Thunderstorms turned the sky shades of gray so dark it looked black and blue, as if bruised. In the stormy wet chaos and sodden, steaming crowds of Palio Day, no one—or so he thought—noticed an American with a briefcase joining the acting mayor briefly in the window of a building overlooking Piazza del Campo owned by Monte dei Paschi, the venerable bank. All the Catholic dignitaries of the city were there, enjoying the seven-hundred-year-old race held in honor of the Virgin Mary. Tradition, religion, celebration. The semblance of “always.” Had the American’s wife looked across the piazza at that moment, she might have recognized her husband in his aviator sunglasses, pale linen suit and white Borsalino. As the mayor and the American stared out at the jubilant crowds enduring the hours-long Corteo Storico, a parade of drummers, archers, flag bearers, trumpeters, contrada floats, and the carroccio pulled by oxen carrying the Palio banner, a bolt of lightning cracked above the Torre del Mangia. At that moment, a briefcase changed hands. It was that simple.
After that, the American left the gates of the city and, in pouring rain, drove to the abandoned zona industriale. He backed his Ford Fairlane through the large doors into the showroom of his office. He waited until no one—or so he thought—would notice him loading large wooden crates into the spacious trunk. No tractors would be sold today.
The American drove out into the countryside. When the rain stopped and the sky turned blue again, he pulled off the road in a secluded spot. Removing his pale linen suit and hat, he donned coveralls and took a shovel from the trunk. He dug a deep hole in the rain-softened earth, sweating in the summer heat and swatting at mosquitoes and small biting flies. He carefully placed the crates in the hole, covered it up, washed his hands and face with two bottles of Acqua Panna he had brought with him, and changed back into his suit.
The Palio went to Aquila, the Eagle.