have evidence that Grimaldi was the source of the anonymous letter sent to the newspapers on Monday evening.’

‘Bet you’re glad you’re not in his shoes, eh, Zeppo?’

‘Zen, sir. Yes, sir. He’s dead. It was disguised as an accident, but he was murdered, presumably by the people who killed Ruspanti. His Excellency Sanchez-Valdes mentioned that the Vatican was induced to give Ruspanti sanctuary by the promise of information about a secret political conspiracy within the Order of Malta, a group called the Cabal. Nothing more seems to be known about this organization, but the implication must be that it was their agents who faked Ruspanti’s suicide and arranged for Grimaldi to have his fatal accident.’

The door opened and Gino strode in, spick and span in a Valentino suit, reeking of scent, his hair implant cockily bouffant.

‘All yours, Rodolfo.’

The Minister got up heavily. He looked older and moved stiffly.

‘Just a moment, Gino. I won’t be long.’

Gino shrugged casually and left. It was he who looked the winner now. The Minister mechanically towelled away the sweat on his brow and face.

‘Is that all?’ he muttered.

‘Almost,’ nodded Zen. ‘There’s just one more thing. Yesterday I received an anonymous telegram saying that if I wanted to “get these deaths in perspective”, I should go to a certain address on the Aventine. It turned out to be the Palace of Rhodes, the extraterritorial property of the Order of Malta.’

The Minister grimaced contemptuously.

‘So what? Someone saw your name in the paper and decided to have a bit of fun at your expense. Happens all the time.’

‘That’s what I thought at first. But the message referred to “deaths”, plural. At the time it was sent, only one person had died — Ludovico Ruspanti. But the people who sent the telegram already knew that Giovanni Grimaldi would be killed the following day. They’d spent the Monday afternoon making the necessary arrangements. And on the wall of the room where Grimaldi was killed, they’d chalked an eight-pointed Maltese cross.’

The Minister regarded Zen steadily for what seemed like a very long time. All his earlier facetiousness had deserted him.

‘Thank you, dottore,’ he said finally. ‘You did right to keep me informed, and I look forward to receiving your written report in due course.’

He flung his towel over his shoulder and padded off to the bathroom.

‘Can you find your own way out?’

The lift was through the Minister’s office, where Gino was studying a framed portrait photograph of the Minister with Giulio Andreotti. He smiled cynically at Zen.

‘Behold the secret of Rodolfo’s success,’ he said in a stage whisper.

Zen paused and looked up at the large photograph, which hung in pride of place above the Minister’s desk. Both politicians were in formal morning dress. Both looked smug, solid, utterly sure of themselves. Beneath their white bow-ties, both wore embroidered bands from which hung a prominent gilt pendant incorporating the eight-pointed cross of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta.

‘With Big Ears by his side,’ Gino explained, ‘he’ll go all the way.’

‘And how far is that?’ asked Zen.

Gino stabbed the outer fingers of his right hand at the photograph in the gesture used to ward off evil.

‘All the way to hell!’

The lift seemed to have a mind of its own that day. Zen was sure that he had pushed the right button, but when the doors slid apart the scene which greeted him was very different from what he had expected. Instead of the polished marble and elegant appointments of the Criminalpol offices on the third floor, he found himself in a cavernous hangar, ill-lit and foul-smelling. The oppressively low ceiling, like the squat rectangular pillars that supported it, was of bare concrete. The air was filled with a haze of black fumes and a continuous dull rumbling.

‘What can I do for you, dotto?’

A dwarf-like figure materialized at Zen’s elbow. The empty right sleeve of his jacket, flattened and neatly folded, was pinned back to the shoulder. The face, shrivelled and deeply lined, expressed a readiness to perform minor miracles and cut-price magic of all kinds.

‘Oh, Salvato!’ Zen replied.

‘Don’t tell me. You couldn’t get through on the phone.’

Salvatore ejected an impressive gob of spittle which landed on the concrete with a loud splat.

‘I had your boss Moscati down here the other day. Salvato, he says, I’ve been on the phone half an hour trying to get through, finally I decided it was quicker to come down in person.’

He waved his hand expressively.

‘But what can I do? All I’ve got is one phone. One phone for the whole Ministry to book rides, dotto! You need a switchboard down here, Moscati says to me. Don’t even think about it, I tell him. Look at the switchboard upstairs. The girls are so busy selling cosmetics and junk jewellery on the side that you can’t get through at all!’

They both laughed.

‘Where to, dotto?’ asked Salvatore, resuming his air of professional harassment.

Zen was about to confess his mistake, or rather the lift’s, when an idea sprang fully-formed into his mind.

‘Any chance of a one-way to Fiumicino in about half an hour?’

Salvatore frowned, as he always did. Then an almost incredulous smile spread slowly across his face.

‘You’re in luck, dotto!’

He pointed across the garage towards the source of the rumbling noise. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, Zen could just make out a blue saloon with its bonnet open. A man in overalls was bent over the engine while another sat behind the wheel with his foot on the accelerator.

‘We’ve been having a spot of trouble with that one,’ Salvatore explained, ‘but it’s almost sorted out now. It’s the grace of God, dotto. Normally I’d have been a bit pushed to come up with a vehicle at such short notice.’

This was an understatement. The real point of the joke at which Salvatore and Zen had laughed a moment before was that the garage phone was largely tied up by the demands of the private limousine service which Salvatore and his drivers had organized. Their rates were not the lowest in Rome, but they had the edge over the competition in being able to penetrate to any part of the city, including those officially closed to motor vehicles. For a special rate, they could even lay on a police motorcycle escort to clear a lane through the Roman traffic. This was a boon to the wealthy and self-important, and was frequently used by businessmen wishing to impress clients from out of town, but it did have the effect of drastically restricting use of the pool by Ministry staff.

‘The airport in half an hour?’ beamed Salvatore. ‘No problem!’

‘Not the airport,’ Zen corrected as he stepped back into the lift. ‘The town of Fiumicino.’

In the Criminalpol suite on the third floor, Zen flipped through the items in his in-tray. It was the first time he had been into work since Friday, so there was quite a pile. Holding the stack of papers, envelopes and folders in his left hand, he dealt them swiftly into three piles: those to throw away now; those to throw away later, after noting the single relevant fact, date or time; and those to place in his out-tray, having ticked the box indicating that he had read the contents from cover to cover.

‘Dominus vobiscum,’ a voice intoned fruitily.

Zen looked up from an internal memorandum reading ‘Please call 645 9866 at lunchtime and ask for Simonelli.’ Giorgio De Angelis was looking round the edge of the hessian-covered screen which divided off their respective working areas.

‘According to the media, you’re dangerously ill with a rare infectious virus,’ the Calabrian went on, ‘so I won’t come any closer. This miraculous recovery is just one of the perks of working for the pope, I suppose. Pick up thy bed and walk and so on. How did you swing it, anyway? They say you can’t even get a cleaning job in the Vatican these days unless you have Polish blood.’

For some time after his transfer to Criminalpol, Zen had been slightly suspicious of De Angelis, fearing that his apparent bonhomie might be a strategy designed to elicit compromising admissions or disclosures. The promotion of Zen’s enemy Vincenzo Fabri to the post of Questore of Ferrara, combined with Zen’s coup in solving the Burolo affair to the satisfaction of the various political interests involved, had changed all that. With his position in the department no longer under direct threat, Zen was at last able to appreciate Giorgio De Angelis’s jovial good-humour without scanning everything he said for hidden meanings.

The Calabrian produced a newspaper article which quoted Zen as ‘reaffirming that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death of Ludovico Ruspanti’ and dismissing the allegations in the anonymous letter as ‘mischievous and ill-informed’.

‘Impressive prose for a man with a high fever,’ he commented, running his fingers through the babyish fuzz which was all that now grew on the impressive expanses of his skull. ‘I particularly liked the homage to our own dear Marcelli.’

Zen smiled wryly. The phrase ‘mischievous and ill-informed rumours’ was a favourite of the Ministerial under-secretary in question, who had almost certainly penned the statement.

‘But seriously, Aurelio, what really happened? Is there any truth in these allegations that Ruspanti was murdered?’

Catching the eager glint in De Angelis’s eyes, Zen realized he was going to have to come up with a story to peddle round the department. At least half the fun of working there was the conversational advantage it gave you with your relatives and friends. Whether you spoke or kept silent, it was assumed that you were in the know. As soon as his colleagues discovered that Zen was no longer ‘ill’, they were all going to want him to fill them in on the Ruspanti affair.

‘Who’s to say it was Ruspanti?’ he replied.

De Angelis goggled at him.

‘You mean…’

Zen shrugged.

‘I saw the body, Giorgio. It looked like it had been through a food processor. I’d be prepared to testify that it was human, and probably male, but I wouldn’t go any further under oath.’

‘Can’t they tell from the dental records?’

Zen nodded.

‘Which may be why the body was handed over to the family before anyone had a chance. The funeral’s being held this afternoon.’

De Angelis gave a low whistle.

‘But why?’

‘Ruspanti was broke and had this currency fraud hanging over him. He needed time to organize his affairs and play his political cards. So he decided to fake his own death.’

De Angelis nodded, wide-eyed at the sheer ingenuity of the thing.

‘So who died in St Peter’s?’ he asked.

‘We’ll never know. You’d need a personal intervention by Wojtyla to get an exhumation order now. It was probably someone you’ve never heard of.’

De Angelis shook his head with knowing superiority.

‘More likely a person of the very highest importance, someone they needed to get out of the way.’

Zen gestured loosely, conceding that this too was possible.

‘Let’s talk about it over lunch,’ the Calabrian suggested eagerly.

‘Sorry, Giorgio, not today. I’ve already got an appointment. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a phone call.’

As his colleague left to circulate the true story behind the Ruspanti affair through the department, Zen pulled the phone over and dialled the number written on the message form.

‘Hotel Torlonia Palace.’

The calm, deep voice was in marked contrast to the usual Roman squawk which hovered as though by an effort of will on the brink of screaming hysteria. Zen had never heard of the Hotel Torlonia Palace, but he already knew that you wouldn’t be able to get a room there for less than a quarter of a million lire a night.

‘May I speak to Dottor Simonelli, please.’

‘One moment.’

After a brief silence, a male voice with a distinct reedy timbre came on the line.

‘Yes?’

‘This is Vice-Questore Aurelio Zen, at the Interior Ministry. I received a message…’

‘That is correct. I am Antonio Simonelli, investigating magistrate with the Procura of Milan. Am I right in thinking that we’ve been in contact before?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Ah,’ the voice replied. ‘I must have confused you with someone else. Anyway, I was hoping it would be possible for us to meet. I have some questions I wish to ask you relative to my investigations. Could you call on me this afternoon?’

Although his heart sank, Zen knew that this was one more hurdle he was going to have to go through. They made an appointment to meet at four o’clock in the lobby of the hotel. Zen hung up with a massive sigh and hastened downstairs to find Tania. This damned case was a hydra! No sooner had he seen off the Vatican, the Minister and an inquisitive colleague than up popped some judge from Milan.

Of all the offices in the building, those occupied by the Administration department most clearly betrayed the Ministry’s Fascist birthright: a warren of identical hutches, each containing six identical desks disposed in the same symmetrical order. Tania shared her cubicle with three other women and two men, both of whom had unwittingly been auditioned by Zen for the part of her mysterious lover. But their voices didn’t match the one he had heard on the phone, and besides, he doubted whether Tania would have gone for either the fat, balding father-of-three or his neighbour, the neurotic obsessive with bad breath. He doubted, but he couldn’t be sure. You could never tell with women. She had gone for him after all. With taste like that, who could tell what she might stoop to next?

Tania was talking on the phone when he walked in. As soon as she caught sight of Zen, a furtive air came over her. Shielding her mouth with one hand, she spoke urgently into the phone as he strode towards her. All he could make out before she hung up was ‘I’ll speak to you later,’ but it was enough. The form of the verb was familiar, her tone conspiratorial.

‘Who was that?’ he demanded.

‘Oh, just a relative.’

She actually blushed. Zen let it go, out of self-interest rather than magnanimity. What with the stresses and strains of the morning, and those that loomed later in the afternoon, he needed an interval of serenity. In a way it didn’t even seem to matter that her love was all a fake. If she was making use of him, then he would make use of her. That way they were quits.

He stared at the computer screen on the desk, which displayed a list of names and addresses, many of them in foreign countries. Surely they couldn’t all be her lovers? Tania depressed a key and the screen reverted to the READY display.

‘Shall we go?’ she asked.

But Zen continued to gaze at the screen. After a moment he pressed one of the function keys, selecting the SEARCH option. SUBJECT? queried the screen. Zen typed ‘Malta/Knights’. The screen went into a brief coma

before producing two lines of print: SOVEREIGN MILITARY ORDER OF MALTA/KNIGHTS OF MALTA/KNIGHTS OF ST JOHN OF JERUSALEM/KNIGHTS HOSPITALLERS: 1 FILE (S); 583 INSTANCE (S).

‘What does that mean?’ he asked Tania.

She surveyed the screen with the impatience of a professional aware of the value of her time.

‘It means, first of all, that these people evidently can’t make up their minds what to call themselves, so they are referred to under four different titles. The database holds one report specifically dedicated to this organization. There are also five hundred plus references in other files.’

‘What sort of references?’

Tania’s swift, competent fingers rattled the keyboard with panache. AUTHORIZATION? appeared. ZEN, she typed. Again the screen faltered briefly, then filled with text which proved to be an extract from the Ministry’s file on a Turin businessman who had been convicted of involvement in a local government corruption scandal in the early eighties. The reference Zen had requested was picked out by the cursor: ‘Member of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta since 1964 with rank of Knight of Magisterial Grace.’

That sort of thing was apparently all there was, at least in the open files. He got Tania to run him off a copy of the report on the Knights of Malta, even though he knew that anything really worth knowing would be held in the ‘closed’ section of the database, accessible only with special authorization restricted to a handful of senior staff. The files stored there supposedly detailed the financial status, professional and political allegiances, family situation and sexual predelictions of almost fourteen million Italian citizens. Like everyone else, Zen had often wondered what his own entry contained. Was his connection with Tania included by now? Presumably, judging by Moscati’s mocking remarks. How much more did they know? Reading such an entry would be like seeing a copy of your own obituary, and just as difficult.