Antonio savelli shut the laptop, his face ashen, and leaned back in the armchair. He closed his eyes. The fire had almost died out, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t even try stoking it, one of his favourite activities.
Canessa stood up and added some more wood. The Beretta was dangling from his finger, and he twirled it like a gunslinger. Savelli was hypnotised by the movement, and he pondered what he had just seen, the horror of that video. He felt drained, and he didn’t know what to say, or above all, what to do. Something inside him had broken – his trust in people, his love for the law, his self-confidence. He knew, in that moment, that he would never be the same. And yet, he was still fighting, with every fibre of his being, against the import of that recording, against all the evidence: his right-hand man, his star pupil was nothing more than a miserable accomplice to murder. A petty man who had condemned a friend to death in order to take his wife – in his mind, one of the worst justifications for a criminal act. An act, he noted, that had not achieved its intent. 388
‘This is meaningless. It could’ve been set up by anyone. We can’t determine its origin, we don’t know how or by whom it was recorded.’ He was talking to himself more than to Canessa, without realising – or intentionally ignoring – that Petri had explicitly stated that he’d set up the camera.
Annibale, meanwhile, was playing with the poker as he put more wood on the embers. He sat down calmly. The fire crackled, the flames rose. It was cold, even though the storm had passed. The rain still pattered on the windows, but it was nowhere near as violent as earlier. It had all blown over.
‘I know. It’s not easy to believe. Not even after multiple viewings. It took me some time too. But the DVD hasn’t been tampered with, and we have the VHS, the original source of Petri’s recording. Plus, there’s the priest’s testimony and the original claim, which was typed on a machine from the courts. A detail that was never revealed, but has since been proven.’
Canessa was talking very casually, his voice low and without anger, as if he didn’t really care whether Savelli understood and accepted what he was telling him or not. As if, for him, the whole affair was over and done with.
Savelli was about to say something, but thought better of it and kept quiet. After a few minutes, he spoke.
‘What do you want?’
‘What do I want? Actually, it’s what do you want. I have handed you clear evidence of a conspiracy that has been going on for the past forty years. Salemme, while we’re at it, was also the one who sentenced my brother to jail for no reason. Or rather, no legal reason, but with a clear motive: to stop Petri from talking to me back then. Who knows, maybe we could have avoided all these deaths.’
Savelli shook his head, still resisting. ‘This is all conjecture, 389 and the evidence has been obtained in a fraudulent manner. It could have been manipulated. We need to verify, to guarantee…’
Annibale interrupted him.
‘C’mon, you’ve sent people to prison for much less, and without any regard for constitutional protection.’
Canessa sat studying Savelli. He had expected his reluctance. He trusted in his honesty and integrity as chief of the judiciary branch in Milan, but he also knew of his ties to Federico Astroni and could sense his turmoil. Savelli was held back by his friendship with a colleague and fear of the repercussions on Milan’s courts and the magistrature in general. What Calandra had told Canessa about the conflict between the political and judicial factions now hit him. The Secret Service magistrate was a real devil, and he’d been right about this scandal, maybe even knew something about it. But it didn’t make any difference. The evidence, the hard facts were there. And Canessa fully understood why Savelli might find it difficult to accept.
‘You asked me what I want. I’ll tell you. You see, I’ve never seen myself the way people have portrayed me – as a hero. I fought a dirty war – any civil war is the same. You’re well aware of the methods we used back then on both sides. I’ve done many things I’m not proud of. But they were things that had to be done. That’s it. The difference for me was never between right and wrong, moral or immoral – the lines are too blurry – but between nothingness and reality, things that are and things that aren’t. Between things you shouldn’t do, and things that must be done.’
Savelli was watching him, curious. ‘That’s a strange way of looking at the law.’
‘No. It’s the only way. Reality has always dictated my choices. It still does. There’s a fact, a piece of evidence. At this moment in 390 time, the fact is that this story has come to an end. Now, I’m offering you the chance to bring it to a full close using your criterion, meaning: according to the rule of law.’
‘I seem to understand that you do not share that criterion, in which case…’
Canessa leaned over the table, took the DVD out of the laptop and put it in its case. He slipped the laptop into his bag, and pulled out a brown envelope. He placed the DVD in the envelope and put it on the table. He looked at Savelli.
‘Everything is in here, including the VHS. Every piece of evidence. There are copies, of course, but the originals are in here.’
He picked up his bag and threw it over his shoulder.
‘You still haven’t told me how you came in, and how you’ll be leaving.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘And you trust me with all this? I could destroy the evidence,’
Savelli said, looking at the envelope and then at the fireplace, where the flames burned fiercely. ‘Your copies might not be enough. Or I could rule that the evidence is insufficient, an option I’m seriously considering.’
Canessa gave him a wry smile.
‘You could, true. But can you afford to?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘This story needs an ending, your honour, in one way or another. And if you can’t end it, I will. You think you know me. You think, once a Carabiniere, always a Carabiniere, and therefore a servant of the law. It’s true, I do still feel like a Carabiniere, but don’t judge me according to your way of thinking. I have already shown you what I’m capable of, but I’d prefer a legitimate conclusion, in legal terms, and that, as I’ve already explained, is why I came to 391 you.’ He pulled a photo and some folded papers out of his jacket and placed them next to the envelope. ‘It’s better for you to do what has to be done. No preferential treatment, no discounts, no mercy, even if a friend is involved, a colleague. I want the total package, the one reserved for the people you hate or the powerful politicians you investigate. Handcuffs, media circus, prison. Much better than letting me have the final word, I can assure you.’
Savelli looked at the photo and the papers.
‘Who’s that? What does he have to do with all this?’
Canessa brought a hand to his side.
‘Read the papers I’ve just given you. It makes for informative reading. You’ll understand why it’s better for me not to have the final word on the Lazzarini-Petri case.’
Savelli started reading. Two lines later, he looked up to say something, but Canessa had vanished. He ran to the window and opened it. The garden was empty, the dock abandoned. The storm had passed, the rain had stopped. There was a gentle wind, and a patch of clear sky appearing between the clouds to the east. The lake had calmed down, too. In spite of the cold night air, Savelli stood outside under the portico for at least half an hour, watching the lake.
Shortly after Savelli’s return to his living room, a dark shape emerged from the water on the opposite shore of Lake Maggiore.
Stealthily, Canessa moved towards the shore, switched off his mini-sub and pulled it on land, carrying it quickly to the boot of the SsangYong SUV that Rossi had procured for the operation. He removed his wetsuit, dried off with a hair-dryer from the car and put on a dark tracksuit. After a long drink from a thermos of tea, he finally grabbed his satellite phone and called Repetto.
‘So?’ the marshal immediately asked. 392
‘All said and done. Now it’s up to him.’
‘What if he does nothing?’
‘Then we’ll do what we know how to do best.’
Canessa hung up, got in the car, and headed for Milan.
Savelli made himself some toast, opened a beer, and went back to his armchair. It was past two in the morning. The silence was deafening; he couldn’t hear himself think. But even if he had been able to think, it wouldn’t have amounted to much. Canessa’s message was clear, as was his evidence. There was little to debate. Milan’s public prosecutor finished his toast and his beer, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, picked up his mobile phone and dialled.
A sleepy voice replied.
‘Yes, it’s me. I apologise for the time, but I need you for a delicate matter. I’m at the lake, but I’m heading back to Milan. I’ll be at the office at three. See you there.’
Savelli hung up. He’d started doing what Canessa wanted… It wasn’t only Canessa who demanded it, but logic and justice. Maybe the actual end would come before dawn. With all the pain it would entail.
As Canessa said, however, it was something that had to be done.
Giannino Salemme was a heavy sleeper, with the audacity to call his ‘the sleep of the just’. Even on this occasion, he came to with great difficulty. The noise that had woken him came from a great distance. Or that’s what it sounded like, anyway. 393
The lawyer sat up in bed like a robot, his senses still dormant. No, he wasn’t dreaming. Someone was knocking – or were they banging on the floor? Suddenly he was very much awake.
The noise stopped. He smoothed his silk pyjamas – the comfiest outfit he owned – and took a sip of water from the glass on his bedside table. He looked at the time: 5 a.m. Almost daybreak. He was still pondering the origin of the noise when his bedroom door burst open and he found himself face to face with four people and four guns.
‘Police!’
‘Hands over your head!’
‘Quickly!’
‘Hands up!’
Salemme looked at them in shock, still holding fast to his glass. They had on bulletproof vests and their badges hung round their necks. Maybe it was his glazed look or his early morning stubble, but the men gradually lowered their weapons. One went up to him and gently took the glass from his hand, setting it back down on the table. Then he invited him to stand up.
‘Come with us. You’re under arrest.’
The police officer pulled out a set of handcuffs and glanced at one of his colleagues. The other officer shook his head. Despite orders, they were still dealing with an old man in shock, and he might have another shock soon. They didn’t want him collapsing on them.
‘Please get dressed.’
Salemme took his time. He was tired, and then there was the brusque wake-up call, the drinks last night… He was trying to gather his wits, but it wasn’t easy with all those police staring at him. He was being arrested, most likely because of the Petri 394 case. Maybe Claudio had been right. He should have stayed in the States and gone somewhere else from there. But maybe they didn’t have that much on him. Maybe he could still figure something out.
He finished getting dressed and walked out into the corridor with the police. He’d started thinking like Giannino Salemme again: the man who had never been put in a corner. He was just about to say something to restore his reputation when he saw his son’s body on the ground by the kitchen door.
Salemme suddenly felt weak, and had to lean against the wall. There were four bullet holes in Claudio’s loose white shirt, and a pool of blood was seeping from his body. The officer behind him reached out to support him, but Salemme pulled his arm away.
‘You bastards! You killed him,’ he said in a strangled voice.
The police officers looked at him, some with pity, some with distaste.
‘He asked for it. He was the bastard.’
A man stepped forward: Silvestrin, chief of Milan’s rapid response team. Salemme knew him. He’d once successfully defended a killer and let him go, ridiculing Silvestrin for the loss of all evidence against the man – a situation Salemme had orchestrated by bribing one of the clerks. Now he was savouring his revenge, Salemme thought bitterly.
Silvestrin dragged him away from the wall and pushed him towards the corridor leading to Claudio’s personal entrance. ‘Look.’
On the ground was a man with a hole in the middle of his forehead. Another was being moved onto a stretcher.
‘That man down there was serving the State, just doing his job. He had a family. What the fuck was your imbecile of a son 395 doing with a gun? Where the hell did he think he could go? Piece of shit!’
Salemme reverted to being the old man he was underneath it all. But Silvestrin wasn’t the least bit moved. He’d clocked his team’s compassionate attitude, and he turned to them next.
‘Don’t be fooled! This man is a criminal, a venomous snake. Cuff him now!’
‘It’s hard to believe, but I’m glad this story has come to an end, one way or another.’
Federico Astroni had slept a couple of hours – peacefully, considering the circumstances. Before bed the previous night, he’d read an interesting essay on Robespierre, thinking that there were some interesting parallels between himself and the main protagonist during the Reign of Terror. He’d then got up at 5 a.m. to work on the forthcoming trial and to wash and shave. Quite a figure, he thought of himself, just as someone rang the doorbell. One of the Carabinieri from his security detail? He looked out of the window to the spot were his ‘guardian angels’ always parked. The car was there and Astroni could see a couple of people looking at a sheet of paper. What were they up to?
The doorbell’s shrill sound again… He was hoping he’d just imagined it the first time. Maybe it was part of a dream he hadn’t quite shaken off…
But no. It rang a third time.
‘Yes?’ Astroni answered.
‘Federico, please let me in.’ 396
‘Antonio?’
Astroni’s surprise lasted less than a second. He went to unlock his door. A few minutes, and the cranky old lift rattled its way up and stopped at his floor. Savelli stepped out, followed by Virgili, the head of the criminal investigation department. Virgili stopped at the door, holding it open for Savelli, and Astroni noticed the look the two exchanged.
‘It won’t be necessary,’ Savelli said when Virgili made to follow them inside.
Savelli and Astroni sat across from each other in the living room. How many times had they done so on the eve of a crucial trial or an arrest that would raise a storm? After one of their many victories or rare defeats, to celebrate or simply to enjoy one another’s company? Savelli liked coming here at all times of day or night – though, admittedly, he had never shown up at this hour before. He’d sit surrounded by the Milanese furniture – the wood, glass, mirrors, and rugs… That solid sense of bourgeois progress. He was from a small village in southern Italy, but he’d started coming to the house when Federico’s mother was still alive. He always sat in the same armchair so he could admire the Boccioni painting, bought directly from the artist by Astroni’s grandfather. Both Astroni and Savelli loved it.
Savelli looked straight at Astroni. He’d been tense and distracted in recent weeks, Savelli now remembered. But above all, he’d been obsessed with the hunt for Canessa, pushing the idea of drug-trafficking as the motive behind the entire string of deaths, from Petri to Alfridi and the Camorra killers. Astroni had also contributed to the framing.
His own resistance to Canessa suddenly crumbled. It wasn’t just what he’d heard Astroni say; there was a solid logic to the route 397 Canessa had taken and which he too could now see as a straight line. Everything Canessa had maintained, everything he’d discovered had gained a concrete reality that could not be demolished.
‘Antonio, are you there?’
Savelli snapped out of his reverie.
‘Why?’
The question hung between them, but the answer never came. The moment Astroni started explaining, Savelli cut in.
‘You lost your mind over a woman to the point that you conspired to kill your friend, a judge like you. And to defend that secret, you kept killing.’
‘I never killed anyone.’
Savelli exploded. ‘Stop fucking lying! Jesus Christ, all these deaths. All because of lust.’
Federico Astroni slammed his fist down on the table. There was a flurry of quick footsteps and Virgili came into the room, Beretta in hand.
Savelli stood up between him and Astroni.
‘It’s fine. Please return to your post.’
‘But, your honour…’
‘Please, I am in no danger.’
Astroni was still seated, his head drooping. The officer gone, he looked up, eyes burning.
‘She wasn’t the object of my lust. She wasn’t my desire. She was the love of my life. There has never been anyone like her. Not a single woman amongst all those I’ve been with – and there have been many – is worth the perfect toenails of her feet. She’d paint them blue in the summer, when she wore lemon-yellow sandals and a yellow sun dress.’ Astroni was drifting off into a grotesque sentimental trance which Savelli found deeply disconcerting. But 398 Astroni gathered himself together. ‘Everything I’ve done since the corruption inquiries – all the shows I put on, even when they went against my personality – it was all in the hope of winning her back. But no. She called me once to compliment me, and to tell me that Rodolfo would have been proud. She was too! But not enough to come and see me in person.’
Savelli stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘You killed Rodolfo. You conspired with terrorist scum, you hired a pack of bloodthirsty killers to track down and murder a judge, a colleague, a friend. You struck deals with the Camorra, tampered with evidence, arrested innocent people, and conspired with Giannino Salemme, a corrupt magistrate and dirty lawyer guilty of countless crimes. Your hands are as filthy as his…’
Savelli ran a hand through his hair and looked outside. The sun was rising just behind the curtains. He should have been setting sail right about now, alone on the lake… Instead, here he was, drowning in the horror of betrayal, overcome by the stench of rot.
‘There is no proof of my involvement in what you’ve just alleged. If there is, my guilt is only moral. There’s nothing tangible.’ Of course, there was that foreign SIM card Salemme had given him… but he had already removed it and tossed it down a drain.
Savelli looked at that man who had been his pride and joy, the son he’d always wanted. His protégé was a backstabber, a character from an Ancient Greek tragedy. But this one had none of the pathos of Aeschylus. This was a banal scene, driven by bestial instincts.
There were no further extenuating circumstances, and after the final protests, Savelli stood up. ‘Virgili,’ he called.
The officer ran in, this time without his gun.
399 Savelli moved in towards Astroni, his eyes only inches from his former protégé’s. ‘Moral guilt? I almost feel sorry for you, Federico. There is plenty of evidence, trust me.’ He turned back to Virgili.
‘Handcuffs, please.’
‘Shoot!’
Carla Trovati rubbed her sleepy eyes. She still couldn’t entirely believe the scene unfolding before her. Even the photographer had hesitated, holding his camera in his hands. He only started using it with Carla’s piercing yell.
The town clock showed just past 6 a.m. The heat was already simmering, and the sun, high in the sky, would soon bring things to the boil. Last night’s storm had done nothing to clear things up.
Carla had gone home at 1.45 after her long night shift, completely soaked. When she’d got in to the office, the weather seemed perfectly stable. When she’d left the Corriere, the worst had passed, but it was still pouring.
She’d showered and settled down on the sofa, with a book and a mug of herbal tea.
She dozed off for a few minutes until the phone woke her. It was her landline, and only two or three people had that number. One of them was Annibale. Carla picked up halfway through the second ring.
It wasn’t Annibale.
‘Miss Trovati, could you please open your front door?’
‘Who is this?’
400 ‘It doesn’t matter. Please open the door! We don’t have much time.’
She couldn’t place the voice, but it sounded kind, so she went to her door, still holding the phone. She wasn’t really afraid, but she picked up a knife from the kitchen on her way.
She opened the door to find a yellow envelope taped to it. She took it down, careful not tear it. Inside were some papers and a stiff object – maybe a DVD case.
‘I have it,’ she said to the unknown voice.
‘Good. Now listen: after we hang up, take a quick look at the contents and the summary. You don’t have much time. We suggest you station yourself in front of Federico Astroni’s house as soon as you can get there. You might also consider Giannino Salemme, but we recommend Astroni. Take a photographer with you. This may be story of the century.’
‘Who is…’
‘Good luck.’
Click.
The voice had been kindly, with a hint of an accent from the Swiss Alps.
Carla opened the envelope and started reading quickly, as instructed. As she did so, a shiver ran down her spine. Next, she watched the DVD. She was shocked rigid.
Think, Carla. And before anything else, get dressed!
She threw off her pyjamas, splashed her face with cold water and sprayed a cloud of deodorant. She slipped into a pair of jeans and a green polo shirt, then dumped all her work equipment into a bag. She’d almost left the flat when she turned around and looked at the envelope and its contents on the table. She went back and collected it all and put that in the bag too. 401
‘I’m not fucking leaving you behind.’
On the landing, she dialled a number on her mobile.
‘Tirelli? It’s Carla. I know it’s late – well, early. Yes, I’m a piece of shit. But listen. I have an explosive story. Get dressed and meet me in piazza del Carmine. Im-me-di-ate-ly.’
She watched as one of Italy’s most famous magistrates, Federico Astroni – symbol of law and justice – walked out of his house in handcuffs. He’d been arrested by his friend and mentor Antonio Savelli, who now walked a few metres behind him.
But Carla wasn’t thinking of the fact that she’d soon be one of Italy’s most famous journalists, with TV interviews and a column with her photo and byline.
No, just as Tirelli, as excited as a monkey in mating season, was hopping back and forth across the street in order to catch the unsuspecting Astroni from every angle, Carla was thinking: now that this story is over, there is nothing left to figure out or to be afraid of. And maybe, just maybe I’ll be able to find Annibale again.
All she could think about was how his hands felt on her skin.
By now, Chief Magistrate Calandra didn’t even have to ask. The girl (she may have been twenty-four, but to him she was a girl) would just slip into her thong and dance by the light of the moon.
That night, however, the moon was covered by rain and heavy clouds, and she’d holed up in bed. They were in a resort in the Lazio countryside, famous for its low carbon footprint (which mattered very little to Calandra) and the quality of its food, from 402 breakfast to dinner to midnight snacks (he cared about that a lot more). The young woman lay next to him shivering, her nipples pressed against his skin.
A good feeling. He’d fallen asleep like that, without any further action. He wasn’t an old creep, just a man who enjoyed the finer things in life, and holding a frightened woman in his arms during a storm was one of them.
He was sleeping quite soundly – even his prostate was behaving that night – when he heard a voice.
‘Darling…’
The girl was straddling him and looking at him kindly. She had his phone.
‘Sorry, it kept ringing and I saw it said Office so I answered for you… I thought it might be urgent. Did I do anything wrong?’
Calandra stroked her toned butt cheek and took the BlackBerry from her. She removed her thong and looked at him with a twinkle in her eye.
‘Hello,’ he said. She started kissing his chest and gradually moved lower, towards his groin.
The grey man spoke from the bunker.
‘They’ve arrested Astroni and Giannino Salemme, the lawyer, former magistrate…’
‘I know him. Quite the résumé. Really? So he was the other man. That’s not entirely surpris— ah!’
‘Is everything okay?’
‘Yes, yes… go on…’ His voice went down a pitch, and his breathing was becoming heavier.
‘Canessa has discovered Petri’s confession and handed it over to Savelli, who arrested Astroni in person. The Corriere website has an exclusive gallery of the arrest, with Astroni in handcuffs. 403 The first comments are all about Savelli’s great clean-up job. Not exactly what we were going for…’
Calandra took a long breath. ‘No, but it is a result. It’ll shake the tree a bit, and force some people to quieten down. With this kind of operation, complete success is hard to achieve. We can settle for that, and so will our contacts. You did well, we did well. We bet on the right horse. He may not have broken the record for speed, but he won. Now we can relax. See you on Monday.’
His speech was slurred, but he felt great. And he was about to feel even better.
A Saturday evening in June. It wasn’t technically a celebration or a farewell party, but Annibale Canessa, Ivan Repetto and Piercarlo Rossi allowed themselves a bottle of champagne, some Pata Negra ham, and some French cheese in the safe house in largo Rio de Janeiro.
Repetto had sunk into an armchair, where he was downing glass after glass. His eyes were black and blue, as so often when he’d been part of the anti-terrorism team and they’d brought in a fugitive and closed down an investigation.
Rossi looked at him and nodded.
‘You know, I’m going to miss this a little. I’ve had a great time with you. I can honestly say you’ve been the only people to shake up my life a bit, both then and now.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Repetto growled, draining another glass.
Canessa had woken up in the late afternoon. He ate some breakfast and turned on the TV. All the channels were broadcasting 404 the same images of Federico Astroni’s arrest, on a loop from the Corriere della Sera website. He watched TV on mute for some time, then showered and waited.
Shortly after Repetto and Rossi’s arrival at the safe house, Antonio Savelli’s press conference had started. Canessa had listened until he heard what he needed to hear.
‘…Annibale Canessa, retired lieutenant colonel of the Carabinieri, is no longer a wanted man: his arrest warrant has been recalled and he is no longer a suspect. We do, however, request his presence in our offices to record his testimony as a material witness.’
Caterina had sent him a text: You’re a man who keeps his promises, but I already knew that. If you ever need somewhere to hide, there’s a bed waiting for you… From the way she put it, he knew he wouldn’t actually get much sleep in that bed – at least, not until her wedding.
He remembered Caterina with affection and erotic longing, but Canessa had already decided to call Carla when he got home. It was time to come out of hiding, to go back to his real life. He longed to resume his dawn swim, when the only sound in the San Fruttuoso bay was made by the waves. And he wanted Carla to dive in with him. He had a prickly feeling, however, that for people like him, real rest and tranquillity were not permanent. Sooner or later he would find himself caught up in an adventure like the one he’d just concluded. For the moment, though, he wouldn’t ask questions or make long-term plans.
He could hear Repetto and Rossi arguing behind him. He poured some more champagne and cut himself a piece of Cantal. ‘What are you two on about?’
Repetto pointed to Rossi. ‘He’s delirious, spouting nonsense. He just said that the fellowship of the ring is broken. What does that mean?’ 405
Canessa smiled at Rossi and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘It may be a little pretentious, but I get it. Ivan, did you ever read Tolkien? The Lord of the Rings?’
‘Are you talking about those interminable fake medieval films?’
Canessa chuckled. ‘Ask your grandchildren and they’ll tell you all about it.’
‘Okay, so who’s my character?’ Repetto asked.
‘If I’ve got this right, I should be Aragorn, and you’re either Sam, Frodo’s devoted companion or the ugly dwarf, Gimli. What would you say, Rossi?’
‘You’ve nailed it!’
‘Fuck off!’ With a smile, Repetto went off to open another bottle of champagne.