56

He picks up the telephone, his hand shaking slightly. How long would it be before they tipped them off? How much time did he have to collect his family and bring them in? Madalena, his youngest, answers after a few rings. She is laughing at someone’s joke, telling them to shush.

‘What is it, pappy?’ She sounds happy with life, unburdened by worries. He wonders if he was ever like that. He thinks not.

‘I need you home now. I’ve sent a car for you. He’ll be there within the hour …’

‘But pappy …’

‘But nothing. There is no argument. I need you home.’ He replaces the receiver, and dials again.

‘Dad, can I call you back? I’m right in the middle of something.’

‘No. I’ve sent a car. You and my grandson must return to Rome immediately — there’s to be no discussion.’

‘But …’

‘Just do as I say. I’ll explain later.’

He hangs up and rests his head against the leather back of the chair. There are dark motes floating in front of his eyes, but he doesn’t think they’re dust particles. The sun is bright outside, the leaves in the courtyard aflame, moving slowly, so slowly, in the breeze. He calls Stefano, the head minder, into his study.

‘Sir?’

‘I want to take a stroll around Villa Borghese.’

He watches Stefano as he tries to conceal his surprise and alarm, tries to remain polite. ‘Now?’

‘Yes, right now.’

Stefano looks at the door that leads to the corridor and his colleagues outside, silently entreating their help. ‘But, Sir, the area hasn’t been cleared — it’s exposed. We need notice to prepare.’

He holds up a palm to stop him. ‘Forget all that. I don’t care. I have to go now. I will hear no arguments.’

Stefano shuffles, transferring his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Sir, I can’t allow it.’

‘You can and you will. Get your coat — we’re going.’

They turn into Viale Pietro Canonica. He loves the shade of this park, the dappled light pooling around the trunks, the scents of fresh grass cuttings and honeysuckle. He sees two lovers locked in an embrace beneath an ancient pine; a young mother in jogging gear running as she pushes a baby buggy; two old men feeding the birds, one drinking from a flask. How good it feels to be outside in the fresh air, away from the stench of power.

They pull up outside the entrance to the villa. Stefano steps out of the front passenger seat, scans the area, consults with his colleagues, and then finally opens the door.

‘I need to be alone for several minutes. Just wait for me here.’

‘But Sir …’

Again he raises a hand to silence him, and then turns and heads towards the back of the villa.

The gravel path is longer than he had expected, but then he sees him, waiting on the bench as they’d arranged. He is unrecognisable in his beret and dark shades. Wordlessly, he takes a seat beside him. There is no embrace, no kiss, no handshake even. A note is passed between them — two ghosts from a different world, a different time.

‘Be there at 6.00am,’ says the man, and then he gets up from the bench and silently walks away. There is no look back, no wave. He is a dead man returning to his grave.