The Night of Rome Read online

  “Don’t tell me you know that, too? The note here talks about an anonymous tip.”

  “True. But the anonymous tipster used a SIM card.”

  “And how would you happen to know such a thing?”

  “The ways . . . ”

  “All right. I give up. When I’m ready to recite the rosary, I’ll give you a whistle, and you come hit me in the head once and for all. A single hard blow with the sledgehammer, don’t make me have to remind you. It’s more humane.”

  “The SIM card turns out to have been registered in the name of a real estate holding company. I had a few checks run.”

  “Again, because the ways of the Lord are infinite and they fail to take into account the privacy regulations of telecommunications companies, I’m going to guess.”

  “The company belongs to an Italian. His name is Pasquale Pistracchio. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Well, you do at least use the Internet?”

  “Like everyone.”

  “‘Googlize’ that name, and then you can tell me what you think. I have to go to work. Take care, Adriano.”

  “Googlize” . . . Of all the damned things, Your Eminence.

  Alone in his home now, the senator went straight to his computer. He typed in “Pasquale Pistracchio”. There appeared a porcine face in black-and-white, surrounded by Nazi symbols. The biography was a rich one. A right-wing, neo-Fascist terrorist . . . accused of armed robberies to finance the party . . . he fled to England . . . he married extremely well . . . acquitted of all the lesser charges . . . not extradited for the old charges of criminal conspiracy and association . . . prosperous economic standing, a solid position in the field of real estate . . .

  But why had Pistracchio or one of his men lodged a complaint against Sebastiano Laurenti? What link was there between this old Fascist comrade and someone who gives a check for one hundred thirty thousand euros to a DP club?

  He remembered an old contact he had in the Carabinieri Corps. A straight shooter, an honest officer. That there were such people, and lots of them, was something that he’d come to appreciate when he was a successful politician and he’d finally learned to get rid of so many of his old prejudices. His name was Marco Malatesta and he was widely renowned as a pain in the ass. In spite of that fact, he’d advanced his career. Either because when it came time to issue promotions, someone had taken their eye off the ball, or perhaps because democracy was even spreading in the Carabinieri Corps. He called him by way of the switchboard at Central Command.

  “Dear Malatesta, I’m going to skip the preliminaries even if we haven’t talked in forever.”

  “That, my dear senator, is why I’ve always liked you.”

  “I’m doing a historical research project into the subversive right wing.”

  “I’ll pretend I believe you. Who are you interested in?”

  “Pistracchio.”

  A brief pause.

  “All right, I’ll take full responsibility for the things I’m about to tell you. Listen, and listen carefully . . . ”

  When that conversation was over, Polimeni emerged with a rush of adrenaline in his veins. Now the picture was clear, crystalline in its spare simplicity. And now he had a weapon he could wield. He judged it the better part of wisdom not to inform Martin Giardino. This match would need to be fought with fencing foils. And he was the one with the light touch to do it. He thought of calling Chiara, then chose not to. As Mr. Gu might have put it, that was a meeting to be scheduled for better conditions. And he had a crushing need for rest. Still, he fell into a lull of compulsive channel surfing. Alice Savelli was delivering thunderous invective against the corrupt coalition government and its hapless mayor.

  “We don’t know what to do with Malgradi’s votes and the votes of his crew, because we’re continuing on our path without compromises. But we can’t keep anyone from voting for our agenda.”

  There were lots of others just like her in that Five Star movement. She was a good young woman: could it be that she really had no idea she’d become a tool of the Big Bad Wolf? He was almost tempted to pick up the phone and call her, but decided not to. Alice’s movement was still in the revolutionary phase. The last thing revolutionaries want is sage advice, and they’re certainly not interested in listening to old, obsolete relics of the last century. That was a dynamic that Adriano Polimeni knew very well. He too had experienced his youthful seasons of political passion. Seasons that had ended all too soon, sadly.

  And then, at last, he dropped off to sleep.

  Wagner was waiting outside of the pub in Prati where they had met the first time. Sebastiano pulled up in his black Audi and waved for him to get in. The young man was beside himself. His eyes were bloodshot. His hands were tossed by a constant tremor. Sebastiano told his chauffeur to head for La Romanina.

  “How long have I been away? Three days?”

  “I had to shoot those two guys, Sebastia’. There was no other way.”

  “If I’d been in your shoes, I would have done the same thing. I don’t blame you at all.”

  “Give me permission and I’ll find the bastard and cut him down the middle. With my own hands. Beagle Boy was a brother to me.”

  Sebastiano shook his head.

  “I know what you’re feeling. I know it very well. More than you could ever imagine. But this is war, Luca. And if we want to win this war, we need to fight it intelligently. And intelligence demands thought. Thought. Not instinct.”

  At the Anacleti family villa there was no time for chitchat. Rocco, the patriarch, was sitting in a large armchair upholstered in red satin. He looked as if he’d been embalmed. And he kept staring at young Wagner, sensing something in the features and gaze of that young man that reminded him of Samurai.

  “We’re here to find out what you mean to do. No beating around the bush, this time. Either with us. Or else with Fabio,” said Sebastiano.

  Silvio, as he always did when he was trying to avoid confrontation, first lowered his gaze and then looked over to the patriarch for reassurance.

  Rocco’s voice arrived stentorian like a verdict from on high.

  “We aren’t budging, Sebastiano. We’re staying here. As motionless as my arms and my weary legs.”

  Sebastiano dissolved into a smile dripping with sarcasm. First he stared at Silvio, then at Rocco.

  “You know what the term is in chess? Zugzwang. Obligation to move. You are obliged to make a move. Because this war is going to end with just one winner. And that winner is going to be me. And when that day comes, it’s going to be better for you if you made a choice. The right choice.”

  He got up from the table, gestured for Wagner to follow him, and without saying farewell, left the villa. Once they were in the car, they sat for a while in silence. Then he pulled out his cell phone. The man picked up on the third ring.

  “Ciao, Bogdan, it’s me. I imagine you know why I’m getting in touch.”

  He remained silent, listening for a brief while, then said: “I understand. Let me know when he comes back.”

  Sebastiano tossed his phone onto the back seat.

  Fabio Desideri had gone on the run.

  XIV.

  MARCH 30TH. GARBATELLA

  Saint’s Day: St. Zosimus, Bishop

  She hadn’t told him yes or no, but in the end she’d gone over to see him. She’d kept him dangling on a thread of uncertainty because she wanted to make sure that Adriano got it into his head that, if there’d ever been anything between them, that time was now over once and for all. And yet, she’d decided to go the very moment she’d heard his voice. A fine paradox. When the driver dropped her off in front of the Teatro Palladium, and she saw him come walking toward her—in his famous and inevitable green loden overcoat, along with a slender umbrella that was absolutely incongruous on that clear, mild evening
—a wave of tenderness washed over her. Adriano, Adriano. So predictable and, deep down, so reassuring. It was he who had first acquainted her with that special corner of Rome, Garbatella, and he’d also explained to her that the unusual nickname of the quarter came, according to legend, from the memory of an innkeeper whose manners were particularly courteous and fine—modi garbati. Especially with his clients of the male sex. All the same, when he locked arms with her and thanked her for agreeing to come, the scorpion that lived deep inside her made itself heard: “What is this, some kind of pilgrimage to the locations of our lost love?”

  Polimeni left that provocation unanswered.

  “This is the red heart of Rome. And you, until proven otherwise, are a parliamentarian of the DP.”

  “Ah, there can be no doubt about that,” she laughed, “but you and I belong to two different left wings. You’re one of those leftists who love to lose, one of the masochists. I, however, like to win. And that doesn’t strike me as a minor distinction.”

  “We’ll talk about that later. Can we manage to indulge in a proper dinner?”

  “Do you need to recover from the exertions of the young May?”

  “At a certain age, those recoveries take a lot longer.”

  The place was called Il Ristoro degli Angeli, and minding the front door was a hostess with green hair who gave Adriano Polimeni an excited hug.

  “Don’t let those damned priests get too much to eat, Adrià, we’re counting on you.”

  “If only they were the problem, Betta.”

  They sat down at a more or less secluded table: the place wasn’t huge, but the aromas wafting out of the kitchen would have awakened a dead man.

  Betta eagerly described the day’s specialties. Adriano chose steamed squash blossoms with a ricotta filling and tagliolini al cacio e pepe, and decided to wait on desert. Chiara, who could count on her own formidable metabolism, still went along with his order, adding a dish of anchovies.

  “Now, if you want to get to the point . . . ”

  “There’s plenty of time, we’ll get to it.”

  Adriano amused himself by keeping her on tenterhooks for the rest of the meal. Only once, between the dishes of tagliolini and the dessert, did he poke her slightly on the subject of Danilo Mariani.

  “Do you know what I discovered, Chiara, while working on the applications for jubilee contracts and the Builders’ Party? That Danilo Mariani is the heir to one of the oldest dynasties of Roman builders. The Mariani Family. They’ve been doing business since the Breach of Porta Pia, during the Risorgi­mento. Which is when one of his forefathers, a longtime vestryman of His Holiness, had the admirable hunch of joining the Società Generale Immobiliare, the General Company of Real Estate, then the largest Italian real estate and construction company. A consortium established by the Piedmontese liberators and the most devious and sly citizens among those liberated. Priests leading the charge, of course. Officially, the pope was sitting in indignant exile in St. Peter’s, protesting bitterly against the illegal expropriations of church lands. But his trusted emissaries were establishing alliances with the enemy in the meantime, buying back at discount prices all the land that the new Italian state had stolen from them. Ancient history, the history of all times. Shall I tell you one good story to stand in for them all? Danilo Mariani’s ancestor was one of the chief masterminds behind the Ludovisi quarter, which was built at the cost of the cementing over of an ancient park.”

  Danilo Mariani, the Ludovisi quarter where Sebastiano had his offices. It was clear, this was a prologue. Chiara played along, if for no other reason than to deny him any advantage. It was clear that Adriano had some surprise in store for her. As long as he didn’t drag it all out too long. But, when he finally stood up to go to the cash register, Chiara realized that two hours had flown by.

  A young woman dressed in the garb of a Roman peasant, with a melodious voice, improvised a few ditties on political topics. The usual masochistic left-wing material, okay, but still, amusing. Chiara sensed a dangerous lowering of her defenses. The thing was that she still greatly enjoyed time with Adriano. The thought filled her with an immediate feeling of uneasiness. She decided to reach out for her inner scorpion. She swore that she wasn’t going to give him any more than ten minutes. And she immediately called her driver, asking him to wait for her outside the Palladium.

  Adriano, in the meantime, was saying hello to Betta.

  “A new sweetheart, Adria’?”

  “An old sweetheart, I’m afraid.”

  “Ah. But you know, I recognized her. She’s the one from the party, the one who wants to fix the mayor’s little red wagon.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “Now you’re talking. Tell her to back the hell off. The German may have his shortcomings, but he’s still the best card in the deck. After you, it goes without saying.”

  “It goes without saying, darling. Would you bring us a couple of grappas, please?”

  Adriano went back to the table. Chiara stood up, regaining a chilly tone of voice.

  “The driver is waiting for me.”

  Adriano sat down, calmly, and invited her to do the same. Chiara heaved a weary sigh. The hostess with the green hair brought the grappas. Adriano clinked the two small glasses and stared at Chiara.

  “Sebastiano Laurenti is the right-hand man of Samurai, the criminal. You must have heard his name before, I suppose. He acts as his front and he’s his designated successor. The money he moves is Samurai’s money, the contacts he manages are Samurai’s contacts. In other words, you’re the business partner of a known Mafioso, and you’re sharing his bed, Chiara.”

  A very long silence ensued. Polimeni smiled and raised his glass high.

  “Excellent grappa, don’t you think?”

  And he sat there, enjoying her ashen expression.

  Later, in the desert of her home in Prati, as her cell phone rang insistently, and indecision tormented her, she was reminded of what Adriano had said to her. She had pointed out to him that there was no proof of ties between Sebastiano and that bandit behind bars, Samurai.

  “That’s what my contact told me, Chiara. And you know what I said to him? Politics isn’t a criminal trial. And sometimes that can be an advantage.”

  Sure, an advantage. Because if those libels came out against the mayor and Giovanni Daré, a minute later every blog in Rome and Italy, every website purveying unfettered political news from Bolzano to Palermo, would be telling the story of an aging Nazi who’d converted to the criminal creed, certain money hidden in London, and a young man who works professionally as a front for that bandit, as well as the details of his relationship with an attractive young party starlet.

  “Starlet strikes me as offensive, Adriano.”

  “I apologize, but I was just trying to imagine how this story might be told. And you know, Chiara, once rumors start circulating, it doesn’t take long to start an investigation, and the deeper you dig, the harder it becomes to say what won’t come out into the light of day.”

  She also thought back to the involuntary wave of anger, how she’d been unable to control herself, and how without a doubt, a few of the diners, and possibly the hostess herself, had heard her say clearly, in an irritated tone: “Are you trying to blackmail me, Adriano?”

  She remembered, more than any other detail, his smile, a blend of patience and irony, the way he rested his hand on her forearm, his quiet tone.

  “President Pertini, the one who was applauding for the Italian National Team when you were being born, used to say, ‘To deal with a brigand, get a brigand and a half.’ When someone’s overdoing it, you have to bring them back in line with reality.”

  “And what would be the reason, Adriano?”

  “Chiara, the future belongs to you. But that future has to be free of compromises, or eventually they’ll make you pay for it. You need to break free of
old ties. Sebastiano is controlled by Samurai, and so is Malgradi. This is the old, dirty Rome that’s come to shake a tin cup, and it’s got you in its crosshairs as a new point of reference. But you should not accept those rules of the game. You have a chance to break free of them. Do it. Don’t think twice, don’t hesitate for a second. This hand belongs to Martin Giardino, let him play it out. Offer him your support. You’ve got many more years ahead of you than all the rest of us. The next hand is going to be yours to play. Not this one. Or else you’ll be crushed by that same dirt machine that you’ve started up.”

  “I haven’t started up any dirt machines at all.”

  “Chiara, don’t pretend to be a naïve fool, because you aren’t one. Compromised companies aren’t going to work. And Sebastiano is going to have to vanish.”

  Adriano had handed her over to the driver without adding another word. Adriano was offering her a way out. Adriano was still fond of her.

  Adriano had decided that she could still be redeemed.

  Had Adriano been right?

  Her cell phone kept ringing. It was Sebastiano. She turned off the device with a decisive gesture.

  She’d been going to bed with a Mafioso. The fact itself didn’t bother her in the slightest: yes, she’d been going to bed with a Mafioso and felt strongly attracted to him.

  The real point was another.

  That relationship was threatening to become inconvenient. And she couldn’t afford that.

  The real point was that Adriano Polimeni had taught her a lesson.

  XV.

  APRIL 1ST

  Saint’s Day: St. Venantius and Fellow Martyrs

  CITY HALL OF ROME THE CAPITAL. GIULIO CESARE HALL.

  When Alice Savelli took the floor to discuss the individual no-confidence motion against the mayor, in the Giulio Cesare Hall, the historic chamber of the Capitoline assembly, silence fell over the room. All chatter and gossiping ceased, and even the most indefatigable tweeters set aside their omnipresent smartphones, getting comfortable to take in the drama’s finale. Temistocle Malgradi put on a show of lordly indifference. Defenestrated as deputy mayor, he had gone back to a peripheral seat at the margins of the council’s hemicycle, seated between a has-been of the old majority and a young lioness of the new right. Being relegated to one side didn’t offend him, quite the opposite. His dirty work would be done for him by those deranged freebooters of the Five Star movement. He, if anything, could come in and sweep up the spoils once the dust had settled. A political masterpiece, is what he had pulled off. Real power, for that matter, is devoid of action and dense with thought. To name just one example, Temistocle hadn’t even put his name to the motion: always leave yourself a way out, no matter the situation.