The Absolution Page 23

  “Pisa has a drugs problem?”

  “Everywhere in Italy has a drugs problem. But tell me, what are you doing here? Last I heard, you were at college in America.”

  “I live in Vicenza now.” Holly explained that she’d followed her father into the military. “It was our dads I wanted to talk about, actually. I’m looking into that period when . . . when all the bad stuff happened.”

  “Why?” Livia said bluntly. Leading Holly to a small playground, she pulled out a packet of cigarettes.

  In the vaguest terms, Holly explained that she was considering the possibility both men had been put in danger because of their involvement with the Masons. “I know your father died in a car crash, but I’m just wondering – was there anything suspicious about the circumstances?”

  Livia laughed hollowly. “You could say that.”

  “In what way?”

  “My mother told everyone it was a car crash because that’s what she wanted us children to think. But before she died, she admitted to me that wasn’t actually what happened. Papà was found with his throat cut, on the beach at Tirrenia.”

  Holly stared at her. It was too similar to the way Kat’s victim had been found to be a coincidence.

  “She wanted to protect us from the truth, but I think she also felt it was something to keep quiet about. So she pretended it was just a traffic accident.”

  “But he was definitely a Freemason?”

  Livia nodded. “I found some of that weird regalia they wear when I was clearing out my parents’ stuff.”

  “You still live in the same apartment, then?”

  Livia exhaled smoke. “Yes. 87A. Why?”

  “I have an idea that my father was keeping some kind of record or notes, some evidence of what he and your dad discovered. Could we take a look at your apartment? Just in case it’s there, and you never spotted it?”

  Livia shrugged. “If you like. Come by in an hour, and we’ll have some lunch as well.”

  If Holly had been there for a different reason, having lunch at Livia’s apartment would have been a fun occasion. She’d forgotten the Pisanese’s amazing ability to throw food together for an impromptu meal. Yesterday’s bread, torn into chunks and sprinkled with water, and a couple of roughly chopped tomatoes sprinkled with salt and oil from an unmarked bottle and garnished with basil leaves, turned into a panzanella salad, while the fridge yielded a thin booklet of greaseproof paper which unfolded to reveal a dozen slices of prosciutto crudo. There was red wine too, of course: Sangiovese, also from an unmarked bottle. Livia said she got both that and the olive oil filled up by the tobacconist down the street. “I don’t ask where it comes from. It’s a state secret. But it’s always excellent.”

  As they ate, they caught up on old times. Most of Holly’s old classmates, it turned out, were still living in or around Pisa. “Alessia Abbado’s gay now, she’s living with a female fitness instructor. Tiziano and Elide got married. And Tomas Mazzi and Sofia Trentino were together for five years, then he went off with an Australian divorcee.” Not for the first time, Holly found herself wondering what her life would be like now if she’d stayed here instead of joining the US Army. She’d thought that by coming back to Italy she was coming home, but the truth was that to the Pisanese, anywhere outside Tuscany was still a foreign country.

  “So what is it we’re looking for?” Livia said at last. “A shoebox? A file? A trunk of papers?”

  “I don’t know,” Holly confessed. “At a guess, some kind of folder or notebook. But it could be anything.”

  “OK,” Livia said dubiously. “There are a couple of places we could try.”

  The apartment was so small that after twenty minutes they’d exhausted all of them.

  “What happened to the picture that used to hang just here?” Holly asked, pointing at an alcove.

  “We had a burglary. They didn’t take much, but everything got broken.”

  “When was this?”

  Livia thought back. “It must have been soon after Papà died. I remember because they took some of his things – Mamma was really upset.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Personal stuff from his desk, I think she said. I don’t really remember—” She broke off. “You think it could have been connected?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s a coincidence, isn’t it? He’s killed – then the apartment gets broken into?”

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

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

  FORTY-SIX

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

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

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

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

  The other man only grunted.

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

  “Is that wise?”

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

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

  “No accidents,” Gilroy insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  FORTY-SEVEN

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

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

  “So you’ve come at last.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “So . . .?”

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

  “What will you do now?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “It certainly looks that way.”

  “By who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  FORTY-EIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Her ears pricked up. “All what?”

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

  “Tapes? What tapes?”

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

  “And that was when he started drinking?”

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

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

  “Not that I know of.”

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

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

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

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

  “Decide what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What, Mom?”

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

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

  FORTY-NINE

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

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

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