Medusa

XX

Two days later, shortly after seven o’clock in the morning, Aurelio Zen stepped out of the front door of the apartment that he shared with Gemma Santini and ran lightly downstairs and out into the hazy sunlight, heading for the Piazza del’ Anfiteatro. It was a short walk to the archway into the oval space that never failed to move him at any hour of the day or night, its perfect proportions balanced by the variegated facade of medieval houses quarried out of and built on to the original Roman walls.

The only cafe open offered La Nazione, La Stampa and La Gazzetta dello Sport by way of national newspapers. Lucca was the inverse of San Giorgio di Valpolicella, a ‘white’ town in the midst of traditionally Communist Tuscany. Zen ordered a double espresso and glanced through the first two papers, but there was no reference to the matter in which he was interested. Nor had there been a word about it on the news he had listened to before leaving the apartment. It had of course occurred to him that this might well not work out. It was like patience, the only game Zen enjoyed playing, apart from professional ones. Sometimes the cards came out right, sometimes they didn’t. All you could do was to arrange them as best you could and leave the rest to chance.

He had arranged the cards he had been holding as best he could during the intervening days. After locating Guerrazzi’s car, he and Gabriele Passarini had driven in tandem up the A21 to Brescia, where Zen had parked on a side street in one of the tough borgate on the fringes of the city. He had left the key in the ignition and the window open. The vehicle would be stolen within hours, if not minutes. He had then taken over the wheel of the rental car from Passarini and driven to Milan, dropping his passenger off at a metro stop in the suburbs before proceeding to one of the ubiquitous Jolly Hotels, where he had rented himself a hutch for the night and gone straight to sleep. But only for a few hours. There was still work to be done, and no time to be lost.

He awoke around three, and spent much of the morning composing and correcting a total of six drafts of text on his notepad. Then he checked out, drove to Linate airport and returned the rental car. From there it was a forty-five-minute cab ride to the central Questura, where he identified himself and requested the use of a photocopier and an office with a secure telephone and a typewriter. The latter item of obsolete technology initially proved to be a problem, but in the end someone located a functioning model in the basement. Zen then prepared the document, and contacted the recipient about arrangements for handing it over. By early evening he was back in Lucca, in good time for the dinner of bean soup and a massive fiorentina steak that Gemma had prepared.

But now was the moment of truth. He told the barman that he would be back in a moment and went outside. At the corner of the main street beyond the piazza was a newsagent’s kiosk. Zen bought La Repubblica and Il Manifesto and returned to the cafe without even glancing at the headlines. His coffee was still steaming on the bar. Zen took it over to one of the more remote tables together with the papers he had bought.

There had been nothing to worry about. La Repubblica had not only printed Luca Brandelli’s piece, it had done him proud. There was a panel headline and brief introduction on the front cover, with the full story in the ‘ Politica Interna ’ sec¬ tion as well as a typically mordant editorial on the subject by Eugenio Scalfari.

The main article was a two-page spread featuring photographs of the signed statement that Zen had typed above Guerrazzi’s signature at the Questura in Milan and of the photocopy he had taken of the colonel’s SISMI identification card, accompanied by a full transcript of the text which Zen had concocted earlier at the Jolly Hotel. This was basically an edited version of the account of Leonardo Ferrero’s murder that Alberto Guerrazzi had given at the cascina, omitting all mention of Gabriele Passarini but stressing the involvement of the late Nestore Soldani, alias Nestor Machado Solorzano, of the even later Gaetano Comai, and above all the crucial significance of the Operation Medusa conspiracy. Alberto Guerrazzi admitted his own full responsibility for Ferrero’s death, which he now deeply regretted, but argued that he had acted in the best interests of the country as he had perceived them at the time. He further stated that following the recent discovery of Ferrero’s body he had realized that it was only a matter of time before the truth came out, and that he preferred to avoid the shame and scandal that would inevitably follow by leaving the country for some time.

The rest of the article consisted of Brandelli’s lengthy and subtly self-inflating commentary. The document, he claimed, had appeared in his letter-box the day before. He had no idea as to its provenance, but sources at SISMI had apparently indicated on condition of anonymity that the signature was indeed that of Colonel Alberto Guerrazzi. What he did know was that Leonardo Ferrero had approached him over thirty years earlier, at the time of the events described in the document, and indicated the existence of a clandestine military organization known as Medusa. His informant had then disappeared before being able to furnish further details.

Brandelli went on to give a colourful and detailed account of his original meeting with Ferrero, including much retrospectively corroborative material that he had not mentioned to Zen and had quite possibly invented. He also noted that the conspiracy described in Guerrazzi’s statement accorded fully with what was now known of other similar organizations of the period, and further remarked upon the fact that Nestore Soldani had been murdered in a car bomb explosion near his home in Campione d’Italia a few days after the discovery of Ferrero’s body. He did not directly speculate on the identity of the latter’s killers, but the implications were clear. As for Alberto Guerrazzi, all Brandelli’s attempts to reach him had failed and his whereabouts appeared to be unknown even to his most intimate colleagues. The reader was left to draw his own conclusions.

Zen paid for his coffee, walked around to the bakery that he and Gemma favoured and ordered an assortment of goodies which they boxed up for him. No wonder there had been nothing in the other papers or on the radio or TV. La Repubblica had understandably wanted to keep this exclusive scoop secret until its own edition hit the streets. But by lunchtime it would be one of the top news stories in the country.

When Zen delivered the faked statement to Luca Brandelli, he had assured the journalist that Guerrazzi’s signature was genuine and that the text represented a fair summary of his views, all of which was substantially true. He had however declined to say anything about how he had obtained the document, implying that the interests involved were so powerful and the situation so dangerous that such knowledge would compromise both of them. This too was substantially true. Given Brandelli’s reputation as a fearless investigative journalist whose livelihood depended on protecting his sources, there seemed every reason to suppose that he would do so in this case. As for Gabriele Passarini, Zen felt reasonably sure that his discretion and common sense could be counted on.

There had been little talk between the two men during the drive from Brescia back to Milan, but as they neared their destination Passarini had finally broken the silence.

‘There’s something Leonardo said once that I’ve never understood.’

Zen knew that his companion wanted to be prompted, but he was too exhausted to bother. In the end they drove on for another two kilometres before Passarini continued of his own volition.

‘When we were told about Operation Medusa…’

Another breakdown, another kilometre.

‘I asked Leonardo why they had given it that name. He said that Colonel Comai had told him that it was based on the bronze statue by Cellini in Florence, a flattering justification of the autocratic rule of the Medici family, Cellini’s patrons. The snakes that were Medusa’s hair symbolized the squabbling factions of Guelphs and Ghibellines which had brought Florentine democracy to its knees, but had now been eradicated by the Medicis’ tyranny, symbolized in turn by Perseus’s single sharp sword blow severing the Gorgon’s head. I could see the parallel with the situation here in Italy in the seventies, but then…’

More silence, this time for two kilometres.

‘Then Leonardo said something very strange, something I’ve never forgotten but never understood. He said, “Every woman is Medusa. When you look into her eyes, you see the entire history of the human race. That’s enough to turn anyone to stone.”’

Halfway back to the house, Zen’s telefonino shrilled. It was probably Gemma, he thought, wondering aloud in her charm¬ ingly stroppy way how much longer she would have to wait for her breakfast. But he was wrong.

‘This is Brugnoli. You’ve seen La Repubblica?’

‘I glanced at it.’

And then the question Zen had been dreading.

‘Did you by any chance have anything to do with this?’

‘Well, to an extent. The wheels were already turning, but I gave them the odd push here and there. Let’s say that I acted as a “facilitator”. Like you, Dottor Brugnoli, if you’ll forgive the comparison.’

To Zen’s surprise and relief, his superior laughed quietly.

‘On the contrary! If there’s any comparison to be drawn, it’s I who should feel flattered by it. For obvious reasons, I’m not going to ask what you did or how you did it, Zen, but let me assure you that the powers that be here at the Ministry are well pleased with the outcome. Our neighbours up the street are going to be covered in shit of the deepest hue for the foreseeable future, and no matter what specious excuses, denials and cover stories they come up with, a lot of it is going to stick. In short, you’re a star. Take the rest of the month off, keep your head down and needless to say don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. Speaking of which, in response to your request, some of our technical people called in to do an electronic sweep of the apartment that you share with Signora Santini. She was away at the time and is unaware of the intrusion. The whole place had been bugged up one side and down the other. Anyway, that’s all taken care of now and you can resume your normal life until further notice. And once again, congratulations.’

Zen walked back along the deserted street. From a government building opposite the national flag was flying at half- mast in honour of a politician of former notoriety who had died the day before. Zen regarded it with an irony not unmixed with pride. I too have done my duty, he thought.

Gemma was prowling around the kitchen in a silk dressing- gown which Zen had bought her shortly after moving in.

‘God, that took long enough!’ she said with mild exasperation, opening the box of pastries. ‘Never mind. The milk’s still warm and I’ll make another pot of coffee. Oh, I forgot to tell you, that friend of yours came round.’

‘What friend?’

‘Some Sardinian name.’

‘Gilberto Nieddu?’

‘That’s him. He sent me an email saying that he was going to be in the area and could he drop by. I told him you were away, but he said he wanted to see me. It turns out that he’s importing generic copies of patented medicines manufactured illegally in India and the Far East, repackaging them here to resemble the original and then offering them to pharmacists at a large discount to pass off as the full-price brand- name product.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘No, basically. It was a bit awkward, what with him being your friend and all. But I’m doing all right as it is, and I just want to feel decent, you know?’

‘I certainly do.’

‘Anyway, tell me all about this case you’ve been working on up north. I didn’t ask last night. You were just too tired.’

Zen grimaced.

‘There’s really nothing much to say. Just a nasty little domestic drama of no significance. The wife had an affair, the husband found out and killed the lover, then the wife found out about that and killed the husband.’

‘How sordid.’

‘Exactly. But who cares? It’s got nothing to do with us.’

He kissed her on the lips.

‘I love you madly.’

‘ Carissimo! And I love you sanely. A winning combination, don’t you think?’

Zen kissed her again as the coffee started to gurgle up into the pot. He smiled for what felt like the first time in days.

‘It could be worse,’ he said. ‘It could be a lot worse.’